Seasons of War

Gallifrey

Paul Driscoll

&
Kara Dennison
ALTRIX BOOKS
Seasons of War – Gallifrey.

First Published in Great Britain and the USA 2018 by Altrix Books.

© Altrix Books/ Paul Driscoll/ Kara Dennison 2018.

Cover Art by Ginger Hoesly.

The moral rights of the authors have been asserted.

UK Edi on Printed and Bound by Biddles Books Ltd.

Disclaimer: This book is a strictly limited, unofficial, not for profit novel inspired by the
BBC TV series Doctor Who with all proceeds going to the children’s charity Caudwell
Children. No a empt has been made to supersede the copyrights held by the BBC or any
other persons or organisa ons.

Seasons of War conceived by Declan May, range editor.

Acknowledgements.

Paul would like to thank: Declan May for commissioning, inspiring and overseeing this
work. Jon Arnold, Simon Bre , Nathan Mullins, Sco Claringbold, Christopher Stone,
Stuart Douglas, Elton Townend-Jones, JR Southall and Ross Hamilton for their support and
encouragement in this and other wri ng projects. Jenny, Oliver, Hannah, Sophie, Luke,
James and Thomas for allowing me the me to work on this book and for pu ng up with
all the emo onal baggage that wri ng brings. Nicholas Hollands for stepping in to offer
much needed copyedi ng assistance. And above all my co-writer Kara Dennison for always
asking the right ques ons and for teaching me so much along the way.

Kara would like to thank: Declan for pairing up amazing teams for this project, and for
crea ng a range it’s a joy to be a part of. Ginger for the stunning art and graphics, and for
the constant support and cheerleading. Emily, CJ, Mai-Anh, PJ, and Fiona for being the
best, and for allowing their game characters to cameo in the regenera on lab. Mom,
Charlie, Emile, and Diane for always being suppor ve of my flights of fancy. Stuart
Douglas, Ma hew Graham, John Peel, Paul Magrs, George Mann, and Rob Shearman for
being my writer guardian angels. And of course to Paul Driscoll, for the amazing
imagina on and drive that brought our heroes to life.
 Contents
Foreword by Declan May

Living Before the War

Links and Chains

The Beginning of the End

Kendo’s War

The War Council

Time Lords are for Sharing

Tor Fasa’s War

Dealing with the Percusians

Rocks of Compassion and Betrayal

Savalia’s War

The New Recruit

 Trading Places and Changing Faces

Mordicai’s War

Hero No More

Rise of the Engineer

The Theatre of Love and War

Living Outside the War

The Fall of the Citadel

Into the Panopticon

The Ultimate Weapon

EPILOGUE: The Chronosmiths

Foreword by Declan May

What started as a mild curiosity about the Time War, has

blossomed and bloomed into something quite remarkable. A

throwaway remark – by the authors of this astonishing story –

about the people on the ground… the citizens, the love-struck

couples, the families, friends, factory workers, scientists; the

children left behind, getting on with their daily lives (people
very much like you or I) on the planet Gallifrey as a mighty
war broke out, threatening to destroy everything; a passing

thought has flowered, tended by the extraordinary talents of

Kara Dennison and Paul Driscoll, into this present tome. And
it really is something quite special.

When we began this Seasons of War project, we all believed

that the anthology was the start and the end of it. But then I
became convinced that there were many further stories to be

told. Kara and Paul were the perfect people to do so. As

writers they are unparalleled. They know the territory. They

get the genre and its conventions. And they take all that, and

fashion, from its scaffolding, from its structure, something

that transforms its bricks and mortar into a twisting Gaudi

spire.

Their moment of inspiration is a monument to what a writer

can do when given the raw materials of a pre-existing

universe.

Not only do they run with it – they fly.

Gallifrey, the novel, introduces us to a cast of characters –

Mordicai, Savalia, Tor Fasa, Kendo et al – who, within a few

pages, one immediately warms to; gets to know, and through

them, experiences the densely constructed and richly detailed

world(s) Dennison and Driscoll have created.

This is more than just another Doctor Who spin-off novel (in
fact, I hesitate to call it as such as I feel that does injustice to

the levels of originality and creation accomplished by the

authors). It is a standalone novel that could, and will, exist on

its own aside and apart from the Doctor Who universe(s).

This is, in any regard, a truly original and exciting novel,

almost acting as a springboard to further adventures and

stories about the world created and the characters within it.

It’s a novel about love, loss, fear, adventure, discovery and life

during wartime.
 It is beautifully written, almost as if Dennison and Driscoll

are somehow some species of gestalt ‘writing entity’, penning

the novel with the same-but-different hand, so seamless and

fluid is the story.

A riveting read, and one which you’ll want to reread again

and again, so involved you become with the characters; so

fond you become of them and their lives in a world going to

hell.

A timely novel, a beautiful, rich and revealing novel, and, I

believe, the worlds of Doctor Who have never had a story like

it. However, I believe some of these characters may well turn

up elsewhere. I certainly hope so.

Declan May
June 2018.
 PART I

Living Before the War

Links and Chains

Out here, nothing blocked the stars.

Staring up at the sparkling black blanket above him,

Mordicai felt as though he could drift off the surface of

Gallifrey, no TARDIS required. The sky seemed to pull him up

on its own. And with the world around him flat and silent, he
almost thought it might.
A few yards away, just enough out of earshot to drive home
how out here ‘out here’ was, the tiny village of Dotheia went

about its evening business. Carts rolling home, doors opening

to greet family members, chats out on the street amongst

people whose parents’ parents’ parents had likely had

conversations right where they stood. There was something

about the feeling of it; closed, yet open. Walled in, yet

reaching out. A feeling of odd déjà vu, of secondhand

familiarity – of the ability to belong, if you just put the effort

in.
He didn’t care to. Well, not a few yards away, at any rate.

Perhaps somewhere else. Somewhere off-world. Somewhere

where the tie was a bit less obvious. New languages, new food,

new people. Always discovering. Always new riddles to

unpack. Like him – feet off Gallifrey and head in the stars, off
to the next thing whenever this thing didn’t quite work

anymore.

Maybe those unfortunate Percusians on that tiny moon in

the East would be worth a visit. He could even find out why

they were so paranoid about the future instead of accepting

the usual racist dismissals. That was where the effort would
go.

If… well. Always ‘if’.

“Makes you feel kind of small, doesn’t it?”

Mordicai was shaken from his reverie by the quiet voice. A

silhouette sat not far from him, perched on a rock, staring up

at the stars with him. “Sorry?”

The silhouette tilted her head at him in the dark. He

imagined she must be smiling. Or laughing quietly. It was

impossible to tell. “Out here. Without all the distractions.

Once you can see everything else besides yourself, and there’s

no one else around to make you feel like you’re part of

something important.”
 “I don’t know.” Mordicai strolled over to the rock. He tried to

make it look casual, but primarily he was getting unnerved at

carrying on a conversation with a faceless stranger. “Makes

me feel bigger, if anything.”

“Oh?”

He grinned. “The idea of getting out and exploring it. Being a

part of it. Having an effect on it. Leaving my mark on the

universe somehow.”

Mordicai could see the other person more clearly now. She

was around his age, at his best guess, with a build that either

concealed or revealed unexpected physical strength –

depending on what you knew of people. Hair brushing past

her shoulders and curling up to brush her face slightly at her

jawline, clearly of its own volition. What he’d thought was a

smirk was a gentle smile.

“How can you tell if someone’s at the Academy?”

“Ah…” Mordicai shrugged.

The smile was a smirk now. “Don’t worry, they’ll tell you.”
“Joke’s on you, I got kicked out for laughing.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Hmm.” She didn’t believe him. It

was obvious. But she was entertained.

 “You know students?”

“Time Lords in the family.” She shrugged.

“My sympathies.”

A laugh. A proper one. Then she stopped, looking him over

from head to toe. “You slumming it, then?”

“First time I’ve been out here. Fasa calls it ‘expanding my

horizons’.” Mordicai glanced around – somewhere along the

line, come to that, he’d lost sight of Tor Fasa. Not that there
was anything to worry about; it was a small village, and the

older Time Lord was likely catching up with a friend

somewhere.
“Mm. Slumming, then.” The girl hopped up from her rock;

she stood just a hair shorter than him, barely needing to tilt
her head up to look him in the eye. “Savalia.”

“Mordicai.”
Savalia brushed some stray hair out of her eyes. “So that’s
all you’re doing out here? Staring up at the stars until your

chaperone gets back?”

“It’s not so bad…”

“I never said it was bad.”

 Mordicai shook his head, looking away. “He just wanted to
bring me out for a visit. Meet a few people.” Probably best not

to mention it’s to do with a literal cult, he thought.

“Ahhhhh.” Her response was deep in tone: understanding,
but with a faint layer of sarcasm. “Learning them Shobogans

are actually just like real people.”

“You’d make an excellent tour guide.”

Savalia snorted out a quiet laugh. Then, almost as an

afterthought, “Have you eaten?”

“Not recently.”
“Well… you’re out learning about the area. And my mother’s
the best cook in Dotheia. You could have dinner with us. As

long as you don’t mind eating off the same plate as all the
Percusians we’ve honoured as guests over the years.”

“Percusians? You? Here?”

Savalia shrugged. “Yes. Here. Is that a deal-breaker?”

It wasn’t as though she’d heard his inner monologue. But

the thought nagged.
“Wait, so you’re the ones who passed all that ‘time war’

nonsense along to the Council? What was it they prophesised

– Daleks are the masters of Kasterborous.”
 “It was meant as a warning, not a declaration of war.”
Savalia exhaled impatiently. “Look, do you want to talk

politics, or do you want a good dinner?”

Mordicai hesitated. Her face was pleasant and honest, her

tone hiding nothing. Even the brief aside just now had been
shrugged off with far more calm than he’d expected. But…
“You don’t even know me and you’re inviting me to your

house?”
Savalia shrugged. “No offense, but I’ve hunted and roasted

more threatening things than you.”

“I’m feeling a bit hunted and roasted right now.”
She laughed. Somehow, the laugh felt like a victory to him.

“Come on.”
“I don’t know…”

“Ah, here’s where you’ve gone. Everything interesting is the

other way, you know.”

Mordicai could identify Tor Fasa simply from his voice.

Savalia was looking over Mordicai’s shoulder at the
approaching Time Lord – far older (in both appearance and

actual years) than Mordicai himself, and with a far stronger

voice when approaching a stranger.
 “Depends on what you think is interesting.”
A hand clapped on Mordicai’s shoulder; he could feel Fasa

leaning past him, giving Savalia his social smile. “I hope he’s
not been giving you too much trouble, my dear.”

“No more than I’m used to.” She returned the smile easily. “I
just invited the two of you to dinner at mine, and he’s tried to
turn me down.”
“Well, I accept. For both of us.”

Mordicai’s shoulders tensed under Fasa’s hand. Savalia

tilted her head at the two of them. Amused or confused – he

couldn’t tell in the dark. But she eventually caught his eye
again.

“If you start missing the stars too much, we can always eat

outside. How’s that?”

“Ah…”

“Missing the stars,” Fasa said, not missing a beat. “A land-

bound traveller’s curse to look upon the sea of the heavens.”

“And when among the sparkling diamonds once again, he

finds himself missing even more the land,” Savalia responded,

as though giving him the second half of a secret code.

“You’ve studied Wordsmith the Greater.”

 Savalia nodded eagerly. Her eyes lit up, like a child asked to

tell a parent about their favorite toy. “All my life. I’m trying to
write a bit of my own, but it’s harder than it looks.”

“I’ve tried to get this one to take his nose of the sciences and

have a look at the arts.” Fasa shook Mordicai gently by the

shoulder. “He’s not having any of it.”

“Oh, that’s a shame.” Savalia tapped her lip with one finger.

“I mean, chain poetry is a sort of mathematics in its own way,

isn’t it? Matching the words and the circles, making sure they
intersect properly…”

Mordicai was more adrift than ever. Fasa seemed to notice.

“Perhaps we could continue this discussion over dinner.

Mordicai?”
“Ah… mm.”

The little party had moved on before he could parse a single

word of what had passed. For some reason, Mordicai found he

didn’t mind.

***
“It’s a bit like geometry.” Savalia had taken a piece of paper
and a pen and was drawing interlocking circles around it.

“You write each verse in a circle like this. Then when you add

a verse, it shares two words from the previous one.”

“Aha.” Mordicai stared at the simple diagram. “Why?”

“Why? Well… because it…” Savalia tapped her pen on the

paper. “Because it drives home the overarching theme of the

poem, I suppose. Like ‘land’ and ‘missing’ from the one before.
It’s a poem about always wanting what you don’t have, no

matter where you are.”

Mordicai nodded. “Okay, but… why? Why link them up at

all? Why not just do it?”

Savalia sighed. “Because it’s fun and it’s interesting.”

“Oh…”
Mordicai glanced over at Fasa. His mentor had taken to

helping Nairo – Savalia’s mother, a relatively young looking

woman – prepare dinner. The two were talking pleasantly

enough, though in hushed tones so that none of it reached

the table where he and Savalia sat. He noticed, though, that

Nairo’s eyes never seemed to trace, or even notice, the scar

right in the middle of Fasa’s face.

 It was a tic for most people; he didn’t blame them. See

something uncommon, the eye goes there. Especially when

it’s something as large and distracting as an enormous scar.

But the lady worked and talked and laughed, seemingly

oblivious to it.

“They’re getting on well,” Savalia said, drawing more circles

over the paper idly.

“He tends to, er, ingratiate himself wherever he goes.”

“Mm. It’s a skill. He’s not in politics, is he?”

Mordicai shook his head. “Not politics, no. He has opinions,

but he’s not an official or anything. He’s too busy on his

projects.”

“Projects?”
Mordicai weighed answering, but before he could, the door

opened with a slam. Frantic footsteps followed, accompanied

by hurried breathing. Savalia and her mother looked over

toward the door calmly; Fasa and Mordicai were far more

taken aback.

“Sorry I’m late. Good job I’ve brought you a triple dose, these

trips are getting more and more difficult. I’m going to have to
cut them down. There’s a jam – an actual traffic jam – out
there.” The breathless woman was smaller and stockier than
Savalia, but something around the face suggested at least a

passing relation. “How can you have that? There’s only, what,

seventeen whole people in this entire v…”

She trailed off. Her eyes landed on Fasa. Then Mordicai. And

she seemed to seize up a bit.

“What… what are they doing here?”

Mordicai didn’t recognise her. Clearly Fasa didn’t, either. He

looked to Savalia in disbelief, but her face was placid.

“They’re guests, Kendo. They’re fine. We’ve been talking

about dinner and poetry.”

“But…” The woman blinked; Mordicai could see one hand

fidget. “No one told me there was going to be anyone other

than you. I need to know these things, I need to prepare.”

Savalia smiled gently, getting up to walk Kendo away from

the door. Her demeanor seemed to change; it was like she

was handling a skittish animal. “I know. I’m sorry. We had no

way to let you know. But I promise, they’re nice. And they’re
Time Lords – well, a Time Lord and a trainee – so technically

you have more in common with them than I do.”

 Kendo exhaled one long, slow breath. She seemed to be

having trouble keeping her composure. But slowly, calm

settled over her face. “All right. Well…” She raised the fingers
of one hand a bit in a low, shy wave to Mordicai. “Hi.”

Mordicai returned the wave cautiously. He wasn't sure

whether a sudden movement might set her off.

“Talking of politics,” Savalia picked up smoothly, “we hear

someone's finally made it into the senate.”

Fasa turned his head toward Kendo. She was eyeing her

shoes.
“Oh?” He was far more interested in the newcomer now.

“I mean, I guess that's all right.”

Nairo finally spoke up enough for Mordicai to hear. “She

guesses it's all right. This is how you know she's from

Riardan's side. It's not everyone who...” The woman paused,

seeming to freeze in place. Savalia and Kendo exchanged a

silent glance; the former nodded and rose from her seat,
escorting her mother to the next room. Mordicai tried to

watch her go, but Fasa had taken Savalia's seat and was

commanding his attention immediately. As though covering

for something.
 “What number?”
Kendo shrugged, waving a hand at herself. “Still my first.

What you see is what you get.”

“Bit young to be looking at a government job, aren't you? I

can't remember meeting anyone who hadn't waited 'til at least

their third. More time for experience. Seeing the world. Seeing

the people.”

“More time to grow out of childish ideals, you mean.”

Kendo's voice was suddenly harsh; it was an emotional whip

around from the terrified woman who'd come in the door not

long ago.
Fasa smiled; Mordicai knew the smile. He was on the

receiving end of it more often than he cared to admit. “Well, to

put it bluntly, yes. You and Mordicai, you're not all that

different age wise, I imagine. Old enough to have big ideas,

not quite old enough yet to know other people do, too.”

“Isn't that what politics is all about? Getting in somewhere

where you can do something?”
“Ah. And what is it you want to do?”

Kendo clenched her jaw, swallowing. She seemed to be

sizing the pair of them up, eyes half closed as she considered.
“I'm a senator with Shobogan family. I'll leave it to your
imagination.”

Fasa's eyes widened slightly. Then a smile – not one

Mordicai had the pleasure of seeing much. “Senate work

required a move to the Citadel, I imagine?”

“I've been there for a while, yes.”
There was a shuffling from the next room. Fasa rose from

his chair. “You and I may need to do some guided reading,” he

said thoughtfully. “It’s an… interesting way of life you keep.”
Then he reported to the door through which Savalia and his

mother were returning.

Way of Life, was it?
Kendo leaned hesitantly toward Mordicai. “What is he

talking about?”
Mordicai wasn’t entirely sure, but any opportunity to say so
was cut short when Savalia returned to the table with... a new

person. Kendo looked incredibly guilty, but Savalia carried on

as if nothing had happened.
“There, that's better, isn't it? Sip of water? Blanket?” The

woman – aged but handsome, eyes cloudy with cataracts –

nodded absently. Savalia ran back, returning with a blanket
and tucking it around the woman. “Fasa, could you boil some

water? Just hot water in a cup. Sorry to ask.”

“Not at all.”
The woman raised her head. “I don't like to be fussed over.”

Her voice was slow, quiet, like a string of syrup.

“It's not you we're fussing over, Mother, it's dinner. Tor Fasa

will have your water in just a moment.”

Mordicai opened his mouth. Mother?
“No point taking the pills with it now. I’m sorry.” Kendo got

up awkwardly. “I’ll take care of dinner from here. Savalia, why

don’t you show, um. Him. Around.”
“Good idea,” Fasa chimed in, bringing the cup of hot water

over. “Have a look around. Take things in.”

They were practically shoved outside.

***

The walk was quiet, slow. Mordicai listened to the sounds of

the village. The sound of Savalia humming to herself. The

sounds of their footsteps on the dusty street.
“This isn’t at all what I expected,” he said at last.
 “Yeah, well. We tend not to be, I’ve found.” She inhaled
sharply, as though rolling past an unpleasant memory. “Cave
people with ratty hair, cooking cave rats over a fire and

wishing we could live in the big globe on the horizon like all
the proper people.”
“You don’t?”

Savalia shrugged. “I had a long stay over once. Back before

Mother got too sick and Father…” She paused, laughing self-
consciously. “Sorry, that’s a bit much this early, isn’t it?

We’ve just met. Shouldn’t be airing my family’s laundry.”

“I don’t mind.” He didn’t. It was all data, after all – that’s all

family gossip ever was. Data. Why people were how they were.
Why he was how he was.
“At any rate, I don’t remember much about being there. It

was just to visit Kendo and her father, anyway. No one even
knew there was a terrible smelly Shobogan amongst ’em.”
Mordicai watched Savalia’s face in the dim light of the

nearby houses. Her tone had been bright; her expression was
melancholy. He couldn’t quite parse it. But he wanted to fix it.
“I don’t think you smell.”
 Savalia stopped walking and sputtered out a laugh. Mordicai
was taken aback. “What? I don’t?”

“I… no, that’s lovely of you. Thank you.” Savalia’s

melancholy expression had eased, and she was rubbing a tear
of laughter from her eye.

“We can’t all be poets,” Mordicai grumbled. But her laughter

eased his hearts. There was something about Dotheia
Savalia

that made him feel secure. That made him want to stay right
where he was. He wanted to know more. He wanted to study
and discover every day until there was nothing left to know,

even in as short a space of time as he’d been here. Something

about the light from the windows, the cool breeze, the way her

hair curled against her cheek.

He wanted to block his ears when yet another woman he’d
never seen before called them in for dinner.

***

“Regeneration sickness?”
 Fasa and Mordicai had left not long after dinner. It was a

fairly casual departure. Waves, farewells, almost as though

they all planned to meet up again at a comfortably
indeterminate time.

“Imagine every point on your timeline vying for dominance.

Every face you ever had or ever will have, all a potential at
any given moment. A genetic disruption that comes and goes

as it pleases, with any moment potentially your last.”

“That's what you two were talking about.”
Fasa shrugged, tapping his scar. “You find your own.”

“How does that happen?”

“I don't think you'd like to know. I'd hate to sway your
opinion of these people so quickly. Things are much closer to

home than you would imagine.”

Mordicai frowned – no kidding. It was obvious that Nairo

was once a Time Lord, or at least a distant relation to one;

and Fasa’s attempts to lead him gently into the shocking
truths behind the Way of Life were insulting. “How does it

happen, Fasa?”
Tor Fasa sighed. “Vanity.”
“Vanity?”
 Typical. Just when he thought he’d been getting warm, one

word from his mentor was all it took to remind Mordicai that
there was so much he couldn’t even begin to understand.

The two were aboard Fasa’s TARDIS again, on the way back
to the Citadel. The long way ‘round, apparently. It had been a
good amount of time since they left, and despite the age of

Fasa’s TARDIS, Mordicai knew it was good for short hops.

Once they’d got it started. Or more accurately, he had got it
started.

“Do you need me to get out and push?” he said, covering up

his first year Omega Junior Engineers badge.
Fasa rubbed his hands together, his brow wrinkling. “It was

funny the first time… starting to wear a bit thin, though.”

Mordicai was chuckling to himself, but Fasa’s comment
stopped him. “What? What do you mean ‘the first time’? That

is the first time I’ve said that.”

“No matter.”
“Wait.” Mordicai jumped out of his seat. “You know I don’t

forget conversations. I can’t. I can’t afford to. What are you

talking about?”

Fasa’s expression was placid.

 “Sit down, Mordicai.”
“I will when you answer my question. What aren’t you telling
me?”

“There are many things I’m not telling you, all for very good
reason. Now sit down.”
Mordicai looked down at Fasa’s hands, stretched out in

front of him – then back up at Fasa’s face. “We’ve been there

before.”

“No. We’ve never been to Dotheia.”

“You know what I mean! The wastelands! We’ve done these
trips before! You… took something from me! What did you

take?”
“Nothing that wasn’t already agreed upon far in advance.”
He put a surprisingly gentle hand on Mordicai’s shoulder.

“This is how you learn. By experience. And by osmosis. But

not by remembering. It’s too dangerous.”
“Dinner and poetry is too dangerous??”

“Mordicai. This is the Way of Life. And you agreed to it when

you joined me. We have to manage the culture shock. Control
the revolution.”

“How many times, Fasa?”

 Tor Fasa’s hand moved to Mordicai’s temple. “I’m afraid,
dear boy, I’ve quite lost track.”

***

Mordicai shook himself awake.

“Nice nap?”
It was Fasa. They were in his TARDIS, parked in his rooms.

He could feel the passage of time. He’d lost a day.

Again.

Fasa patted him on the shoulder. “I do hope you’ve at least

retained something this time.”
Mordicai pressed a hand to his forehead. “Sorry.”

“Go home, get some sleep. I’ll give you a shout again soon.”
The conversation was brief and blurry, and Mordicai was
back home in his studio flat on the 51st floor of Omega

Towers and sitting up in his own bed with little memory of the
walk there. It was like a strange hangover. Like a story that
skips bits. He was aware there had been a day.

He hated that about the Way of Life’s meetings – that he

somehow seemed to remember none of them. But he knew
there was a reason. He was aware that there was a good

explanation as to why he forgot everything.

He’d just forgotten what it was.
Something crackled in his jacket pocket. He slipped a hand

in and retrieved it. It was a folded piece of paper. From Tor

Fasa? From himself? He opened it up.
It was a poem.

At least, Mordicai was fairly sure it was a poem.

The handwriting was graceful, the letters’ loops reaching
high and low like words on a spell scroll. The beginning and

end of the line joined perfectly, as though somehow she’d

managed to map out the circumference of the verse in her

head, word by word, before she began writing. He squinted

down at the page – but there were no signs of measuring, no
faint lines tracing the circle, no telltale pin-pricks from a

compass.
Then he held it a bit away from him – and he could see the
imperfection. It wasn’t a perfect circle at all. It joined properly,

but it dipped a bit here, bulged a bit there. As he’d been

reading, it had simply attained a sort of geometric stability.
But it was an illusion. An illusion of the words and the form.
 A late night traveller, confused
By kindness, chilled by comfort,

Heart lit only by the darkness…

How can I make him feel at home?

Something about the words warmed him, in exactly the way

they professed to be unable to. He stared at the circle.

Wordsmith the Greater.

Geometry.
A smile that was a smirk, a laugh, hospitality…

Without fully knowing why himself, he dashed to his desk,

grabbing a pen from the cup at the corner, and linked another

circle clumsily through the first in a flurry of thoughts:

The darkness takes my memories

The day leaves me confused

I only want to remember what happened
Please tell me who you are!
 The verses linked, his blocky text with her flowing script.
Her?

How did he know? How did he know how to do that? What

was expected of him?

He stared at the sheet of paper. He thought. Hard. He

grabbed at threads, wisps of visions behind his eyes. Reached
for a hand. Her hand.

Half an hour later, Tor Fasa found himself being stared

down by a very rumpled, very tired, very angry Mordicai. Two
awkward links of chain poetry were shoved in his face.

“I don’t know what you took from me before. But I swear if

you take Savalia away again, I will tell every member of the
Way of Life what your purification rituals really are.”

Fasa smiled serenely. “Maybe the Doctor was right about

you, after all.”

***

Fasa didn’t normally opt for showing up at people’s homes

uninvited. But he was too intrigued by Kendo and her
connections. Nor was she particularly hard to find. Her
exuberance meant she was constantly inviting people to

speak with her, in or out of the Senate, and it didn’t take long
for Fasa to track down her regular corner café simply based
on where she said people could meet her for discussions. A

paid-for lunch and an expressed interest in her career later,

and here he was.

For someone who invited people to fight her constantly, she

really was quite small and nervous.
“Oh, trust me. I’ve heard quite a bit about you… and not all

from Auntie Nairo.”

There was an edge to Kendo’s words that Fasa hadn’t been
expecting. “I beg your pardon?”

Kendo tapped a stack of papers for punctuation. “No one

actually says it, of course. There’s really no way to say it
without sounding daft. But you’re… well…”

Fasa waited.
“Ugh…” Kendo put the papers down and skittered over to
close her window. “Honestly.”

“I’m a cult leader.” He said it for her. “Venerated because of

my deformity. The scar of the eternals. They respect my
intelligence, they acknowledge my research, but the old man’s

lost it, as the old men tend to do. Second-to-last regeneration,

though. Let him do what he wants, stay out of his way, but
cast an occasional suspicious eye toward the state of all of it.”

He clasped his hands in front of him. “Something like that?”

Kendo nodded nervously. “Something like that.”
“Anything I missed?”
“Only that you’re on the prowl for people like me.”

Fasa raised an eyebrow. “That’s an interesting way of

putting it.”
Kendo was clearly put off; an odd thing to see someone
exude under their own roof. In Fasa’s experience, one’s home
turf gave one the advantage in almost any situation. But she
was rattling a pencil nervously between her fingers, glancing

over her shoulder toward a kettle as though pondering

making something to drink, glancing at the door as though
pondering running away from her own home…. He wondered
how she must come across when called upon to speak.
“Would you like me to leave?” he asked, modulating his tone

to something gentler. Not condescending. She’d know

condescending. She probably got that quite a bit.
Understanding. It’s us against the world, dear. You and me. I
know how you feel, so I’ll defer to your comfort.
He saw the swallow and the exhale. “No. I invited you over.
So…” Back at the kettle. “Tea? I could sort of use some.”

“If it’s not a bother.”

The tea-making process gave Fasa time to look over the
room a bit more, and likely gave Kendo time to collect her
thoughts. It was small and tidy, with pockets of clutter
carefully shoved into corners where they wouldn’t be quite as
noticeable. One bookshelf was arranged, Fasa could tell after

a few long glances, via no fewer than three systems worked

into and around each other. His eyes traveled to a pile of
discarded overcoats; the minute she saw him look, she sidled
over and grappled them up into her arms, rushing into
another room – likely to add them to a completely different
pile.

She would take work. The question was, would she take
more work than he had the energy for?
The tea was in front of him presently. It smelled of at least
four herbs made for knocking out problem patients when
served in larger quantities. Kendo sipped hers like a well-
earned drink after a long day of work, sighing with quiet

relief.
“Why me?” she asked at last.
“Sorry?”
“You came looking for me after meeting me one time. I may
be young, but I’m not exactly newsworthy. There have been
senators far younger than me in the past, far smarter.”

“I like that café.”

“No one likes that café.”
Fasa took a sip of the tea. Perhaps a few hundred years ago
it would have calmed him – now, he had very little need for
artificial calm. “Yes, I was looking for you. Because despite

what you may say, there aren’t many like you.”

“Hmm.”
“How much do you talk about your family?”
Kendo shook her head. “I don’t.” At Fasa’s blank look, she
added, “I’m constantly in there pushing for the rights of the
wasteland. I’m pretty much – I think I am – the only person

who voted against the wartime Shobogan draft. Odds are if

they knew one side of my family was out in Dotheia, they’d
take me far less seriously than they already do.”
 “Or far more seriously?”
The look Kendo gave Fasa made it clear that she knew, just
as well as he did, that that wasn’t the case.

“What if…” He already knew what he was going to say. But

he rolled it out slowly, thoughtfully, as though it had just
come to mind. Purely for her sake. “What if I could arm you
with information that would let you keep fighting without
having to betray your background?”
“This is where you pitch me the cult, right?”

Fasa smiled patiently. “The only cult, Kendo, is the cult of

self-serving lies on which we as Time Lords balance our
society. Come, now. You weren’t loomed yesterday.”
“I wasn’t loomed at all, and neither were you.”
“Exactly my point. Lie number one.” He sipped his tea. “We

lie about ourselves from cradle to grave. Superiority after

superiority. It’s no wonder your family gets so little respect.”
Kendo shifted in her chair. “You’re preparing to manipulate
me.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been manipulating you since I walked in the
door.”

A stony silence.
 Fasa watched Kendo carefully. The tea seemed to have
settled her nerves, but it wasn’t just that. She was thrown off
by the unpredictable, he’d noticed. Yet here she was, hearing
him talk of secret information, and she was placid as could
be. That meant that little, if anything, of what he said

surprised her.
“What is the Way of Life?” Kendo stared at Fasa over her
cup. “What is it really?”
“The Way of Life is truth. Not a metaphorical truth, not a
philosophical truth. It’s books. Writings. History. Change,
Kendo. The Way of Life is change. And it’s change I’m fairly

sure you and your aunt and your cousin have been looking
for.”
Kendo would be either heaven-sent or disastrous; Fasa
already knew that. Steered correctly, she could be the new,
powerful voice on the inside leading things in the right

direction. A young go-getter. A pity she wasn’t more

commanding, more charismatic. She had the air about her of
a puppy ready to tip adorably over at the first sign of conflict.
But handled correctly, pushed in the right direction, given
the right initiative… she could be just what they’d been
waiting for. But the initiative didn’t exist. Not yet. Just the

pieces.
Never mind. Something would happen. Something always
did.
The conversation collapsed into pleasantries not long after,
and neither of them was enjoying it. He took his leave. But
they would meet again. He promised that.

Her reaction to this promise was one of bemusement.

***

“It’s…”
“Yes?”

Mordicai turned a full circle, taking in all angles of the

outdoor theater. “Symmetrical.”
Savalia sighed, pulling her feet up onto the bench. “It’ll do.
Speaking of symmetrical, let’s see it.”
It had been three months since his first awkward dinner

with Savalia’s family. Three months, three weeks, five and a

half days, by Mordicai’s reckoning. Tor Fasa hadn’t tried
another ‘purification ritual’ since, and all their visits were now
to Dotheia – well, for the most part. Sometimes Fasa would
drop Mordicai off for the day, then disappear elsewhere ’til
evening.
The first chain poem had ended when a circle by Savalia

grazed the bottom of the paper, which Mordicai thought

would be the end of it. But she’d sent a longer scroll back via
Fasa between visits, a new verse pressing tidily against the
top edge with plenty of room to space – and no marks for
guidance.

Hesitantly, Mordicai pulled the scroll from his jacket pocket.

“Is this really necessary?”
“Well, no. Of course it’s not.” Savalia’s eyes traced over his
features, searching for the meaning under his words.
Interpreting him like an old verse. “Do you want to stop?”
“I never said that.” He handed the scroll over. “I just don’t

think I have a knack for it is all.”

“You’re getting there.” She unrolled the scroll. “Hmm. Two
pairs of hearts–”
“Don’t read it aloud!”
Savalia giggled. “Fine.” She turned her back to Mordicai,

hunching over the scroll.

 The theatre was on the southernmost edge of Dotheia, a
little farther than their usual strolls. But she liked it there,
she said, and wanted him to see it. Apparently there had been
shows there every night of the week when she was younger;
nowadays it was largely empty, save for occasional holiday
performances, and she only ever went out there to get a bit of

quiet. Mordicai detached from his current predicament to

explore the stage itself.
Up a few steps, then level for several yards back, ending in a
curved wall that still bore the remains of lighting fixtures. The
stage itself was decorated with a gently pattered mural,

scuffed and aged by hundreds of actors’ feet. Upstage center

in particular had a pair of shallow dents in it. A popular spot
for announcing? Soliloquising?
“Your meter’s quite good.”
“Thank you.”
“Chain poetry isn’t metered.”

Mordicai caught Savalia’s smirk before she ducked her head

back down over the scroll. “That’s what I mean. Poetry isn’t
my talent. Building is.”
“Right, right. You’re an engineer.”
 “Is there anything wrong with that?”
“No, not at all.” Savalia rolled the scroll up, tucking it away

in a pocket of her tunic. “Especially TARDIS engineers.

Believe me, I can’t begin to fathom how those things work. No
desire to, either.”
“No?”
Savalia shook her head. “Guess it’s a family thing. If I’d been
born into it like you were, maybe I’d be more interested.”

“But you mother is a Time Lady.”

“Well.” That was all Savalia offered by way of a reply at first.
A pause, a thought, as if analysing a few potential answers.
Then…
“How does an engineer end up with someone like Tor Fasa,

anyway?” At Mordicai’s curious look: “I mean, no offense. But

you two don’t really seem much like coworkers. Is he, what, a
mentor? Friend of the family?”
“He got me my job. And he has… well. He has ideas for me.”
Savalia nodded slowly. “Ahhh. Right. Teaching you the ways
of the poor and humble.”

“Well, for a start. It’s a project of his. Putting things right on

Gallifrey. Sort of thing.” Mordicai remembered Fasa’s flimsy
explanation for the memory wipes after visits to the
wastelands: he didn’t want the members going militant,
suddenly seeing the truth of things and becoming so affected
that they leapt into action. He wanted quiet, careful change.

More inherent than impassioned.

Ridiculous.
“What’s he going to do, then? Global reform? I’d love to see
one person do that.”
“Well, it’s not one. It’s…”
Savalia raised an eyebrow. “Two?”

“No… there’s a few people. Really. It’s… it’s a slow burn sort
of thing.”
Savalia joined him on the stage. “Are we talking ‘next
handful of years’ slow burn, or ‘heat death of the universe’
slow burn?”

“I…”
“You don’t know.” She lay back on the stage, her hair
splayed out across the worn mural. “So nothing particularly
new.”
“Well, the Doctor was part of this group of his.”
“Oh, well, that makes all the difference.”
 Mordicai bristled. “You… don’t know about the Doctor?”

“Oh, I do. I think it might be illegal not to.” She chuckled,

turning her head toward him. “I’m just… unimpressed.
Others think of him as something of a folk hero, but it’s hard
to get excited about a hometown boy when he tends to focus
more on the put-upon of other worlds.”

“Isn’t that what you wastelanders are doing every time you
entertain a Percusian?”
“I… that’s not the same. That’s hospitality. Not giving away
energy and resources.”
“That’s literally the definition of hospitality.”
Savalia blew out a breath – the ‘I’m not having this

discussion any more’ breath.

Mordicai forced the conversation back on track. “Well,
anyway that’s… why… we’re here.”
Savalia sat up. “Taking the Doctor’s place? You’re going to
be a new Doctor, then? The Engineer?”

“Why not?”
“In your Omega Junior Engineer’s Badge?”
Mordicai glared. “It’s my Time Lord insignia.”
“My mother’s a Time Lady, and she never had an insignia.”
 “Sounds like her problem.”
Savalia fell back onto the stage laughing; for now, the
problem was forgotten. But he’d seen the look on her face just

before. She felt alone. Unthought of. Used. Then again, she
was; they all were. The Time Lords’ talk of the wastelanders’
poor way of life was true only insofar as they created the
difficulties. They couldn’t force the Shobogans to be brainless
cave people, but they could at least force the hardship.

She’d told him once there was a bill about to be signed

legalising a mandatory wartime Shobogan draft – if it passed,
Gallifrey’s sad excuse for an army would pick through the
towns until only the very old and very young were left. And
then come back for the leftovers later.
He put a hand over hers, and her laughter stilled. She

stared up at the sky. And he fell back onto the stage with her.
No words. Just staring up. For the moment, he was thankful
he couldn’t hear her thoughts.
“Come on,” said Savalia, denying him the chance to waste
the first kiss with entirely the wrong moment. She stood up

and, much to Mordicai’s bemusement, began to jump on the

spot.
 “What is this, a Shobogan’s idea of a … dance?” His mind
had gone straight to ‘mating ritual,’ but he’d had the presence
of mind not to blurt it out.
“It’s the only way to dislodge it,” she replied, able now to pull
open the moss covered trapdoor that Mordicai had missed

while under the spell of his infatuation. “Down there is where

we write it all down, for keeps. The story of my life is etched
on those walls.”

***

“And he’s in. All the way. No regrets, no concerns. Not that
he’s told me, anyway.”
The Doctor raised an eyebrow. “Last I heard, he wasn’t
interested in anything but TARDIS repair. What changed his
mind?”

Fasa took a bite of the biscuit the Doctor had brought him.
Gingerbread, he said – it was sweet and spicy. It wasn’t
terrible, but it dried his mouth out. “Would you believe it was
a woman?”
 “Ah. Really.” The Doctor laughed. It was agony to watch this

Doctor laugh. He had impossibly blue eyes and a face like a

sculptor’s model. It was like watching art laugh. “Changed his
whole philosophy over a woman.”
“Don’t act superior, you ridiculous romantic. I wouldn’t be
surprised if someday you tried to shred this entire planet for a
girl.”

“I’m sure you’ll be there to stop me.”

“I plan to be extremely dead before that happens.” Fasa
scanned the Doctor’s latest pages. “He’s a good find, is
Mordicai. I was a bit worried, though. It was like pulling
teeth.”

“What did he make of the sonic screwdriver? You did give it

to him?”
“Took it apart, I’m afraid Doctor. There’s bits of it in various
gadgets of his. Shame that none of them helped him improve
his poetry skills, but his toaster now makes the perfect toast
I’m told.”

“Well, as long as there’s that.” The Doctor lay back on the

sofa in Mordicai’s front room, tucking his hands behind his
mess of curls. “The hopeless romantics and silly heroes
always come around in the end. Once they’ve found what it is
they’re fighting for.”
“What about you?”

“I don’t fight, Fasa. I’m a doctor, not a soldier. I intend to

stay that way.”
“Hmm.”
The visit was fleeting, as the visits often were these days.
Just long enough to catch up, pass on a bit of wisdom (and
maybe a snack), and move along. And the Altrix got another

entry.
It was Fasa’s pride and joy… and what would eventually
make all the different in Gallifreyan society. An information
repository based on truth, not fairy tales. Ever evolving, ever
growing, ever changing, just like people. Always learning and

adding to old ideas to make new ones. A window onto the

events that were hidden in the shadow of the Matrix and a
copy of the records that were locked up in the Archive of
Heresies.
And now, with Mordicai stepping up – ah, thank you,
Savalia – perhaps there was a chance.
 Ask anyone what the Way of Life was, and they’d give you
one of many answers, all stranger than the next. Tor Fasa
hadn’t planted any of those ideas; he found it was far easier
to let people’s minds wander, to let them build their own
conspiracy theories that they were willing to believe. And as

the stories grew, the eyes of the important turned further and
further from him. Which was just where he needed them.
What he had told Kendo was true. The Way of Life was
truth. And, with just the right push, the Way of Life could
rock Gallifrey at its very foundations – pull down the
ludicrous notions of Time Lord superiority, and restore

equality to the planet.

All it needed was something to light the fuse.
Fasa had no plans for what that spark might be. But he had
no intention of coming up with one, either. A spark always lit
itself, in time.

***

They had a saying in the shop: unless it’s the Doctor’s

TARDIS, it had better not sound like the Doctor’s TARDIS.
And the sound that met Mordicai’s ears was even blue-boxier
than the blue box itself. He cringed against it as it echoed

through the shop – then cringed more when he heard the

shouting that followed the landing.
He couldn’t make out the words at first, just that it was a
woman and one of the other engineers having a go of it. The
woman sounded terrified, as though something was chasing

her. The engineer had his Patient Voice on.

“Do you know who I am?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, ma’am, but unless you have an Academy
TARDIS–”
“It was an Academy TARDIS at one point!”
It was Kendo. He knew the gasp of panic.

“Yes, but it’s protocol. We can’t actually work with a non-

Academy registered machine, not with the team we currently
have in.”
“I know it can be fixed here–”
The engineer – he was new, new enough that all his
responses were still verbatim from the shop handbook – put

up a hand. “We are only permitted to handle TARDISes that

are still keyed to the Academy’s codes. We don’t have the
clearance to touch any that can go off-world.”
“I’m not going off-world, I’m going to Dotheia!”
“Nonetheless, if it can go off-world…”

Kendo was blinking rapidly, her hands clutching at her robe

over her chest. She spotted Mordicai. “You! You’re who I
wanted to see anyway. Savalia says you can fix anything.”
The engineer glanced at Mordicai. “He’s under the same
restrictions I am, ma’am.”

Mordicai waved a hand, dashing past him. “She’s a…

friend… family… thing. Ish.” He took Kendo by the shoulder,
leading her away to a corner. “Come on. What’s going on? I
heard that thing roll in. It sounds terrible.”
“I have to get out to Dotheia. Now. I have to get transport.
Please, Mordicai. It’s Auntie Nairo.”

He didn’t need any clarification. “Okay. Okay, but what

about her?”
Savalia had taught Mordicai the motions, not thinking he’d
ever need them specifically for Kendo. But damned if he
wasn’t happy to have something to latch onto now. Guide her
through a breath. Then another. Hands on her shoulders.
Squeeze gently for security, but not hard; that would also give
him an idea of just how much she was shaking. Her frantic
breathing slowed enough for him to see that she was choked
up with tears.
“She’s on thirteen. We have to get out there. Savalia can’t
handle this alone.”

“What do you mean she’s–”

No.
No time.
“Look, there’s no way I’m going to get in there and figure out
what’s wrong in any sort of time.” At Kendo’s gasp, he held up

a hand. “But Fasa’s right nearby. We can take his. All right?
He’ll be glad to help.”
It took some pushing, some dragging, and a whole lot of
movement with very little explanation. But Mordicai didn’t
care. All he knew was he had to get to Savalia. He promised
he would help her, no matter what. He’d be there for them –

all of them.
It was early, but Fasa was awake at his desk, reading
quietly. Kendo and Mordicai’s noisy entrance didn’t seem to
faze him in the slightest.
 “We need your TARDIS. We’ll be right back.”
“It’s finicky. You’ll need me with you.” Fasa placidly closed

his book and waved the two after him, to the corner where his
aged machine was stowed. No questions, no concerns, not
even a lifted eyebrow. He simply let them in and closed the
doors behind them.
“To Savalia?” he asked, readying himself at the controls.
Mordicai nodded, then shook his head. “Yes. I mean… no,

yes, but… how did you know?”

Fasa busied himself over the controls. “There’s no one else
you’d be so frantic over. Especially with her in tow.” He
nodded toward Kendo, who was sitting in one of the TARDIS’s
worn jumper seats, fumbling in a pocket for something.

“It’s Nairo,” Mordicai said hurriedly as the TARDIS took off.

“Ah. She’s on thirteen.” There was almost a trace of concern
on Fasa’s face now; a slight lowering of the brow, a bit of a
cloud over his features. “I’m glad you came to me, then.”
Mordicai wanted to ask why everyone knew more than him,
why everyone was jumping to attention without him having to

explain everything. But then he remembered, back from the

muddled memories Fasa had tried to suppress.
 Imagine every point on your timeline vying for dominance.
The changing face, the young woman suddenly becoming old
with no shock or change of plans from her family. The
regeneration sickness that Tor Fasa had described. And she

was on thirteen. Of course… if all moments were vying for

dominance, that included the last moment. The end of the
final regeneration.
Fasa opened the TARDIS doors wordlessly; Kendo shot out
of them like a cannon, little caring what lay just outside the
door. Fasa smirked, glancing at Mordicai. “Glad I didn’t put

us in front of a wall.”
“Not the time, Fasa.”
“Take a lesson from your hero – times like this are exactly
the time.”
Mordicai heard, but didn’t register. He strode through the
TARDIS doors and straight into Savalia’s house; Fasa had

expertly handled his TARDIS so that it seemed like little more

than walking from one adjoining room to another. It dawned
on Mordicai that his apparent inability to start his TARDIS
had been a ruse… to make him feel needed, perhaps?
 Nairo wasn’t in the room. She must have been lying down in

the adjoining bedroom. Savalia was sitting in the front room,

Kendo hugging her and talking quietly to her. The latter’s
previous anxiety seemed to have faded at the sight of someone
more in need of comfort than herself. Savalia wasn’t crying,
though. Her features were stony, her eyes shining with held-

back tears, as though all of her energy stores were currently

holding back the flood.
“It’s only happened once before, right?” Fasa had ended up
behind Mordicai soundlessly.
Savalia nodded. “I barely even recognised her. It’s, I don’t
know.” She gripped Kendo’s hands, the dam threatening to

break. “I guess that means it’s a relatively small part of her

timeline.”
“What can we do if the drugs don’t work?” Kendo asked. Her
body was still turned toward Savalia, but she was looking in
Fasa and Mordicai’s direction. As if either of them had an
answer.

“Nothing.”
Fasa’s voice was cold. Even Mordicai was taken aback.
 Savalia’s shoulders shook a little. Kendo shot him a
poisonous look. “Why would you say that?”
“Because it’s true.” Fasa slipped past Mordicai, seating

himself near the two women, his gaze firm. “Savalia already
knows. Don’t you? It’s what everything you do is about.”
“No,” Kendo countered. “She helps her mother.”
“She helps her stay comfortable. The entire point of her
condition is that it is uncontrollable. If it were controllable, I’m

sure your cousin wouldn’t have simply ignored the treatment

and left her own mother to risk death every moment of her
life.”
Kendo was fuming, but had no answer to give.
“She’s not been taking the medication I’ve been bringing out
to her?”

“Savalia.” Mordicai cut in, not sure what else he could do for
the time being. “Tell us what we should be doing. You know
best.”
Savalia took a breath, letting it out shakily. One tear
escaped, rolling down her cheek, but she managed to keep the
rest at bay. “We need to get her out of bed first. She’s been

quite insistent, and honestly if that’s what she wants, she

should have it. I could carry her of course, but I don’t trust
myself right now to stay steady. If we can get a wheelchair
from someone in town–”
Fasa raised a hand in acknowledgment, leaving his seat and
disappearing into the TARDIS.

“What about the rest of us?” Mordicai looked around the

small living quarters. Water? Blankets? What could they
possibly do?
“Is Fasa right?” Kendo asked, her voice low. Mordicai could
just barely hear. “Is there really nothing we can do?”

“Not unless you know of a way to trigger a switch across her

timeline.” Savalia laughed; the sound of it broke Mordicai’s
hearts. “He’s not wrong. There really isn’t anything. If it’s her
time, it’s her time. I just wanted you to be here in case it
was.” She patted Kendo’s hand gently.
Fasa returned from his TARDIS, pushing a wheelchair in

front of him. It was in a state of disrepair, with huge chunks

of the fabric back rest ripped to shreds, but it was better than
nothing “Right, that’s one thing down. I’ll go and move the
patient. Would she prefer to be here or elsewhere?”
 “Here,” Savalia said softly. She rose from her seat, following

Fasa to the next room. The two emerged a few minutes later
with Nairo: impossibly wizened, strangely small, like a carved
wooden doll. Her anatomy seemed almost impossible, with
her head stooped below her shoulders like a broken
marionette and one hand tapping almost imperceptibly on the
arm of the wheelchair.

“I should like to be in the kitchen,” she said in a voice like

frosted glass.
“Of course.” Savalia pushed her mother the few feet into
what counted for the kitchen, placing the chair at the head of
the table. “Is there anything special you would like?”

The ancient Nairo glared up at her. “I won’t be waited on,

young lady. That isn’t the way of things here.”
The old woman and Savalia continued in hushed tones.
Fasa idled over to Mordicai and Kendo.
“The last one doesn’t know Savalia at all, it seems.” His
voice was conversations. “Thinks she’s a neighbour’s child.

And insists on cooking a huge meal for the entire village.

Hospitality… something-or-other. It’s quite fascinating.”
“Does she remember who she is at all?”
 Fasa shook her head. “This last regeneration seems quite
detached from the others. A different person entirely.” He
regarded the conversation across the room in silence. “I

wonder if that’s just how the last one is.”

Mordicai looked up at Fasa, surprised to see a trace of worry
there. “Why… if this could be her last moment… aren’t we
giving her what she wants?”
“She wants to look after us.” Kendo’s voice was a harsh
whisper. “Two hearts close to giving out and you’d put her to

work?”
But Mordicai didn’t bother to listen. “Savalia, what’s this I’m
hearing?” His voice was embarrassingly grand to his own

ears, like an understudy jumping in for an actor. “You’re not

letting this dear woman look after us?”
“Mordicai…” Savalia’s face was a mask of exhausted
confusion. Whatever he was doing, it seemed to say, she
didn’t have time for it.
“She told you that’s not the way of things here, didn’t she?
Honestly, acting like this is your house.”
“But–”
 He’d catch hell for it later. But she’d thank him. Whatever
happened. He turned back to the tiny old woman. “What is it
you want to do, eh? You had something you were going to do
just now, didn’t you?”
“I needed to get out of bed,” Savalia’s mother said – in that
thoughtful, deliberate tone that only the very young and the
very old can manage – “and get dinner made. It’s a very
special night.”

“You hear that?” Mordicai turned back to Savalia. “It’s a very

special night. And she needs to get dinner made.”
Savalia shook her head. “It’s not…”
“Oh, but I think it is.” He took Savalia’s mother’s hand.
“You’ll all pitch in, won’t you?” This to Kendo and Fasa.
“Whatever the lady of the house wishes,” Fasa said, bowing
his head.
Kendo winced. “I… sure. Me, too.”
“Fasa, could you please help her get started? Anything she
needs, we’ll get for her.”
Mordicai was pleased to see Fasa was taking his lead, at

least. Savalia, on the other hand, was dragging him aside by

the sleeve. He let himself be dragged.
 “Look,” she hissed, the tears very close now. “Just because
there’s nothing we can do doesn’t mean we should be playing
to her whims. It’s just a… thing she says. Because this
regeneration is so old. Because she’s used to looking after
people. She doesn’t actually know what she’s saying.”

“Are you sure?”

Savalia tossed him a sour look. “Pretty sure I know my own
mother, yes.”
“I’m not saying…” Mordicai sighed, taking her by the
shoulders. “All I have is a hunch. If the hunch doesn’t play
out, punch me in the face.”
“You bet.”
Between Fasa’s conversation and Kendo’s hurried work,
Savalia’s mother had no idea she wasn’t handling the entire
workload. Fasa popped out on occasion to pick up a few
things from the market. Some curious neigbours came by

and, upon seeing the to-do in the kitchen, pitched in. The old
woman remained oddly stable the entire time.
Somewhere in the midst of all the business, things had
become lighthearted. The four were surrounded by friends –
well, strangers to all but Savalia – keeping Savalia’s mother
company and being directed to either do something or do

nothing at her command.

Before long there was a table filled with food. The resulting
meal was an afterthought: a happy by-product of the day’s
activities. Savalia was smiling. Kendo was actually calm. Fasa
was already off talking to a few locals, his grand hand
motions telling Mordicai all he needed to know about the
unheard conversation. As he was taking it in, eating some
sort of spiced meat wrapped in bread that he never wanted to
go without for the rest of his lives, he felt a tap on his
shoulder.
Savalia. The cheer had gone from her face.

“Is she…”
“Something’s happening,” she said quietly. “It could just be
another shift or…”
Mordicai handed his food off to a bystander and
accompanied Savalia to her mother’s wheelchair. The old
woman smiled, seemingly satisfied with how things had
turned out.
“There, you see? You should listen to me more often.”
 Savalia laughed. Then pressed her lips together. “I… don’t
understand. What’s special about today? Why all this? Why
bring everyone over and go to all this trouble?”
“Silly girl.” Savalia’s mother smiled at the group. “It’s my
going-away party, of course.”
“Mother–”
Mordicai squeezed Savalia’s hand. The old woman closed
her eyes.
Her features began to blur and shift.

A tense moment… and the tiny body stretched and shifted,

changing into the first version of her Mordicai had seen.
Savalia let out a whoop of joyful tears, leaping to her feet.
“She’s all right! Everyone, she’s all right…” She threw her
arms around a girl her age – someone Mordicai vaguely
recognised from his trips as a nearby neighbour – and began
sobbing. The girl hugged her back, and the friends still
gathered pulled around her, offering words and touches of
sympathy.
Kendo had flown to Nairo’s side. The woman was shaking
herself off, like a sleeper waking from a bad dream. Fasa
dipped in next to them, sharing a few words Mordicai couldn’t
hear.
“I’m an idiot.”
Mordicai felt Savalia wrap her arms around him from
behind, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“You’re just mad you don’t get to punch me.”

“I’ll find a reason.”
Fasa took on the job of clearing the house out, sending food
along with the visitors (save for the plate of spiced meat and
bread, which Mordicai had hoarded away to continue
snacking on). Savalia’s mother went back to her room for a
rest, leaving the four sitting alone.
“I’ll leave the wheelchair with you,” Fasa said. “She might
like it later.”
“Thanks. I can get it patched up, no problem.”
There was a shared silence. Hearts slowing, minds settling.

Kendo was the first to break it. “This is why I keep saying
you and Auntie should move in with me.”
“This isn’t the time,” Savalia retorted. Her tone was quiet.
Civil. Exhausted. Then, “Thank you. All of you. I wasn’t
expecting anything of you at all. Truly.”
 Tor Fasa scratched his scar thoughtfully. “We didn’t save
her. You know that. If it was her time–”

“Oh, shut up and let me thank you.” The tears were flowing
now, but Savalia was smiling. Kendo gave Mordicai a pointed
look – hold her hand, it was obviously saying. He did.
For a strange moment, there seemed to be nothing both
calm. Nothing outside those walls, nothing past Fasa’s old
TARDIS, but a cool evening and peace.

And then, the War came.

 
The Beginning of the End

It woke Kendo.

Curled up in her mess of sheets, notes and papers strewn

across the length of her bed. Her left foot was crumpling a list
of talking points she intended to raise against the Shobogan

draft, in hopes of a reconsideration of the vote. The sound

rattled her awake in the dim morning light of the first sun’s
rise.
She’d thought it was her neighbours having another row,

but even they were out on the balcony, staring up in disbelief.

***

It woke Tor Fasa.

He had fallen asleep at his desk, editing his Altrix entries on

the shady and long forbidden work of the Institute of Choice

Based Regenerations. Nairo was the first piece of physical

proof he had come across to justify his campaign to have

them shut down all those years ago. He’d already made a plan
to visit the people who’d made her condition… well, ‘possible’

seemed like a terribly utilitarian word for it. But, ‘possible’.

The anti-regeneration sickness medication was fairly effective

in controlling the side effects of Nairo’s condition. But for a

cure, the Institute – now an underground affair and the

preserve of the rich and powerful – was surely her best hope.
He saw the chandeliers vibrate to the rhythm of the cloister

bells, and he smiled. The spark was about to ignite.

***

It woke Mordicai.
The engineer had gone to bed without even washing the

day’s work off his hands. His nails were ringed with grease;

his fingertips were dotted with ink. Half-unrolled on his desk

was the scroll with his and Savalia’s chain poem cascading

along the page. This one didn’t just go straight down. It had
begun moving left and right, doubling back on itself, dancing

along the paper. He’d left off half a link in, on the word

‘remember’.
 The paper lay forgotten as he stared up at highest point of

the Citadel and the clanging bells whose doom-laden chimes

would no doubt be echoing throughout the entire planet. A

sound that was the only thing the Time Lords were willing to

share with the entire population of Gallifrey. On one of the

rare occasions in which he had been paying attention in

class, he had learnt how the bells had once been housed in

the bowels of the Panopticon – where, in less comfortable

times, they had often been rung to signal an oncoming storm.

They had been relocated centuries ago. Tor Fasa called the

move a display of arrogance in that the bells, until today,

symbolised that Gallifrey was impenetrable and its divisions

immovable.

***

It didn’t wake Savalia.

Clearly the air was not as effective in spreading the sound

as the artificial network of underground tunnels that once

connected the various regions of the planet. But the talk of it

did.

Nairo’s fourth (at their best guess) regeneration was a young

girl, well aware of everything before and after and completely

unable to handle the mental strain of it all. She crawled into

Savalia’s bed in the middle of the night, clutching her in a

desperate role reversal. When they woke, Nairo still hadn’t

changed, but she’d at least made it through the night.

It was the buzzing of their holocom that woke them – the

one good piece of technology they managed to keep out in the

wastelands. There was a message from Kendo. Three words
that changed everything.

“They’ve bombed Arcadia.”

***

A single blast had flattened Mount Erathion just north of the

city like some kind of gravity busting bomb. A simple show of

power? Or a promise of more to come.

“And now they’re finally preparing as though it actually was

a declaration of war,” Kendo’s blurry image said calmly – as
calmly as it could manage. She was using her public speaking
voice, which meant she knew she had to spread information

but was too terrified to do so.

Nairo was eating breakfast quietly in a corner. Considering
her mental state in this regeneration, Savalia had thought it

best to keep her out of earshot. “So, what, we’re going to fight
back? It might have just been another warning from the

Percusians. I, mean the Time Lords didn’t listen to them the

first time.”

Kendo’s image bobbed its head slightly. “We’re… pretty sure

we know who. Leftover energy traces and what’s left of the
projectile itself are clearly Dalek technology. And, you know,

who else is going to want to start an actual war with us?”

“I’m sure there are a few…”

“Skaro’s the easiest answer. Means and motive and the

weapon matches. Which is handy, since it’s what everyone’s

saying, anyway. Then again, that makes things easier for

everyone to answer. It means there’s no spinning for anyone
to do.”

Nairo wandered over to Savalia, hugging her around the

shoulders. “Hi, Kendo.”
 “Hey, Auntie Nairo.” Kendo grinned back, her demeanor
changing. “Why don’t you go take a nap, okay?”

“Is Savalia going to have to go away?”

“What?”

Savalia laughed, hugging Nairo back. “Of course not. What

makes you think that?”
“If there’s a war… then they’re gonna come and pick

everyone up from here. Right?”

Kendo and Savalia traded a look through the communicator.

It was an uncomfortably fair point.

***

General Hex was not enjoying the afternoon’s reading – largely

because it forced him to actually do things. His position as

Head of the Chancellery guard was the perfect mix of power

and laziness – the most powerful job available without having

to work hard, but it was now looking increasingly likely he’d
end the day in charge of a hastily assembled global army.

The attack outside Arcadia was, initially, going to be an

extremely easy situation to work through. The locals already
knew who was to blame and were already on board for
whatever President Romana chose to do next. And knowing

her – a former renegade (but the nice, proper kind) and a

strong leader, she’d immediately launch a counterattack. No

holds barred. Maybe even call the Doctor in, as she seemed to
be the only one who could keep him in line.
But the reports blew their easy process out of the water.
“What in Rassilon’s name are the Percusians doing with a

Gravity Buster?” Hex grumbled, staring at the report. “This

must be some kind of mistake. Dalek trickery?”

Hex’s deputy jumped slightly, turning toward Hex’s desk.

“Based on trajectory and satellite imagery, that first shot

was definitely launched by a Percusian ship.”

“That’s ridiculous. They don’t do anything. They just sort of

keep to themselves and live their lives.”

His colleague tapped his chin. “It does seem unlikely, Sir.

But all the evidence is to the contrary.”

“So we’re going with a completely primitive race got hold of

Dalek technology and fired on us unprovoked? But it makes

no sense!”

Hex spread his arms. “And yet here we are.”

 The disbelief anyone may have had was shattered – or

perhaps escalated – a few hours later, when a message was

received in the form of a video contact. It went directly to

President Romana’s office; Hex and a very small handful of

others were privy to the video.

Not that there was much to see. It was a scant few seconds
long, consisting of a relaxed looking man in a large chair. The

scene was dark, but atmospheric. It was almost as though a

stage had been set for this brief moment. The man rested a
splay-fingered hand against his grey cheek, tracing the

cinderflower tattoo that trailed down to his neck.

He didn’t say who he was. He might have been a king. An

actor. A spokesperson. He only spoke two sentences, in firm

but accented tones:

“We are Percusia. Gallifrey will fall.”

And the video cut off.

The tiny crowd gathered turned to the President. She began

the video again, pausing it before the Percusian man spoke.

“Madame President?” Hex asked quietly. But he knew what

was coming.
 “This message is from the future, a voice from a Time War in
which our timelines have been corrupted and collapsed. What

we are witnessing in the north cannot be allowed to reach us.

Gallifrey will not fall.” She stared at the figure on screen – for
all any of them knew or cared, a simple avatar of the

Percusians, a figure chosen to deliver the words in a way that

would not be forgotten. And it had worked.

“With respect, Madame President, how are we supposed to

turn a temporal fact into an unfulfilled prophecy?” ventured

Hex.

“We fight back.”

The next day – nay, the next few hours – would be a rush of

madness. Hex knew what was likely to come next. The

President wanted a War Council established, meaning he

would have a brand new set of people to be cross with for not

getting anything done. They would need to train a military

they didn’t have, recruit Time Lords they also didn’t have due

to waning admissions and graduations, all under the watchful

eyes of senators who only thought they knew what they were

doing.

The nightmare was just beginning.

 ***

The Senate was insane. Senators who had likely never ever

heard of Percusians until that very moment ranted that they

knew there had always been something wrong with them.

Some tried to come up with reasons for the attack, while

others accused President Romana of acting too swiftly.

All Kendo knew was she had to stop the Shobogan draft
from being signed in. There was one last chance – one last

moment, today, when perhaps the Senate leader could be

made to reconsider.

It came her turn to speak.

She breathed. She felt in her pocket for the phial and

syringe. If things went too bad, she could at least calm herself

down.
“Senator Kendo, you have the floor.”

“Thank you.” She swallowed. “Ah… in light today’s

announcement, I feel it’s important that we reassess our

decision on the Shobogan draft.” She consulted her notes. “I

feel that, er… with the, ah, inconsistent history and nature of
the wastelanders’ background, it would be unwise to rely
upon them for the bulk of our–”

“Senate leader,” came a voice, deep and unpleasant. The

sort of voice that had always done a bit more research than
you.

“Senator Zabel, please wait your turn.”

Zabel smiled ingratiatingly from his seat. “I only mean to

say, Senate leader, that this is an issue we should leave to the

War Council. Is it not?”

“But…” Kendo’s hands crumpled around her notes. “There is

no War Council. Not yet.”

“Then,” Zabel cut in again, “I move that we begin setting the

standards for the Council. Before anyone else tries to

influence things that are none of their concern.”

Kendo felt a spark of anger travel straight to the top of her

head. Her eyes stung, taunting her, daring her to cry in

public. But she conceded. Quietly.

After all, there was no reason she couldn’t get on this War
Council, right? And from there, maybe she could start being

heard.
 ***

“I am not,” Mordicai said coldly, “unconvinced that you aren’t

involved in some way.”

“Well,” Tor Fasa chuckled. “I’ve had my followers accuse me

of many things, but this is only the second time I’ve been
accused of starting a war.”

Mordicai opened his mouth. Then closed it.

“If it eases your mind, I have no involvement with the attack

on the north.”
“But you don’t seem particularly upset.”

“Everything is an opportunity, Mordicai. It just depends on

how you view it.”

The park was bare and silent. Even on the other side of the

dome, where the damage was little more than a speck against

the sky, the locals were indoors. Some had even shuttered

their windows like terrified villagers against a villain in an old

wastelanders’ zap-em-up.

“You and your big book of heresies. Your Altrix. You must

know something about the Percusians. About why they’d

want to do this to us. Something more sinister than our
friends in the wastelands are aware of?”

Fasa shifted slightly on the bench where they sat. “Sinister?

No. It is extremely interesting, I’ll give you that. Not

completely unbelievable, but definitely interesting.”

“So you do know about them.”

“Oh, yes. There are annoying gaps. They seem to have been

created out of nothing, suggesting a cover-up of the highest

order, but as for their present state – quite a bit. We get on

extremely well. Common interest, after all.” He grinned.

“Hating Time Lords.”

Mordicai hissed through his teeth. “Well, there’s the motive,

then.”

“Not really. They’re not a particularly aggressive people.

That’s where the whole thing begins to fall apart.”

“Then… they were coerced. Or they’re a cover. Or it’s a rogue

cadre.”
“A rogue cadre taking on an entire planet?” Fasa chuckled.
“Fine. Not that. But count me as unsurprised if your

fingerprints turn up on some aspect of this.”

 Fasa’s expression was growing ever sourer. “Shouldn’t you
be concentrating a bit more on your own situation?”

Mordicai’s small sound of query brought no answers.

***

The new War Council Chief was aged, nine regenerations in

and made the most of each one. He had apparently never seen
combat, but was an esteemed historian and tactician. He
could tell anyone what had gone wrong in any historical battle

they cared to name. His selection out of the Senate to head up

the new War Council was a no-brainer.
His second-in-command, though, had seen combat. Plenty

of it. Her expression of relief when she was sent to the big
table and not the front lines was almost distressing. No one
asked what it was she’d seen. But she clearly fancied never

seeing it for herself again.

“You do realise we’ll need Bez.” The Vice-Chief’s tone was
low and surprisingly calm. She was paging through notes on

the senators who had expressed interest in being a part of the

Council.
 “Commander Bez was discharged until a future

regeneration, last I heard. He–”

“She now, Council Chief.” Her tone was proper. She was
practicing.

The Chief coughed. “She was considered unfit for service.

And from what I saw of the state of the regeneration, I’m not

inclined to disagree.”
“With all due respect, Council Chief, Commander Bez did
return and retake the physical and psychological

examinations.”
“Did she pass?”
The Vice-Chief’s lips twitched into an uncertain smile.

“Enthusiastically. Ah, which reminds me, we will be needing

to set aside part of our budget for new training dummies.”
The Chief stared at Commander Bez’s updated file. It wasn’t

difficult to see, just from the image in front of him, why she
would have been considered unfit. But if everything was in
order – and knowing her – there would be no keeping her

down. And, he hated to admit it, but she would likely be one
of the few people mad enough to actually agree to the training
regimen they were considering.
 “We’ll put her in charge of our top tier of new recruits.
They’ll need the firm hand.” He flipped to a new set of files.
“Now… the fun part. Picking from these.”

Literally every senator had jumped at the idea of joining the

War Council. So many armchair tacticians, so few who
wouldn’t faint at the sight of a paper cut. It was going to be a

long slog, choosing the team. Long, but ultimately simple.

***

The front door opened. Savalia whipped around, soapy knife

in hand, ready to attack. The intruder threw his hands up in

the air instinctively.

Panic over, Savalia registered who it was. Beylon. The first
friendly face her mother had met when she fled the Citadel in

shame following her vanity regeneration. He was like a

grandfather to her, and the only man that mattered in her life.
Well, until Mordicai had come along, anyway.

“Oh, Beylon, I’m so… I’m sorry.” She turned back toward the
wash pan, submerging the knife back in the dishwater.
“It’s all right. We’re all a little on edge right now. Mind if

I…?”
 Savalia waved a hand. “It’s all right. Sit. Do you want
anything? Water? Tea? Juice?”

“No, no. I don’t need anything.” Beylon’s smile was tired, but
honest. Savalia wiped her hands on a nearby cloth, leaving
the dirty dishes behind. She was a bit put off by pulling a

knife on a neighbour.
“Counting the days ‘til the carts roll through, I expect.” He
looked over his shoulder out the window. “I’m not looking

forward to it, but it’s only a matter of time, isn’t it?”

Savalia attempted a placating smile. “It’s not certain. Kendo
did say it’s not been signed in yet. Given what’s happened,

maybe they’ll have second thoughts and go with something a

little more reliable than just sweeping us up.”

“Do you really believe that?”

She didn’t.
“Kendo is very sweet,” Beylon went on, “but she’s one voice

under thousands. I’m glad she cares. But she’s not going to
accomplish anything alone. She never was.”
It was something Mordicai had noted on his visits: the

general underlying pessimism of the wastelanders. Wouldn’t

you be, she’d tossed back, in this situation? He’d had no good
answer. But it rattled her, too. She wished, at least for a little

while, they could pretend things would be all right. It was a

fantasy, but a little fantasy might be all right before things
went all to hell.

“You should go with her. You and Nairo.” At Savalia’s

sudden crestfallen look, he pressed harder. “I know she asks
you. I know she’s offered. And really, we love having you both

here. But if you have the opportunity, you should go.”

“No. We… we can’t. Mother doesn’t want to leave everyone
behind. Besides, you know how she feels about our Time Lord

roots. She’s even suspicious of Mordicai and would sooner I

found a nice wastelander. This is our home now; we’d be like
strangers there.”

Beylon smirked. “I guarantee you, five minutes after the

attack, the Citadel became the safest place on Gallifrey.”

“Still.”
“Plus, you’d be closer to that boyfriend of yours, right?”
Savalia smiled. “That… would be nice. I guess.”

“You guess. No, it would be nice. Think about it. Look after
yourselves. Go get Nairo the help she needs. And go be with
your boyfriend. Nairo needs you, and if they come through
and start dragging people out, there won’t be many of us left

to look after each other.”

He had a point, and it was one that had already been sitting

uncomfortably in the pit of Savalia’s stomach for quite some

time. Traveling to the Citadel would be risky, but maybe on
arrival…

“This isn’t what you came over to talk to me about, is it?”

“It is, but I had a feeling you’d say no.”
“Then…”

Beylon looked out the window. “We’ve been talking. A few of

us. We know your situation with Nairo. We all care about you
both, and we don’t want her to lose you for any reason.

Savalia, if they come through for any reason, we’ll hide you.
Both of you.”
“But that’s… that’s dishonest.”

“And forcing us to fight is?” Beylon laughed. “If it comes to

it, there are plenty of people here to pick up who are fighting-
fit. It won’t be suspicious if one person is missing.”

Savalia felt her hearts ease, but her muscles tense. “You
should be looking after your family.”
 “We are. We’re hiding some, some are heading out to Red
Forge. We can’t abandon the village because they’ll just come
after us. But at the very least, we can take stock of who can’t

be spared. If it comes to it, hide with Nairo. We’ll make it

work. Promise me.”
She breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

***

Tor Fasa arrived in Kendo’s office to find her beaming

brightly, her arms brimming with papers. His bewildered
expression was definitely not for show.

“Stop grinning, you mad woman. Don’t you know there’s a

war on?”
“Yes, yes. I do. And I also know that we’ll be hearing back

about the War Council appointments this afternoon.” Kendo

shooed him to sit down. “So I want to make a good impression
right away. I need to run some things by you.”

“This is a War Council, Senator Kendo, not an academy

drama.”
Kendo glowered. “I know that. But what was it you said a

while back? About finding ways to get people to listen to me

without having to talk about myself too much? Well, this is
that chance, isn’t it? This is where we start making those

changes.”
Fasa watched as Kendo began laying out notes on her desk
as though preparing for a class presentation. It was

admirable, and almost a bit reassuring, to see her attacking

the situation head-on. It was uncommon for her, generally
shaking in the face of anything challenging or stressful.

Perhaps she’d found a way to calm herself. Or perhaps she’d

gone straight out one side of panic and swung back around

into a false calm. He couldn’t tell. He wasn’t sure he wanted

to dig deep enough to know at this point.
“All right.” Kendo took a deep breath. “So. Obviously, we

both know the biggest issue right now.”

“Yes, there’s a whopping great fracture in Gallifreyan time
and space.”

“Ah…” Kendo stumbled over her own thoughts. “I was…

going to say the Shobogan draft.”
Fasa waved a hand. “It won’t be the biggest issue to them.

We both know that. You might as well appeal for suffrage for
their helmets.”
 Kendo’s next exhale was slightly more of a shudder. There it

was – she was confident until challenged. This was exactly

what he’d been afraid of. “Can you just play along for a
moment?”

“The Council won’t. What reason do they have to consider

not stripping the wastelands of people for troops?”
“Well… ah…” Kendo’s eyes darted back to the notes on her

desk. “Lack… of… training, yes, there it is!” She grabbed one
sheet triumphantly. “The resources necessary to train
thousands of Shobogans – who are, by your own assertion…”

She leaned over the page. “Not yours, Fasa.”

Again, he waved a hand.

“Who are, by your own assertion, of a lesser intelligence

than Time Lords, would be a deep cut into our already limited
budget. Thus, for our own well-being, it behooves us to find a

way around this issue.”

“That’s all very nice.” Tor Fasa folded his arms, eyeing
Kendo dubiously. “So what is your big plans?”

She smiled proudly. “We hold a recruitment campaign and

convince people to enlist.”
Fasa frowned.
 “See, not many people know much about the Percusians,
right? Just you, for the most part. We don’t even know why
they attacked yet. All we have to do is make it look exciting

and fun to fight them, make them look like big villains, and
everyone will join up!”
“Miss Senator.” Fasa found in situations like this it was best

to choose a spot on the wall and fix his eyes there. “What you
have just described is a thing that already exists. It is called
‘propaganda’ and it is something that you and I are already

actively fighting.”
An awkward stutter escaped Kendo’s lips. “N-N-N…” She
shook her head. “No! No, this is different!”

“How so?”
“Because, well… the Shobogans aren’t bad and the Time
Lords are telling lies about them.”

Fasa raised a hand inquisitively for the second half.

“And, well. Percusians obviously are bad because they

attacked us…”
“I do believe, Kendo, you will need to give this a bit more
thought.”
 Outside the closed door of Kendo’s office, there was the rush
of dozens of pairs of feet.
“Oh, they must be announcing who’s on the Council!”

She rushed to the door, throwing it open. But instead of

seeing an excited crowd, she saw a calm line of her fellow

senators, decked out in new robes with ornate collars. None of

them looked to be in any sort of hurry.
“What’s going on?” she asked one of the passers-by.

“First meeting,” the fellow senator mumbled, without

stopping to look.
“But… what?”

Tor Fasa watched from behind her. “I don’t like to presume,”

he said, “but could it be that the announcements were
private?”

“But they made it sound like we’d find out today.”

“Oh, we did.” The greasy voice neared Kendo’s ear. Zabel
smiled over at her, tugging at the collar of his ill-fitting War

Council robes proudly. “They brought us our files and our

robes a few minutes ago and summoned us straight over.” His

beady eyes widened in mock surprise. “Oh, did you not get
anything?”
 “I…” Kendo felt her hearts beating out of sync, a chill on the
back of her neck. She laughed them both off. “Hah. They

must still be getting to me. I did put my name in.”

Zabel frowned. “That is a pity.”
Kendo looked back at Fasa, her mouth hanging open. “It…

this can’t be right. There must be a mistake. What about all

my big ideas?”

“Mm. Weird.” Zabel shrugged. “They let my big ideas right

in.”
Fasa reached over Kendo’s shoulder and slammed the door

as Zabel chuckled his way down the hall. “Ignore him.”

Kendo stumbled over to her chair, slumping into it. “I didn’t
make it. I didn’t get in. I can’t do anything.”

“Now, before you go in that direction–”

“Why?” She looked up at him imploringly. “Why would they
not accept me? My application was flawless. My attendance at

the Senate is impeccable.”

Fasa examined the back of one hand. “Potentially it could
have something to do with you being the only person who

voted against the Shobogan draft.”

“But–”
 “The Council wants action. Not moralising. The only way to

get those big ideas of yours in is to go in through the back

door.”
Kendo didn’t raise her head. She was too busy staring at her

feet, likely wallowing painfully but familiarly in all the things

she couldn’t do. “You just said my big ideas are what kept me
out.”
“Because you’re going about it wrong. Look.” He crouched

down to Kendo’s eye level, feeling oddly as though he was

talking to a pouting child rather than a senator vying for a
seat on a War Council. “That’s how I do it. It’s not about going
out there guns blazing and yelling at everyone to see things
your way. You have to wheedle your way in. Get the ideas
rolling quietly. Play their game enough that you can start to

bring them over to your way of thinking.”

“This is all very nice, but it’s not much help if I can’t get
onto the Council in the first place.”
Silly girl. As though that would be difficult. “Just leave it to
me. I’ll make sure you have a seat.”

“And what’s in it for you?”

 Fasa chuckled. She was quick on the uptake. “What you
want to accomplish is what I want to accomplish. Do what
you’re hoping to do. And do it well. Do that much, and you’ll
have earned whatever I can issue you.”

“I don’t care about getting things. I just want to keep Savalia

and Auntie Nairo safe. I’m sorry… but right now anything else
is just a happy side effect. I want them to be all right.”
“That’s your prerogative. I certainly won’t tell you otherwise.
Though… on the subject of Nairo.” He patted himself down,
finally finding the pocket where he’d scrawled down an

address. “Wait until you’re settled in with the Council. Which

will be soon. Then see these people.”
Kendo took the scrap of paper. “Will they convince her to
move here?”
“No. But they might just have what it takes to make that a
non-issue.”

Kendo didn’t have the mental strength to piece it apart. She

tucked the note away.

***
The poems were getting worse.

“If you’re too tense right now, we don’t have to do them.”

Mordicai swallowed a cough. “What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s so structured.”
“Of course it is.” He jabbed his finger at the scroll. “See
there, I calculated the ideal points of intersection to keep the
chain structurally sound.”

Savalia pressed a hand to her forehead. “Well, for one thing,

it’s words on paper. Not a bridge. It doesn’t need to be
structurally sound. And for another, you’re meant to choose
the intersection points based on thematic words, not
calculations.”

“What’s so wrong about how I did it?”

“Well, now we’ve got a verse whose key themes are ‘that’ and
‘of’.”
Mordicai snatched the scroll back, rolling it up. “I’ll bet
other boys don’t get their love letters copy-edited.”
Savalia laughed over a sigh. “Sorry, sorry. I just like doing it

right. You know?”

“Yes. So do I.” He tapped the scroll against the palm of one
hand. “I guess we just have really different definitions of
‘right’.”
Nairo was awake, but kept to herself. This regeneration was
oddly tall and elegant, of indeterminate age. Savalia often

wondered if she was deaf or mute, or if this regeneration’s

personality simply didn’t enjoy speaking to people. She read
quietly by the fire, seated in her wheelchair. She’d taken to
staying to it when she could. Savalia wondered what her
mother knew that she didn’t.
“You’re staying here, then.”

“Maybe. Maybe moving on if we can.” Savalia looked over at

her mother. “It depends on how she does. If and when the
‘recruiters’ come here. Several things.”
Mordicai’s eyes followed hers. “So… which one is your
mother?”

“Hm?”
“I mean… when you were younger, which one was she?”
Savalia shrugged. “She’s been sick for pretty much as long
as I can remember. They’re all her. And since her whole
timeline is accessible, I don’t even know which one was
‘current’.”

“When did it…”

 “I don’t know. I think it may have even been dormant before
I was born. I turned out all right, though. So there’s that.”
She smiled. “No Academy for me, though. Can you imagine?”
There it was. Mordicai cleared his throat. “Ah. Speaking of
the Academy.”

Savalia looked back at him.

“Well, as it turns out, they need people in the field. Well.
You know that already.”
“A bit, yes.”
“They’re opening up again. Speeding people through.”
Savalia didn’t respond.

“I’m… going to do it.”

“That’s great. You should.”
He nodded. “Not to fight, though. None of that. But at least I
can fix things. That doesn’t require shooting anyone.”
“And it’s what you do best, after all.” Savalia patted his

hand. “I’m proud of you. You’ll be an amazing Time Lord.”

“I’ll be a discount speed Time Lord.”
“Doesn’t matter. You’ll still have earned it.”
Mordicai handed the scroll to Savalia; she tucked it away in
her belt. “And then I’ll have a TARDIS. You know? And we can
see the stars up close. If that’s the sort of thing you’d like.”

“Mmmmm… depends on the company, I suppose.”

“Yuck.”
They both looked up, startled. Nairo was watching them
from the corner of her eye, her tongue sticking out.
“Well, now at least I know she’s just antisocial.” She took
Mordicai’s hand and walked him away from the table. “So…”

“So that’s why I came by. I’m going to be out of touch for a
while.” He nodded to the scroll tucked into Savalia’s belt. “We
can still write, though. I have a plan worked out, so we’ll be
able to find each other no matter where we go.”

***

He did, she learned only a day or two later – and it was just
his style. The machine that showed up at her door terrified
her (and most of the street) at first: a Biometrically Enabled
Security System, BESS for short, one of Gallifrey’s familiar

yellow and black drones whose tasks varied from delivering

state approved charity aid packages, recording and
monitoring the environment, and apprehending runaways.
But when the BESS popped open to reveal a note from
Mordicai and a velorium-plated cylinder housing a poetry
scroll, there was general relief. And a few coarse words about
Savalia’s strange engineer boyfriend.

“I don’t dislike him,” Beylon had said in a hushed tone

around Mordicai’s remodeled BESS, “but I can’t help being
nervous that there’s something coming from the Citadel that
can zero in on you.”
“It can zero in on him, too,” she’d replied in a clipped tone

as she took one of his deliveries. “If it bothers you too much,
you can send him back a dead mouse or something.”
For a time, it was calm. Talk came in of “recruiters” coming
to towns closer to the Citadel: Keltara’s able-bodied were
carted off, then East and West Vantage. It happened too
quickly for them to keep ahead of the messages.

Then came the first run through Dotheia, and Beylon and
the others were as good as their word. A few of the
neighbours’ older sons and daughters were taken away, while
Savalia and Nairo hid in the rafters of Beylon’s house. The
cart moved on for parts unknown, and Dotheia was calm. If

not a little quieter.

 Then came the second run.

***

“I have good news and bad news.”

Kendo wanted to rip her own hearts out. “Do I need to hear

the bad news, or is it just for effect?”

Tor Fasa slapped a large bundle down on Kendo’s desk. “The
bad news is, you’ll have to wait another week before I can
sneak you in. The good news is, I can sneak you in.”
Kendo pulled away the paper on the bundle. Inside was one

of the deep jewel-toned War Council robes. She ran her hands
tentatively over the fabric.
“They’ve had a booster of lifers come in. A few
representatives not in elected office. Once they start
attending, it’ll be easier to sneak you into the crowd without
you being visible. You’ll still miss some information, but right

now everything is primarily setting-up and choosing seats.

Anything else, I can find for you.”
“Thank you…” Kendo’s tone was hushed. “What about
Savalia?”
 “Word from Mordicai is that the neighbours are keeping her
safe. She should be fine.” He smiled. “Your only concern now

is to take those big ideas and make them work.”

“And what about you?”
“Every War Council needs a Peace Council as its
counterpart. I’m evolving the Way of Life into such a body,
and I’ll need your help to keep us sweet with the warmongers.
I think I just might be able to avert war, but I need the powers

that be to turn a blind eye, just like they have with the cult.”
After Fasa had left with a spring in his step born out of his
admirable idealism, Kendo laid her head on the half
unwrapped robe. It smelled of fresh dye.
I just might be able to avert war.

Kendo buried her face in the robe, puffing out an exhausted

chuckle. “And here I thought I was the one with the big
ideas.”

***
This regeneration was a giggly one. Savalia had to calm her

mother with some sweet roots she kept handy just for this
very circumstance.
 The recruiters were getting bolder. From what little she
could see and here, they were entering homes now. A few
younger and older than ideal recruits had been pulled to the
cart. Below her, Beylon and his daughter and granddaughter

sat in the dark, waiting.

“They should be hiding,” Savalia whispered, willing them to
come up to the rafters. But they waited, sewing or reading or
cleaning vegetables. Beylon had said before that an empty
house would be suspicious. Even so…
The door slammed open. “Hey! There’s three in here!” The

voice was gruff, but oddly joyful, as though the job was a
treat. A voice outside queried him, and he answered. “Eh. Two
not so great, one that should be fine.”
“We hit quota with one more,” the other voice said,
approaching the door. “Grab ’er.”

“Come along, ma’am, Gallifrey needs you.” The recruiter’s

tone was false-posh, sarcastic.
Savalia slapped a hand over her own mouth to stop herself
crying out. Beylon’s daughter made a few motions toward her
own child, a few pleas, but the recruiters’ weapons made it
difficult to make a compelling argument. She was pulled out

the door, which was slammed behind her.

Savalia dropped down from the rafters. “Beylon, you have to
stop them!”
Beylon’s granddaughter had run to his side, hugging him
and crying. “I…”

“She’s your daughter! She has a child!”

Beylon waved a hand toward the closed door. “They’re
armed!”
“Fine.” Savalia pulled her hair away from her face, more for
show than anything else, and pulled the door open. Beylon
tried to make a grab for her wrist, but she pulled the door

closed behind her.

“Hey! Gallifrey’s Finest!”
The two recruiters – and everyone on the cart – turned at
the sound of her voice. They all looked stunned.
“Did I hear you right? Just one more to make quota?”

The recruiters glanced at each other. “Y-Yeah…”

“Does it matter who the ‘one more’ is?”
They didn’t answer. Only stared.
 Savalia pointed to Beylon’s daughter. “She’s got a little girl
who needs her here a lot more than my mother needs me.”
“Sav!”

“It’s true.” She ignored Beylon’s daughter’s hurt look. She

knew what was behind it. Weeks of planning, days of care.
But she wasn’t all right with being spared over an either-or.
“Leave her behind, and I’ll come with you.”
The right-hand recruiter raised an eyebrow. “Really, now?”

“Yeah, I wanna beat up some Percusians.” Savalia grinned,

throwing a fake punch. “Put me in.”
No one dared say a word. No one dared stop her. Beylon’s
daughter was escorted roughly from the cart, and Savalia
stepped up.
Sorry, Mordicai… that BESS is going to have a tough job

ahead of it. She glanced at the door of Beylon’s house. The

family’s eyes were on her.
“You’re going to regret that, hero,” muttered a weathered
woman next to her.
“Trust me. I already do.”

***
The War had begun, but four stories were already spinning
into motion.
A Senator, wanting only to make things right.
A Dissenter, with his book of heresies and his head full of

plans.
A Poet, soon to be a Soldier.
And the Engineer who laughs in the face of terror.
The stories circle on their own, but they link and join as
they go, steering the early days of Gallifrey’s Great War.

 
 PART II

Kendo’s War
The War Council

Today is the first day of the rest of your lives.

Kendo rubbed one eye, staring at the note written in her

own circular scrawl. Clearly Past Kendo had felt a lot more
chipper and motivated than Present Kendo currently did.

She scrubbed her face, possibly a bit too hard, trying to

extract the exhaustion and anxiety from her pores. She
whipped the water from her hands, looking at her damp face
in the mirror. No – she hadn’t suddenly started looking more

capable and intelligent in her sleep. Still the same childishly

round face, still the same big eyes that looked terrified no

matter how calm she might be. Still just insufferably,

excruciatingly her.

She knocked her chest hard twice with a fist, once over each

heart. “If either of you feels like going, now would be a great
time.”

Three large mugs of hot tea on an empty stomach – an

empty nervous stomach – did nothing to help her. What did
help, funnily enough, was tripping over a large package

shoved through her front window.

Kendo sat down, rubbing her ankle with one hand as she
worked the heavy package open with the other. Files. Papers.

Scrolls. Images. A few small discs she could go through at her

desk. And in the midst of the pile, a short note in a familiar

hand:

This should get you caught up.

Kendo breathed a sigh of relief, a smile lifting her features

for the first time that day. She dumped the files and papers

into her satchel, stowing the package safely indoors, and

began the long, strange trek to her desk.

She still felt as though she barely knew Fasa, even with

everything that had passed between him and her family.

There was something about him that made her feel as though

asking him for clarification on any points would break some

flimsy seal and bring everything crashing down over her. To

be fair, she felt that way about most forms of confrontation…

but there was something more behind that scarred face that

made her hesitate.

Nonetheless, the question had come up. One word: “How?”

 “There are a dozen situations that could apply to. You’ll

have to specify.” The statement was clearly for Fasa’s

amusement rather than his edification.”

“The War Council. How did you get me in?”

Fasa shrugged. “You wrote a very compelling letter to the

Council Chief concerning your willingness to pursue scientific

advances to bolster our troops.”

“I did no such thing.”

“Oh…” Fasa pulled a face. “Well, he got a letter and your

name was on it.”

She was curious to see just how well he’d mimicked her

signature. Well enough, it seemed.

Kendo’s mood lifted steadily on the way to her office; by the

time she walked through her door, a pastry from a street

vendor in one hand and the other gripped protectively around

the top of her satchel, her head and hearts were high. Tor

Fasa believed in her. He made sure she was ready. She would

be ready.
She closed the door. Paused. Put a chair against it. Can’t be

too careful, after all. Pastry on a plate, the nice tea made and

in her favourite mug on her desk. Files laid out in piles and
columns that would make for optimum reading. Discs loaded

up on her desk screen. She rolled her shoulders, took a deep

breath, and dived in.

A quiet morning’s reading. The first day of the rest of her

lives. It felt terrible to think, given the nature of the

documents she was reading, but there was something nice

about it. Something fulfilling as she scratched her own notes

down in the margins. Things were happening. Scratch scratch.

She was going to make a different. Scritch. Things were…

Hmm.
Kendo was deep into her reading when she reached the
fourth (or was it fifth?) mention of ‘DZ Training.’ But nothing

about the sector was listed anywhere else in her materials. It

was name-checked more than enough, certainly. But as for

what it was, where it was, or what purpose it served…

nothing.
She flipped through the papers, skimmed through the digital

files. Nothing seemed to have been torn out or deleted.

Nothing (as far as she could tell) seemed to have been

sabotaged. Had Tor Fasa simply let a page fall out of his
hand? Worse… had she let a page fall out of her bag?
 The realisation assaulted the back of her neck like an ice
cube. Was there a page of confidential information riding the

breezes of the Citadel? Because of her?

She felt her hearts start to race.
There was a knock at the door.

“Not now!” she gasped, wrenching open a desk drawer. She

grabbed a small phial and needle, trying to steady her

shaking hand enough to get a good draw. Another knock. She

made an anxious, squealing sound.

Finally, she managed a good jab on the inside of her elbow.

It took a few moments, but soon her hearts slowed, the nape
of her neck unfroze, and she was able to breathe again.

A third knock.
“Come in.”

It was a page – a little girl. Kendo bit her lip. “Sorry I yelled.”
The page grinned, betraying a gap-tooth smile. “Mm. That

happens a lot.” She trotted forward, holding up the hem of

her robe as her sandals scuffed the office floor, and plopped a
folded note on Kendo’s desk. “From the barracks.”

“The barracks?” Kendo picked up the paper. “Why am I

getting notes from the barracks?”
 The page shrugged, giving an exaggerated “Mm-mm” by way
of reply.

Kendo blew out a breath, unfolding the note. She recognised

the tidy, perfect handwriting almost immediately.

“Savalia.”
“Who-wha?”
Kendo shook her head. “Nothing, sorry. Just a moment.”

She read silently.

Have been recruited. Am being placed in Unit A-B. Please find

help for Mother, or for me so that I can help her. Awaiting your
response.
Kendo peered over the edge of the paper. The young page

was staring at her reflection in the floor, sweeping her robe

around like a dancer. When she noticed Kendo’s eyes on her,

she stood at attention, smiling.

“No response at this time,” she said as evenly as she could.

The page pouted. “Should I say you got it?”

Kendo lowered her eyes to the note. The page had said it
had come from the barracks. That meant she probably wasn’t

able to speak to individuals in the barracks. Sending a

personal response would mean acknowledging to someone
watching that Kendo and Savalia had a link. And a soldier
asking a member of the War Council for favours…

Another way will come up. It has to.

“No. Nothing for now.” Kendo smiled. “But thank you very

much.”
The girl stuck out her hand for the note, accompanied by a
childish “Hmm?” of inquiry.
“Ah. No. I’ll keep it. Thank you.”

The page shrugged and skipped out of the room, pulling the

door closed behind her.

Savalia was in the Citadel.

Well. No. That wasn’t accurate. Not even partially. At best,

Savalia would have gotten a brief glance at the Citadel on her

way behind it.

Another knock at the door. Her hearts held steady this time.

“Come.”

“I see you got my delivery.”

Kendo looked up, smiling, relieved. “Oh, it’s just you.”

“Just me, is it? Thank you very much.”

“No, I mean, I…” Kendo sighed. “It’s been a rough morning.”

“The morning hasn’t even started yet.”

 “Oh, it has.” She handed over Savalia’s note. “Look who’s in

town.”
Tor Fasa gave the note a cursory glance. “Unit A-B? Not bad.

That’s the best you can do right off. Never took her for a

joiner, though.”

Kendo snatched the note back, shoving it in a desk drawer.

“She’s not. And I know her. She wouldn’t be here except under

extenuating circumstances. I have to get her home somehow.

Can’t someone, I don’t know, put in for her that she has to go
home?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s impossible.” Tor Fasa’s expression

nearly betrayed regret. Nearly. If Kendo stared quite hard at

his left eye. “The only thing a soldier goes home for is their
own funeral.”

“But… there must be something I can do! That one of us can

do! She’s… she’s seeing your prodigy. Surely you care a little.
If Mordicai lost her this way, how much do you think he’d

care for anything?”

Tor Fasa raised an eyebrow. “I said it’s impossible for her to

go home. But I imagine if she advanced through the ranks

somehow she might, I don’t know… end up behind a nice safe

desk in the Citadel. Perhaps get some comfortable quarters.
She might even be able to move her mother here with her, get

her some proper medical care.”

Kendo’s tension eased. But only slightly. “Maybe. But I can’t

just go down and demand…”

“No, of course you can’t. But think on it. You’ll come up with

something. I have things to do, I’m afraid. Just wanted to

check in and see how you are.” He swept back toward the
door, then paused, his hand resting against it.

“Oh, yes. That’s why I was thinking of Unit A-B. Their

commander’s been through quite an unpleasant regeneration.

Bez, I think her name is. I wouldn’t fancy being her right

now… I’m sure anyone could slip things past her, the state

her head is in.” He shrugged, smiling over his shoulder.

“Funny the things you remember. Enjoy your first day on the

War Council. Don’t forget to pack a lunch.”

Kendo sank down in her chair as Tor Fasa took his leave.

She sketched BEZ idly on a slip of nearby paper, but nothing

else came to mind. She hadn’t even stepped into the Council

Room, and already things seemed to be plummeting.

 A chime rang – one she was unfamiliar with. Moments later,

people began trickling past her door, gripping files and scrolls
close to their chests.

The War Council.

It was time.

Nervously, she gathered up the files she knew she’d need,

hiding the rest away in her desk drawers and locking them

securely. She smiled. It felt good, having something deserving

of being locked away.

It wouldn’t be hard. This wasn’t like a typical meeting, after

all. They were on the same side now. Nobody wanted war.

They all wanted to live. They all wanted to preserve as many

innocent lives as possible, and get out with minimum

collateral damage. It was just a matter of how.

“Right,” Kendo breathed. “We’re all on the same side.

Nothing to worry about. We all want the same thing.”

***

“First order of business,” the Council Chief said over an

uncomfortable cough. “Which portions of the Citadel do we
consider expendable?”
Kendo stared at him in shock. She turned to check the

expressions of the people next to her, perhaps whisper a

disbelieving barb in one of their ears – but everyone else

seemed completely unfazed. One, in fact – Zabel, the portly

man who’d found her lack of experience so amusing before –

had already begun indicating a portion on the map with one

fat finger.
“Far southeast, sector Q-13,” he said, his voice surprisingly

high-pitched for his build. “Nothing there but a few theatres

and a park.”
Kendo jumped out of her seat. “You can’t–”

All eyes were on her. Zabel’s were through her. “I can’t…

what?”

Kendo’s mouth opened and shut a few times. The eyes

boring into her seemed to be draining her ability to speak.

She shook her head. Took a breath. Found her voice. “The,

ah… park and theatres will be especially important in

wartime, won’t they? For morale.”

“Then what,” the Council Chief coughed – Kendo was

beginning to suspect that was simply his voice, “do you

suggest we do allow to be destroyed?”

“Well… ideally, nothing.”

A ripple of laughter traveled around the table. Kendo

suddenly felt like a child back at the Academy. “Oh,” Zabel

said with a smile that made Kendo’s hearts want to crawl up

her throat, “wouldn’t that be nice?”

“The dome has been breached once after that stray time

bleed from the north and it will happen again despite our best

efforts to maintain the timeline in the north encampment,”

the woman to the Chief’s right said wearily. She had a face
anyone would pay attention to. Kendo took mental notes –

perhaps something to wish quite hard for in case of

regeneration. “Repairs can only happen so quickly. On the

very real chance that we’re not fast enough, we need

coordinates for our large-scale transmat so we can at least

keep the more destructive battles out of the areas we can’t

afford to lose.”
“Large… scale…” Kendo furrowed her brow, riffling through

her papers.

The woman propped a chin on her hand. “Do tell us if we’re

going too fast for you.”
 There it was, between the sky trenches and the Panopticon
time shield. Large-scale transmat: currently under construction

within essential parts of the Citadel to move destructive forces

to a prescribed battlefield. “Oh… I… no, sorry, I knew this. I

remember this, I just–”

“Anyone else have thoughts?” the Council Chief cut in.

Kendo sank down in her chair, listening in silence as the

Council listed off which bits of the Citadel were prime to go

first. She had objections to all of them – there was a school in

this one. There was an orphanage in that one. But she didn’t

dare raise her voice, or even her head.

“And how is the DZ initiative moving along?”

Kendo’s head shot up at the sound of the familiarly

unfamiliar words. She glanced around her. No one else

seemed confused or off-balance by the announcement.

Zabel spoke up. “We’ve just starting the G units through as

of this morning. It was, ah, considered most productive by

General Hex to put the lowest aptitude recruits first. Get them
situated early and… erm.” He gave far too easy a smile,

glancing at Kendo as he did. “Root out the problem children.”

A ripple of laughter passed around the room.
 So it was training. And they were starting from the lowest
ranked recruits and going up to the highest ranked. That

seemed fine enough. Was that why the information was

missing from her packet? It was just some run-of-the-mill

training and there was no need to talk at any length about it?
Kendo’s hearts eased a bit; it wouldn’t be hard to discuss at
all, in that case.

“Ah…” She made the briefest sound of an attempt at raising

her voice, and all eyes were on her. The Council Chief sighed.
“Something else you need explained?”

Kendo waved her hands frantically. “No, no, not at all! Of

course not. I just…” She had to at least start picking apart
what she could about it – especially if it was for weeding

soldiers out – however she could. “Are we set on putting the A

units through, or would that be a waste of our time?”
The glances she got weren’t withering this time… a relief.

They seemed genuinely thoughtful.

The woman next to the Council Chief turned to him. “Would
it? She has a point. The runs are a major investment of time,

and if we could have the A units on the front line sooner, that
would be preferable.”
 The Council Chief shook his head. “No. All units go through.

If anything, it’s most important to get the A units apprised.”

He paused, then looked over to a man at the end of the table
who appeared to be fiddling with a wide variety of computer

apparatus. “Can you patch me through to Bez?”

“Right away.” The man tapped away furiously, and within

moments a hologram fizzled to life in the middle of the table.

It was a little girl, decked out in full military dress uniform,
looking extremely cross.

Kendo memorized her face.

“Oh, what do you want?” the girl snarled. “I was told I’d be
allowed to run my own damn matters for a change.”

The Council Chief plastered on a smile. “Bez. How are you?”

The girl spat off-camera. “Busy, talking to a great load of
stuffy shovel-heads instead of doing my job. What do you

want?”
Two women behind Kendo snickered. “She’s so cute,” one of
them whispered to the other. “I just can’t be upset.”

“Change of plans,” the Council Chief responded.

“Figures. What now, all troops wear silly hats? Soldiers
march backwards?”
 “We’re moving your A units forward for the DZ initiative.”
The little girl’s eyes looked ready to pop out of her head.
“You joking?”

“It’s been decided that they should be trained up as soon as

possible.”
“Humph.” Bez stared at her fingernails. “Fine. I can move

them up. One condition.”

“Yes?”
She grinned toothily. “I get to play, too.”

“Oh, of course, of course.”

Bez screeched girlishly, hopping around. The hologram cut

off suddenly. A silence passed through the chamber.

“That was surprisingly easy,” muttered the Council Chief.

***

“I have no answers for you, Kendo.”

Kendo hitched up her Council robes, dashing down the hall

after Tor Fasa as she tried to keep hold of her papers. “You
must, though! You got me everything else. There’s no way you

missed one thing out of everything else.”

 “You are quite right.” Tor Fasa cast Kendo a half-lidded
glance. She found herself, as always, staring straight at the

scar rather than his eyes. “It’s impossible for me to have

missed something. I received the information from a former
student who works the record room, and he assured me that

nothing was missing from them. I trust him implicitly – he

has this funny little tic when he’s lying.” He indicated his
right eye. “Little twitch just there. Impossible to conceal.”

“Then…”
“Oh, Kendo. You’re a smart young woman. Figure it out for
yourself.”

Kendo was left staring down at her arms full of papers as

Tor Fasa took his leave. He was right… well, probably right…

right? He’d never omit something deliberately, and it was

unlikely he was lying about his student. Kendo wasn’t so
foolish as to think his help was purely altruistic; he probably

needed her there for a reason beyond her ‘big ideas’, and he
wasn’t about to hobble her right out of the gate.
In other words…

The DZ Initiative wasn’t a part of the records in the first

place. And everyone who knew about it had learned about it
via some other venue. Which meant there was something the

Council considered too sensitive even for a file that spoke

freely of triaging bits of city and drafting Shobogans because
they were Just That Disposable.

And whatever it was, she’d inadvertently subjected Savalia

to it far earlier than intended. Which meant it was time to
start working with that Commander… Bez or Baz or whoever

she was. Time to start getting Savalia out of harm’s way while
she could.
And at the same time…

Kendo reached into her pocket, looking at the address

scribbled down in Tor Fasa’s angular hand. At the same
time… there was more to look into.

She dropped her papers off in her office, locked the desk
drawers, drafted a mostly believable letter to Commander Bez

concerning the aptitude of a particular recruit who had been

less than forthcoming about her previous military experience,
and took off for the address Tor Fasa had given her.

The streets were far more hushed than usual; Kendo had
failed to notice it that morning, given her elation at her new
job. With that freshly worn off and her hearts back in their
usual place, she could see how the locals clung to the

shadows. How they would occasionally cast an eye up toward

the repair drones patching the hole in the dome, perhaps

wondering if there was any point to it. She thought back to

Savalia’s scant early visits to the Citadel, how she’d look
around in awe and delight as she clutched a cone of

something sweet or a bag from a shop. There was nothing to

inspire that now. Even the tall buildings of the Citadel seemed
to loom now more than soar.

The address was down a covered street. Then down some

stairs. Then around the back of a small, squat building. When
Kendo reached the door – which had a small sliding window

at just above eye level – she began to wonder just how broad
Tor Fasa’s friendships were.
She knocked. The window slammed open, showing what was

more than likely a preview of a very tall man’s chest.

“Password!” the man’s voice boomed out.
Kendo froze. Her hearts began pounding out of rhythm.

“Password, I said!”
“They… I… I wasn’t given a password,” Kendo choked out.

“Tor Fasa just–”

 There was a scuffle beyond the door, the square of chest
disappeared, and the door creaked open. A short,
bespectacled woman jerked her head toward the interior,

beckoning Kendo inside.

“Thank you…” Kendo stepped in, the door closing behind
her. Inside was a laboratory, somehow simultaneously orderly

and cluttered. “Systematic,” perhaps. The tall man stood

behind the short woman who had let Kendo in; beyond them,

there were only three other occupants. A nondescript woman

and a tall man sat at desks working away, and an old man
dozed on a couch pushed against the back wall.

“Stop asking for passwords, Gustin. Honestly.”

The tall man – Gustin – shrugged. “I have one job here,
darling, at least let me have some fun with it.” His voice had

somehow gained several IQ points in the intervening

moments. He stomped away and threw himself into an
overstuffed chair, grabbing a tablet that appeared to be

playing some sort of holographic romance story.

“I’m sorry about Gustin. He gets a bit too into his work
sometimes. You said you’re a friend of Tor Fasa?”
 Kendo smiled awkwardly, shrugging. “It might be more
accurate to say ‘mentee.’ He recommended I see you about an

issue. But it’s a bit… er… complex.” She looked around at the
tables. There were at least two dozen distinct workstations,
each laden with tubes or machines or computers.

“Complex is what we do. Sammo.” The woman stuck out a

hand.
“Ah. Kendo. Thank you.” Kendo shook Sammo’s hand,

continuing to look around as she did so. “Did… did Tor Fasa
mention me at all?”

Sammo shook her head. “Oh, no. We don’t talk much these
days. I mean, we maintain a… what would you call it?”
“Professional acquaintanceship,” the nondescript woman

said, droppering something into a dish.

“Yes. Thank you, Nadi. Tor Fasa is an intelligent man and
very skilled at what he does but, er… by necessity that makes

him unlikely to preserve certain types of friendships in the

long term.”
Kendo exhaled shakily.

“Oh, that’s not a point against you. If he’s sent you to us,
there’s clearly a good reason. That’s one thing he’s quite good
at.” Sammo gestured to the couch at the back of the room.

“Have a seat. Ignore Gramps, he won’t care.”

“Thank you.” Kendo walked past the rows of desks,
squinting at bubbling tubes and ticking machines as she

went. None of it made any sort of sense to her. She sat on the
opposite side of the couch from the old man, tucking her
knees in. Gramps snored, snorted, shifted, and fell silent

again.
“A great mind in his time,” Sammo said thoughtfully as she
pulled up a chair. “Now he makes an excellent barometer. So,

what’s Tor Fasa shuffled you all the way out here for?”
Kendo clasped her hands between her knees. “Well. Well?

I’m… all right. Full disclosure. I’m a senator, and I’ve just
recently made my way onto the War Council.”
“Aha! I see.”

“You do?”
“I do.” Sammo hopped to her feet, pulling Kendo up to
standing by the hands. “You’re looking for something a little

more… what’s the word.”

“Compelling.” The tall man looked through a microscope and
scribbled down a few notes.
 “Yes. Thank you, Zeb. I see it clearly now. You’re in a
position of power. But no one will listen to you.”
Kendo blinked. “H-How did you know?”

“Well, look at you.” Sammo leveled a hand between the tops

of their heads. “You’re almost as short as me. You’ve got the
face of a terrified schoolgirl. You hardly inspire confidence.”

“Thank you.”
“You’re in the market for a new look. Something quick,
something controlled, something that lets you get right back

to work. Nadi?”
The nondescript woman got up from her seat, a syringe of
something gold and glowing in one hand. “Single

regeneration,” she said, gesturing to the syringe. “Quick,

simple, minimal physical change save for cosmetics. We’ve
been tweaking this for seven months now. Give us a sketch of

what you’re looking for and you can be back in the council
room feeling like a new you in two hours.”

“N-No! No, it’s not for me!” Kendo waved her hands in front
of her face. “No, that’s not what I’m here for at all.”
Nadi’s shoulders drooped. She wrinkled her nose, shuffling

back to her seat.

 “Seems a bit of a strange place to come if you’re not in the
market.”
“For…”

Sammo smiled wearily; Kendo recognised it. It was the same

smile as the Council Chief. “Tor Fasa didn’t tell you what we

do, did he?” She gave the ghost of a shrug. “Probably trying to
drop a hint.”
“No, I… it’s for my aunt.”

“She wants one?”

“No, no. More… the opposite.” Kendo explained her aunt’s
illness as best she could. Somehow, after all these years, it

still wasn’t any easier. Sammo listened, her face blank.

Almost deliberately so.
“Hmm. That’s a difficult one.”

Kendo sighed. “You can’t help.”

“Now, now. I never said we couldn’t. It’s just… what you’re
asking is, all things considered, slightly unethical.”

“I don’t see how. You’d be saving a woman’s life.”

“That’s… just it.” Sammo turned her chair around,

straddling it. Kendo knew the move. She was trying to be

personable. Down-to-the-ground. Whether it was genuine or
not was another matter. “There’s potentially a way to stabilize
her condition. It’s just, it would mean shrinking the loop.”

She indicated with her hands.

“Shrinking the…”
“We can’t cure her. DNA that scrambled would be a

nightmare to untangle. But we could, purely theoretically,

loop her within one regeneration. Her fifth, say. Or her tenth.

Her favourite. Her choice. She could only move along her
timeline within that regeneration.”
Kendo brightened. “But that sounds perfect!”

Sammo raised a finger. “It would also make her effectively

immortal. Not to mention potential side effects – looping a
Time Lord’s DNA in on itself could heighten their abilities

exponentially. Maybe even destabilise them dimensionally.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Anyone here feel like dabbling
in that?”

The other three looked up briefly, eyes wide, then went back
to their respective distractions.
“Exactly. Miss Senator, there are a lot of rules we’re willing

to bend, but actually making a Time Lord literally immortal

and potentially near omnipotent is a bit much even for us.”
 “You lot are hardly bearable as it is,” Zeb muttered into his

work.
Kendo couldn’t even be bothered to be offended. “Then
there’s nothing you can do for her.”

“Oh, I never said we can’t do it.” Sammo raised an eyebrow.

“With a sample of her DNA, we could isolate the problem
chromosome and have it turned out in an afternoon. No, Miss
Senator. I’m saying we won’t. Not without some serious

intervention from far higher up the ladder than you. No

offense.”
“… I see.”
“But should you ever require a few, say, a la carte
regenerations, you know where to find us.”
Nadi waved the syringe again. “You sure you aren’t

interested?”
“Oh, I am. I really am. Believe me.” Kendo sighed. “Thank
you regardless.”
Kendo slipped out the back door, more discouraged than
ever. She’d barely been promoted, and all she’d managed to

do was confirm that her aunt was doomed, get Savalia moved
closer to the front line, and embarrass herself in front of
extremely qualified strangers.
Her hearts couldn’t even be bothered to sink.
Time Lords are for Sharing

It took time, but good news of some sort finally arrived.

Commander Bez had received Kendo’s note, and apparently

bought right into it. The quickly scribbled note the page
brought up stated that if Savalia did well enough during the

DZ Initiative, there was no reason for her not to advance

starting essentially immediately.
It was a relief, even if just a small one. Perhaps she couldn’t
save Savalia’s mother, but she could at least see Savalia

behind a safe desk, giving out orders out of the line of fire,
before this whole mess was over. Which – fingers crossed –

meant Savalia could bring her mother to the Citadel for care.
It was progress. Speculative progress, but still progress. And

it made Kendo’s hands shake just a bit less as she slipped

through the door into the crowded room.

“Done your reading?” a voice over her shoulder muttered.

Kendo looked over and a bit up – it was another woman,

slightly younger looking than her. But something in the eyes

told Kendo the youth was a product of regeneration, and this

particular council member had potentially been there longer

than Kendo herself had been alive. A strong chin, a nose that

was prominent but not unwieldly, impeccable posture, hair

streaked with just enough grey to suggest hard work rather

than age. She was perfect. Anyone would listen to her.

Kendo grumbled. “I know what I’m about,” she responded, a

bit sheepishly.

The woman smiled. Or simpered, perhaps. “I do hope so. It’s

a big day, after all. Wouldn’t want to hold things up to get you
caught up. Read up on your DZ Initiative?”

“Naturally.”

“Mm.” The woman looked toward the table, where the

Council Chief was just taking his seat. “Good. I do believe

that’ll come in handy today.”

Kendo noted that the usual hologram projector had been

swapped out for a panoramic projector – which meant they

weren’t taking a typical call today. She began weaving her way
toward the front of the group, getting as close to the central

seating as she could. No one seemed to notice.

The Council Chief was the last in. But rather than his usual

practice of shutting and double-locking the doors behind him,

he pointed briskly to two other members. They rose from their

seats, delivered quick nods in unison, and slipped through

the doors. Only then did the chief secure the one entrance.

“I hardly think I need remind you all,” he said in his

strained voice, “that what we are about to discuss – what

we’re about to witness – is confidential beyond confidential.

The delivery of your DZ packets via separate courier was no

accident. It was essential that this information not get into

the wrong hands. We are playing a dangerous game. You all

knew this coming in.”

“With all due respect, we’re not the ones playing it.” The

voice was cheeky rather than accusatory, buried safely in the

crowd. A few nervous laughs followed it.

The Council Chief took his seat with far more solemnity

than usual. “I am aware of that. I think we all are.” Kendo

waited for a follow-up statement – an apology, an admission

of guilt, anything – but that seemed to be the end of the

thought.
A few tense minutes passed, until finally the projector

sprang to life. The scene was a wasteland, riddled with rocks

and debris. Lines of soldiers stood at the ready, each gripping

unusual, unrecognisable weapons.

No… not unrecognisable… more like… alien, yes that was it.

Kendo leaned in, peering at a scrawny boy on the end. The

gun propped on his shoulder had a familiar shape; a strange

look to it that reminded her of something. Someone. Who she

wouldn’t want staring her in the face.

“Are those…” She spoke aloud before she could stop herself.
“Good morning, war kids!” Commander Bez’s gleefully

grinning face hove into view, filling the frame. She backed up
until she was fully visible, dressed neatly but clearly ready for
action. “Nice of you to join us today. Ready to see how a

proper Time Lord fights?”

A few on the council snickered. The Council Chief closed his

eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I trust all is in

readiness, Commander?”
“Oh, we are more than ready. You didn’t tell me we were

going to have sparring partners.” She jerked a thumb behind

her. “Did you see them? Absolute monsters!”

“You seem pleased.”

 “It’s all I’ve ever wanted, Council Chief.” The Commander
executed a surprisingly sweet curtsy.

“Well, if the pleasantries are out of the way…” The woman to

the chief’s right cleared her throat. “We should like to see
some of this advanced training in action.”

“Right you are, ma’am.” Bez turned away, facing her unit,
which was flanked by a few intimidating figures who most

certainly were not part of the draft. Lizards. Or people.

Lizard… people. Stubby and snotty and not of Gallifrey by any

means. How many toy-boxes were the Time Lords stealing

from to build their little army?
The woman reached for a button on the projector, but the

chief waved her away.

“Right!” Even with her back turned and some distance

between her and the projector, Commander Bez’s tiny voice

carried like a high-pitched war horn. “As you can see, we’re in

for a special treat today. The council has decided that, as

Gallifrey’s best recruits, we should get Gallifrey’s best training
as early as possible. And, of course, there’s only one place on

Gallifrey that can truly test a fighter for all they’re worth.”
 She turned on her heel, her tiny face now in profile. Kendo
could see her excited, brutal grin.

“The Death Zone.”

Kendo’s reaction mirrored the soldiers’. The rest of the

council seemed unfazed.

“Ma’am?” one soldier asked, his voice weak.
“The Death Zone. The Pentagon of Hurt. In other words…

your training ground for today.” A pause. “Surprise!”

Kendo felt her hearts begin to race. Idiot. Idiot. The naming

was so simplistic, of course she wouldn’t have thought to take

it at face value. D bloody Z. And her cousin. Savalia. Savalia
was out there. She fumbled under her robes as quietly as she

could for the small emergency syringe she carried in case of

public panics.

The tiny commander carried on, shrieking about glory and

death and some sort of move she’d invented several decades

ago called a Nebular Pain Train. Kendo just felt for the crook
of her elbow, moved the syringe, waited for the sickening little
pinch and flow that meant her hearts would calm before long.

The council observed in silence as the exercises began.

Kendo felt the gentle flood of chemicals unclench her hearts
and relax her brain. Momentarily, at least.
The chief’s assistant had finally muted the audio going both

ways, and the council was doing a play-by-play of the action.

Some quite businesslike, a few comments on Bez, with a

smattering of heckling.
“Hey,” Zabel said with a wheezy laugh, “who wants to lay
bets on how long ’til Tor Fasa pokes his nose into this?”
The chemicals seemed to drain right out of Kendo’s veins

again.

“You look distressed, Senator. Can we take it you have some

objection to the exercises?”

It took Kendo long moments to realise she was the one being

spoken to. By the time she’d got her wits about her enough to

take in the mood of the room, all eyes were on her. The
Council Chief’s in particular seemed to be piercing through

her.

“… Senator?”

Kendo swallowed. “No. No, I… I haven’t got a problem with

any of it.”

“You seem shocked.”

 “I’m… only…” Her skin prickled. Her left heart fluttered

unpleasantly. She stared at the screen, unable to make head

or tail of the soldiers or their massive adversaries.

I can’t go now. Not when I’m in. Not when I’m so close to

helping Savalia. Not when I’m so close to helping her mother…

“I’m only…”
Tor Fasa. His letter. No, ‘her’ letter. It was perfect.

Kendo’s head snapped around, her mind suddenly flooded

with tense clarity. “I’m only wondering if there isn’t some way
to give the troops an advantage, sir.”

The chief gestured vaguely to the holo-screen. “If you’d been

paying attention–”

“No, no. I understand that. And that’s good, this will be

excellent training. But what if we could bolster them

physically?” Her mind was racing, like a child about to knock

on a door and run away. “We are, after all, dealing for the
most part with common Gallifreyans – people with limited

usefulness. I have a contact who, with your permission, I

could consult to make a change.”

“We are not,” a faceless council member protested, “rushing

anyone else through the Academy. We’ve already got a line

out the door of people keen for a cheap TARDIS.”
Kendo waved her hands in front of her. “No, I mean single

regenerations. One injection.” At the council’s obvious

disbelief, she pressed on. “We’ve already tapped out the

outliers. If our disposable troops get much more disposable,

we may have to start recruiting from within our own ranks.

We can’t afford that. Can we?”

“And how exactly do you intend to do this?”

“I, er…” Careful. “I have a contact. They can design exactly

what we’re looking for. They could give us soldiers, ready-

made. Someone drops, no matter how bad they are, they get
up again ready to fight.”

It wasn’t going to work. She knew it. Someone would

mention the ethics. Question the source. Demand names. Or,

worse yet, someone would finally recognise her. She’d spoken

long enough that surely someone with a good memory would

place her as the frantic girl from the first meeting.

But there was none of it. The chief looked around, coughed
for good measure, and nodded. “All in favor of examining this

route?”

Every hand shot up around Kendo.

 A strange feeling flooded through her hearts. Not panic –

something warm, almost rewarding. Like she’d just finished

building a house or writing an essay. Accomplishment. Ease.

She smiled.

“It seems we’re all in agreement.” The chief turned his eyes

back to Kendo. “So we can count on you to deliver?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Very well. One hundred phials. Three days.” He smiled – a

confident, encouraging smile. And it was all Kendo could do

to keep herself in her seat.

She practically floated back to her office, tapping out a quick

note to Sammo and her shop that an appointment would be

required as soon as possible. And when she arrived, the little

group had prepared her some tea and a small spread of finger

food – she was being treated as a high-paying customer. Then

again, government money and all that.

“A hundred phials, you say?”

“One hundred, yes.”

Sammo looked over the quick notes Kendo had scribbled

down. “I’m not sure what you mean by these figures, though.
20% muscle? 30% agility? Is this per phial or–”
 “Oh, no no no.” Kendo put a hand over her mouth, finishing
her bite of biscuit. Gramps shifted slightly next to her,

snoring a bit. “No, sorry. I meant out of the hundred. I was

thinking perhaps we could have different sorts of soldiers, you

know? Let the commanders pick and choose what they’re

interested in having more of.”

“Ah. Not a bad idea, actually.” Sammo handed the notes to

Nadi, who whisked them away and began sketching out

complicated figures on lined paper. “So, one hundred phials,

and we’re looking at DNA reprogramming rather than

instantaneous regeneration. A little tougher, but it can be

done. And, er, about crisis management.”

Kendo blinked. “Crisis management?”

“Yes, post-regeneration. What sort of accommodations will

the soldiers have upon regenerating?”

“I… well… I imagine they’ll go back to the barracks

afterwards.”

A slow, tense smile spread across Sammo’s face. “I mean in

the moment. How will they be cared for at the time of

regeneration?”
 “They… well… these are custom, right? You can just sort of

program the side effects out.”

All activity in the room fell silent. Even Gramps’s snoring

seemed to have quieted.

“You can’t… program out a psychological reaction to a

physical change. You know that, right? It’s a massive risk.

Your best option would be to use a rejuvenation formula,

where each regeneration is a younger version of the former.

That would cancel out most of the psychological trauma.”

Kendo opened her mouth to respond, but Sammo pressed

on. “Provided you’re willing to wait the year or so it’ll take for

us to research and develop it.”

“A year!?”
“Unless you’ve got some sort of magic fix we don’t know

about. We don’t get many calls for the ‘same again’, so we

don’t have a base formula on file.”

Kendo sighed. “Are you sure about the recovery time? The
Council didn’t seem concerned about it.”

“The Council probably didn’t think about it, either.” Gustin’s

voice drawled across the room. He was draped over a chair,

applying casual fixes to some sort of molecular diagram.
“They’re up to their ears in zero rooms and medical magic, so
they don’t have to think about it. But we’re talking about

normal people, darling. Surely you haven’t forgotten how

much time you spent in Psychology of Personality back at the

Academy.”
Over at her desk, Nadi gasped. “Oh, no. That one was

terrible. It took us at least three years to get to anything

useful. I just slept through half of it.”

“And see where it’s got you,” Gustin said sweetly.

Kendo stared down at her hands. Of course. These were

soldiers. Untrained Gallifreyans. They’d fall down after being

shot, wake up a different person – and their brains wouldn’t

know what to do. But now she was obligated to deliver.

“You’re that friend of Tor Fasa’s.”

Kendo flinched at the unfamiliar voice from her left. She

peered over. Gramps had opened one eye and was regarding

her casually.
“Y-Yes. I am. That’s me.”
“He’ll have that ‘magic fix’ for you, I think.” Gramps tapped

his forehead, then rolled his head to the side and returned to
his nap.
 ***

Kendo never thought she’d miss Tor Fasa’s inscrutable stare.

But under his gaze now – blank with a slight undercurrent of

disappointment – she longed for the times when she had no
idea what he was thinking.

“You… don’t seem pleased.”

“What makes you say that?”
The fact that it’s radiating out of you from every angle, Kendo

thought bitterly, but the bitterness was overshadowed by a

chill. “I… I did this for you,” she stammered. “I mean, not for
you, you know. For what we talked about. For what we want.”

Tor Fasa slid into the least comfortable of Kendo’s spare

chairs. “Do tell me how this fits into that. I’m fascinated to
know.”

“I’m protecting innocents,” she shot back. “I’m making up

for this… ridiculous mass ‘recruiting’. I’m saving lives. Isn’t
that obvious?”

“You’re saving lives so they can keep fighting.”

 Kendo lowered her head. “So they can go home. So this can

be over sooner.”
“You’re very quick to answer. Was that really your thought
process?” Tor Fasa scratched his chin. “Or are you just quite

good at improvisation?”
“What?”

“The real reason, Kendo. Tell me.”

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tor Fasa sighed – the sigh of a disappointed father. “Very

well. So you need help. You need to… what, make sure your
terrible idea doesn’t go terrible.”
Kendo bristled – with a layer of uncomfortable guilt just

under the surface. Something about his tone just made her
feel wrong. “I was told you might have a way to get around the
regeneration crises. The lab can’t handle that. They said it’s

psychological, not something they can just program out.”

Tor Fasa closed his eyes, his face taking on the peculiar
perhaps-asleep, perhaps-dead look of an older man in deep

thought. “I may.” He opened his eyes and reached into a

pocket hidden in the folds of his robes. “I do, in fact. Do you
have that little box you bring your lunch in?”
 “Yes.”
“Is it clean?”
“Mm. I washed it out earlier.” Kendo dug through her desk

drawers, taking out the little box and popping the lid off.
“Why, what are you…”
Kendo bit back a surprised expletive as she looked up. Tor

Fasa was pressing a handkerchief to the scar on his forehead

– and holding out a small knife with a scrap of skin with the
other.

“U-Ugh…” Kendo stared at the strip of skin.

“Don’t just stand there. The box.” Tor Fasa shook the knife

at Kendo; the flesh wiggled unpleasantly as it hung from the

knife. Kendo held out the box, and Tor Fasa tipped the skin
into it.

“Thank you… I think.”

Tor Fasa managed a half-smile. “Something unchanging.”
He glanced up at the handkerchief still pressed against his

forehead. “To settle their nerves.”

The scar! Kendo popped the lid of the box on quickly, but at
the very least the motion made sense. “So some of this in the

mix should negate any psychological issues?”

 “It is the only part of me that remains unchanged from body
to body… I can say with certainty it will perform exactly the

function I intend, and I do like the idea of using the gift only
on your best soldiers.”
“Thank you. I…” She shook the box, wincing at the little

thump that sounded from within. “I, er… should probably get
this to the lab while it’s still fresh.”

***

The box was delivered that night, and the next day there was

a wrapped box on her desk. A dozen or so seals decorated it

on all sides, proving it had made it to its destination

unopened. Kendo opened each one carefully – why, she wasn’t

entirely sure. The box was for her, after all. But there was
something satisfying about the slow reveal.

Inside? Phials, small and jangling against each other. The

contents glittered gold. Kendo couldn’t help but wonder if that
was simply how the serum looked, or if Sammo and her

cohorts had simply thrown some extra dazzle in to be extra

impressive. Whether they’d intended it or not, it worked.
 Her hearts brimming with excitement, Kendo sent word for a

courier to come and get the phials. She expected a council

member, or a page. What she got… was a tiny girl in crisp
military uniform.

“Oh… Commander… Bix?”

Commander Bez waved her hand dismissively, about to
speak. But then her eyes caught sight of the glittering phials.

She dashed across the office, clambering onto Kendo’s desk

like a child who’s just caught sight of a birthday present. The
strict, stern face she’d worn coming in was gone, replaced

with awe. “Is this them? The rejuvenations?”

“It’s… uh. Well.” Kendo scratched her chin. “Technically it’s
a DNA recoding serum that allows for the potential for

regeneration… resurrection, rather than just a shot in the

arm that–”

“Yes, yes, fine, fine.” She slipped one phial out of the case.
Kendo expected her to manhandle it awkwardly, but her
small, calloused hands were gentle. “And this was your idea,

Senator?”
“Yeah… yeah, it was, actually.”
 Bez smirked up at Kendo, sliding the phial back into its

place. “You’re going to go places, you know. Weren’t you the

same one who recommended Savalia for a promotion?”

“I… yes, I was.” Kendo felt a prickle of anxiety at the back of

her neck. Relax. She has no way of knowing you’re related. It’s
just a question. “I trust she’s been helpful?”

“Oh, she’s a gift. I’ve been tossing around the idea of

bumping her up to Major. It’s a little hasty, but… well, you lot
are shoving kids through the Academy like it’s going out of

style. I hardly see the harm in elevating one person who’s

earned it.”
“Mm.” Kendo could see this was about to become a longer

than anticipated meeting. “For what it’s worth, Commander,

I’m very much against that. You and I both know firsthand
the sort of work it takes to graduate at the best of times. I’m

not sure how I feel about handing out TARDISes left and right
to anyone who knows how to write their name on a form.”
Bez snickered. “Too right. Well, these should change

everything. Especially if what I’ve heard is true. No crisis?

None?”

“None. The special rejuvenation formula will see to that.”

 “Good job. Can’t imagine half my troops trying to deal with
coming back to life and figuring out a new pair of feet.” The
snicker was more of a cackle this time. “Wrap that up, have it

sent down this afternoon. Label it, I don’t know, ‘Beans’ or

something. Something no one’s going to take an interest in.”
“Right away, sir.” Kendo began wrapping the package back

up, humming to herself as the Commander left. As the little

girl strode out, though, she walked straight under the arm of

a wide, red cape, completely oblivious.

“Senator?”
Kendo looked up, startled. “Oh.” And she looked again. “Oh!

Council Chief. I… I wasn’t aware…”

“That’s them, then?”
“Yes, sir. The Commander’s just had a look over them and

they’re being sent right down.”

“Excellent.” The Council Chief sat on the edge of a chair.
“I’m impressed, you know. Not many people could find such

a… well, frankly illicit operation.”

Kendo’s hands froze on the box.
“Tor Fasa’s advice, I expect. He’s the only person I can think

of who’d have this sort of thing in his back pocket – and think
nothing of handing it around.”
“Ah…”

“Well, no matter. Needs must, and right now this may well
be one of our least radical initiatives. Though, that said… I
would be interested in what else these people can do.”

Kendo’s hearts were still trying to decide whether to explode.

“I-in what sense?”
“How closely can they tailor a regeneration?” The Council

Chief looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. “I suppose… just how

resilient could they make someone?”

Kendo laughed. “Well, apparently they could theoretically

make someone immortal with the benefits of being able to
travel across dimensions and the possession of heightened

mental and physical powers”

“A super Time Lord?”
It was too late to stop the words; they were long gone. Kendo

looked over at the Council Chief; he looked genuinely

intrigued. “I… well… in theory. They could alter someone’s
timeline to simply loop through the same regeneration over

and over. But it would take a sample of a very specific type of

DNA, and…”
 “And?”

“… and a government order.”

“Well, I can get one of those.” The Council Chief pointed to
himself. Then his expression brightened – which, for him, was

a slight raise of the eyebrows and a somewhat less cynical

glint in the eyes. “It would be impressive, to say the least.
Soldiers who can’t die. It would be a triumph for whoever

managed it.”
Kendo nodded silently.
“Shame about the DNA sample, though.”

“I… may be able to find a close enough carrier.”

***

It wasn’t long until the first regeneration kicked in.

And Commander Bez wanted to meet privately about it.

Kendo had hoped to thank Tor Fasa for his help, but he
seemed to have disappeared. Where and why, she couldn’t be

sure. She only hoped he was all right.

“Commander.” Kendo corrected her posture as soon as she
heard the door open. “It’s good to see you again. I’m so glad
you made time to see me.”
“Mm.” Bez’s face was calm.
“Would you like a seat?”

“No, thank you.”

“Tea?”
“I don’t think I will, no.”

Kendo’s shoulders tensed. The sheer level of calm radiating

off Bez was almost alien. She stood just inside the doorway,
head lowered, hands tucked behind her back.

“So!” Kendo forced a grin, rushing behind Bez to pull the

door closed. “Ah. The results. The regeneration. That had to
be exciting.”

“Oh. It was exciting. It was very exciting.”

Kendo pulled away.
“Tell me, Senator. Have you ever watched a man go

completely mad right before your eyes?”

“I… I’m sorry?”

Bez strode into the room, her boots clicking as she crossed
the polished floor. “There are a lot of things that can drive a
person mad in war, Senator. Losing a loved one. Losing a

limb. Watching someone get blown up right next to them. But

there’s very little that can drive someone madder than waking
up an entirely new person.” She raised her head, her
expression solemn. “I would know. And I wasn’t even on the

field at the time.”

“I… don’t understand what you’re getting at.” Kendo braced

herself on her desk. “I mean… of course that would be bad.

We accounted for that. We had a failsafe.”
“Well. Your failsafe failed, whatever it was.” Bez’s eyes had

gone cold. “I’ve watched seven of my best soldiers go

completely off the rails because of your little experiment. So
unless dearest Bill used to be a woman, then I’d say your

rejuvenation formula was a lie.”

“I… I’m sorry, Commander. I don’t know how…” Kendo
racked her brain. How? The Scar of the Ancients should have

done the trick. Then why…

“Oh, and as for that ‘new project’ you were shortlisting
Major Savalia for?” Bez lowered her hands out of the air

quotes she’d formed. “It’s off. If this is what your ideas do,
there’s no way I’m letting you get your hands on my best

officer.”
Kendo laughed. “You think I don’t care about her?”
 “No. I don’t. Frankly, I don’t think you care much for
anything but your status.”

“Oh, as if you weren’t like a little girl on her birthday when

you saw those phials.”
Commander Bez’s face contorted in anger. “You misled me,

Senator! You misled me, and you’ve ruined the lives of dozens
of good soldiers!”

“I…”
“And just in case that doesn’t register, Councillor, bear in
mind that this means some of your best soldiers have been

taken out of commission. I’m looking forward to seeing just

what you plan to do to make up for that.”
Bez left at some point after that. Kendo got the sense that

there were more words, but her mind had already unlatched
from the rest of her long before. When she heard the door
slam, she scrambled for her desk, for the phial, for the needle

full of calm.
She waited for her hearts to still, for the distorted light in
her peripheral vision to back away. And then… she thought.

***
It used to be that lying was what made the fear come. Not just
the terrible, frigid panic of being found out; the knowledge
that a lie was being told. Somehow, for some reason, it always

made her head spin and go light. On the rare occasions when
she bent the truth, even just to pretend she’d be too busy to
attend a loud party, she felt as though she was looking down
at herself, her mouth moving on its own, the words forming

without her.
When had it happened that her comfort was in lies?
She’d feared Commander Bez’s conversation with the
Council Chief – but apparently she’d decided that Kendo
should be the one to deliver that news. Her hearts dropped
when she heard the words:

“The Commander says you have some news for us.”

No one ever spoke indefinitely of “news,” not at this level of
proceedings. She felt her mind tick over, almost of its own
volition. And before she knew it, she was speaking.
“Yes. Good news and bad news.” Kendo took a breath. “The

bad news is, our initial trials with the single regenerations
have not gone as planned.”
 There were a few smiles from familiar faces. She pressed on.
“While it is obvious now that non-Academy-trained soldiers
are not psychologically fit for the process, regardless of
failsafes taken, and the rejuvenation cannot be replicated in

wastelanders…it does clear us to move forward with our other

experiment.” She glanced at the Council Chief. “I trust you
understand what I mean.”
The Chief nodded. “Has this been successful?”
“Yes, sir. I expect to receive the necessary materials today.”
“And the test subject?”

“Chief, if I may.” Zabel raised his hand. “It has come to the
attention of some council members that Councillor Kendo’s
allegiances may be… how should I say this… compromised.”
Kendo held her breath.
“You mean you believe she’s a traitor?”
“Oh, not at all, sir. I do believe she does indeed have the

good of our planet at heart, and I doubt that she would ever
knowingly do anything to impede our cause.” Zabel locked
eyes with Kendo. “It’s a rumor, that’s all. A nasty little
rumour. That she has family in the trenches… and may be
pulling strings to protect them.”
 There was a shift of fabric all around as every council

member turned to Kendo.

“That’s… ridiculous!” Kendo blurted out. She felt as offended
as she sounded, for some reason. “Even if I did, why would I
put one person’s welfare above the entirety of the planet?”
Zabel smiled. It was a sickly look. “Oh, that’s good to hear.
In that case, you won’t mind if I put in a recommendation for

any future test subjects?”

“Without knowing what the subject will be… er… subjected
to?” The Council Chief coughed.
“Sir, I don’t think it should matter.”
“That’s fair. Any recommendations?”

Kendo knew what was coming even before the words were
spoken. But she couldn’t stop them. She could only hold her
face as still as possible.
“I would recommend Major Savalia from Commander Bez’s
unit, sir. She’s shown herself to be quite capable from what I
hear.” Zabel folded his hands on the table, keeping Kendo

firmly in his peripheral vision. “And seeing as she’s shot up

the ladder so quickly – supposedly at the recommendation of
someone here, according to Commander Bez – we know she’s
skilled enough to handle whatever’s thrown at her.”
There was a murmur of agreement. Kendo swallowed.

“I trust,” Zabel went on, his eyes now squarely on her again,
“you have no problem with this?”
Kendo puffed out a breath anxiously. “W-Why are you
asking me?” She gestured to the Council Chief, praying her
hand wasn’t shaking visibly as she did so. “It should be his
decision.”

“Mm. Commander Bez did specifically ask not to have Major

Savalia taken away from her… but if it’s the will of the
Council…”
It was, as Kendo expected, the will of the Council.
Zabel’s greasy, simpering smirk never left her mind. She

stared at the little box on her desk, packed neatly and

wrapped in brown paper, and she could still imagine it. Her
hearts hammered as she waited.
No. Calm. Stay calm.
Perhaps she should take a shot of–
No. Calm. There was nothing wrong here. After all. This was

War. War was politics. And the Council had spoken.

 There was a gentle tap on the door. It creaked open.
“Councillor, I was asked to…” The Major’s voice fell short.
“… Kendo?”
Kendo stared across the room at her cousin, hearts
conflicted. Savalia looked strong and tidy and perfect in her

uniform, healthy from hard work and better food than the
lower troops likely got. For better or for worse, her speedily
elevated rank had given her more and better things than her
life before ever had. Kendo had to fight back a smile.
“You look amazing, Sav. Never thought you’d make a soldier,
but here you are.”

“I’ve been trying to get in touch with you for ages.” Savalia
stormed across the room, seemingly not interested in a
reunion just yet. She slammed her gloved fists on Kendo’s
table. “They kept turning me away everywhere. I wrote letter
after letter–”

“I got them all, I promise.”

Savalia’s face wrinkled into a bemused smile. “Then why
didn’t you answer any?? Mother’s out there with no one? She
could be dying… she could be dead!”
“I know… I know.”
 “And here you are on the Council? How did you even… you

don’t have nearly enough experience for this.”

“I guess we both got a boost, then.”
Savalia nodded. “Yeah. No. I know it was you who was
putting the good word in. I thought maybe eventually it’d be
of some use, but… now I’m told you need me for something.”
“Do we have to go straight to that?” Kendo rounded the

desk, attempting to take her cousin into a hug, but Savalia’s

body was stiff against her arms. “I… well. Oh. I mean, there’s
so much to catch up on. And with Tor Fasa who knows
where.”
“Oh. Don’t worry. We know where.”
Kendo’s eyes lit up. “You do?”

“Don’t look so happy. He has some explaining to do. As do

you.”
“I heard about the unit. I’m sorry.”
“Was that really your idea?” Savalia was fixing her with a
look that wasn’t accusatory. It was more… sad. Disappointed.

“You, of all people. In our family. Just throwing regenerations

around.”
“It was for your mother!”
 “Was it.”
Kendo scrambled for the box on her desk. “Look. Look. See?”
She began unwrapping the box, revealing the phial and
syringe. “The people who made the single regenerations. They

were working on a cure for her.”

“And… that’s it there?”
“Well, it’s…” Kendo expected to feel the same strange out of
body experience she always felt when the truth was about to
get a workout. But her mind stayed calm somehow. “It’s a

work in progress. We’re testing it first.”

Savalia met Kendo’s eyes. “You didn’t call me up here to tell
me Mother’s cure is in the planning stages. I know you. You
wouldn’t give me any good news unless it was certain. You’d
be too afraid of letting me down.”
“Ah…”

“This is the new experiment. Whatever it was. That you took

my blood for.”
“We needed it, Sav. We need it.”
Savalia didn’t speak.
“Look, it’s… this could cure your mother, all right? There

was potential for you to be a carrier, too. All they needed was
that genetic information. This loops you within one
regeneration. Die all you want, you pop back up. The same as
ever.”
“Kendo, that’s… immortality. In a needle. That’s not all
right.”
“But it’s for you! For your mother!”

“All I wanted was a way to look after her! All right?” Tears
were welling up in Savalia’s eyes. “That’s all. Not some miracle
drug. Why would I even want the War Council to have their
hands on some sort of…?”
Savalia’s face went slack with realisation.

“No.”
“Sav, look.”
“No. You are not shooting me up with that. Absolutely not.”
“Sav, it wasn’t my choice!”
“You could have said no!”
Kendo waved her hands in frustration. “And have the

Council find out I’m a massive screaming nepotist? I’d lose

everything!”
“Oh, you’d lose everything.” Savalia barked out a laugh.
“You don’t understand! I’m making a difference!”
 “I’ll say.” Savalia gestured to… something. The outside world
in general. “Dozens of soldiers a nervous wreck, and now

you’re going make me some sort of immortal monster, all so

you can keep a seat you probably didn’t even earn in the first
place.”
Kendo squinted her eyes shut. “Sav.”
“What happened to you, Kendo?”
“Sav…”

“I’m not going to play a part in this.”

“Major Savalia… if you don’t cooperate quietly, I’ll have to
call in a guard.” At Kendo’s words, a Citadel guard appeared
by the door. Savalia looked at him in quiet shock for a
moment.

“I wish I could say I don’t believe this. But you know…” She
shook her head. “It’s… it’s typical Time Lords, isn’t it? Once
you can regenerate, life is just so cheap to you.”
Kendo flinched internally at the jab. She opened her mouth
to retort. But before any words came out, her ears were
flooded with the sounds of sirens.

“What the…” She looked up at the guard. “You, take her to a

cell. Two guards on the door. Whatever she says, don’t listen
to her. You understand? I need her in one place until I’m
ready to deal with her.”
“Kendo…” Savalia’s tone had fallen from bitter to wounded.
She didn’t even fight back as the guard grabbed her by the

elbow; her eyes were huge and confused, fixed on Kendo as

she was walked out of the room.
Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it. Not now. You can
work it out once this mess is handled. She’ll be there, and you
can…
What? Apologise? Backpedal? This was war. This was war,

and judging by the noise, it was becoming even more war. She
jogged out of her office, her robes flapping around her,
somehow managing not to trip herself.
By the time she’d arrived at the steps of the Citadel, the
initial panic seemed to have calmed down. But only just.

The stairs were packed with guards. And at the foot of the
stairs… people. As far as she could see. And they were armed.
 Part III

Tor Fasa’s War

Dealing with the Percusians

Tor Fasa’s TARDIS had seen more action that he would ever

care to admit. Although he’d chosen to stay on Gallifrey when

the Doctor had invited him to run away with him all those
years ago, he shared his renegade friend’s belief that the Time

Lords’ policy of non-intervention was a sham. It wasn’t that

they stood back from the affairs of others on principle.
Members of the upper echelons of Time Lord society could be
as manipulative as the best of them, using Matrix technology

as a surveillance and control tool, and turning a blind eye on

renegades as long as they could be given the occasional covert

orders. It was only unauthorised interference that was

criminalised. In Fasa’s mind, the free-wheeling Doctor was, in

that respect, even more of a puppet to the High Council than

he himself was.
  The Doctor viewed Fasa as a coward and a Time Lordist

for deciding that the best way to reform Gallifrey was to play
the long game and slowly influence the powers that be. But

when the typically impulsive Doctor had turned up in the

academic’s bedroom with a stolen TARDIS, the overly

cautious Tor Fasa had insisted that though their conspiracy

theories were probably right, it was the height of recklessness

to act on the basis of a hunch. He made a promise to the

Doctor that if his plans for reform proved futile, then he

would retire off world and expose the truth.

For the last 900 years, when he wasn’t lecturing in the

Academy, Fasa was working on three secret missions: forming

partnerships with other races and trading technology and

information to make both Gallifrey and the universe a better

place, sowing his radically egalitarian philosophy in the minds

of susceptible students under the cover of the Way of Life

cult, and using his TARDIS to conduct evidence-gathering

expeditions.

Time had been running out for Tor Fasa. His softly softly

approach had provided few breakthroughs; and now that his

final incarnation was imminent, he was backtracking on his

promise and looking for somebody else to take his baton of

peaceful and ineffective reform. The Doctor had laughed at

Fasa’s suggestion that he ought to return to Gallifrey to

continue his legacy. Armed with a damning dossier against

the High Council, Fasa was taking the coward’s route again –

retiring off world and planning to use his information only if

his chosen successor failed.

But Fasa could always rely on the Doctor’s kindness. Even

though his old friend profoundly disagreed with his approach,

he agreed to find him a suitable successor. That the Doctor’s

choice was a young and rebellious Gallifreyan, an outspoken

fan of his, who six years previous had been thrown out of the

Academy shouldn’t have surprised him. Though pretty certain

that Mordicai’s cooperation was largely because of his

attraction to the outlier, Savalia, Fasa had grown to like the

lad as he groomed him through the Way of Life cult.

And then the War began and everything changed. Could he

really trust the headstrong Mordicai to take up the reins? Of

course not, and so retirement was no longer an option. Fasa

needed to stay on Gallifrey and do his utmost to prevent the

War from escalating.

He watched on regretfully as Mordicai sealed his black

obelisk-shaped TARDIS inside the decommission chamber.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” said Mordicai, joining

Fasa at the control hub.

 “Decommissioned or redeployed. There really is no choice.

For once I’m in full agreement with the War Council,” Fasa

replied.

“I don’t get it, though. It seems such a waste.”

“Any TARDIS still on Gallifrey presents a strategic risk. It’s a

potential time bomb, Mordicai. If one goes up in flames, then

Gallifrey itself will be no more.”

“I doubt the Doctor would approve.”

The throwaway line sparked an uncharacteristically angry

response in Fasa.
“Well he’s not here to make the call, is he?”
“Last chance to change your mind. What’s to stop you from

leaving Gallifrey now, old man?”

“I don’t think you realise just what’s at stake here, Mordicai.

The last time Gallifrey was invaded it quickly escalated into a

devastating Time War. I doubt our people will have learnt
from our mistakes. I have to stay and help to negotiate

peace.”
“Negotiate? With the Daleks? Good luck with that one.”

“The Daleks can’t possibly win this war alone. Even they
need allies. We just have to identify the weakest link.”
 “Well, you better be quick. I’ve heard the council is shipping
in Zechos to train the chancellery guard in the art of war.”

“Relax. Kendo is in place.”

Fasa hardly sounded convinced, but in the general scheme
of things the use of thuggish races to militarise the Time

Lords was the least concerning aspect of the War Council’s

response. He had been instrumental in setting up the Omega

Arsenal and there was already talk of an emergency act to

mine the catacombs for suitable weapons, all in the name of

defence. With Kendo on the War Council, hopefully such

excesses would be curtailed.
As Mordicai’s hand hovered over the switch that would

immobilise Fasa’s TARDIS’s transdimensional field and

effectively destroy everything inside, Fasa could see that he

had his own reasons for not wanting to decommission her.

“You seem to be more conflicted about this than I am,

Mordicai.”
“This is the last one, unless you count the dummy training
model. So unless I qualify for the fast-track accreditation

program, I’ll be out of a job after today.”

 “Trust me, Mordicai. You wouldn’t want to be a Time Lord –
not in war. And you certainly wouldn’t want to be a TARDIS.

I’d rather she was decommissioned than reengineered into a

battleship or a Dalek prison camp. Goodbye, my old friend.”

Mordicai released the switch and the pair held their ears as
the contents of the TARDIS imploded.
And with that, the last fully functioning TARDIS on Gallifrey

was laid to rest.

***

In Tor Fasa’s mind Gallifrey was broken long before the first

shots had been fired in anger to trigger the start of the third
great Time War. Even within its prosperous cities, Gallifrey

was a society divided by function-based classes. Most of its

citizens aspired for their children to join one of the academies

and become Time Lords. Those that didn’t make the grade
either signed up to the so-called military or were employed in
a service industry. They were still made to feel like they

belonged, and in order to keep the peace, regeneration was

presented as a curse as much as a blessing. Longevity was
the only obvious benefit of becoming a Time Lord once
TARDIS travel had become more of a theory than a reality.

The Army of Gallifrey was a collective term for what were

effectively police forces such as the Citadel’s chancellery

guard. They were experts in dealing with domestic disputes

and maintaining all manner of antiquated laws, but Fasa
doubted they’d be anywhere near ready to be a real military
power, even with the help of the Zechos.

But the outliers, those who like Savalia and her mother lived

in the wastelands beyond the officially recognised farming

territories, were outside the class system altogether. Some of

the city folk romanticised them, others demonised them, but

all were agreed that their existence was important in helping

them to maintain their own borders and sense of superiority.

This attitude was for Tor Fasa a sign of how insular Time Lord

society had become. If they couldn’t even entertain a mutual

sharing of gifts with others on the planet, then no wonder

they’d cut themselves off from the universe in a god-like

bubble. Watching, seeing all, occasionally intervening, but

never learning or allowing themselves to be influenced by the

stranger, it might have looked like the opposite of the Dalek

drive for universal domination, but it was just as xenophobic.

Tor Fasa had tried to make inroads into disrupting this

mentality, under the guise of his Way of Life cult. He worked

as cautiously as possible for fear that outright rebellion would

be stamped out violently. After exposing his student recruits

to the truth with illicit trips into the Wastelands, he would

ensure that only trace memories were left in the hope that

once they had taken up their positions in society they would

gradually and unconsciously effect change. With the

intoxicating and corrupting effects of power, it was hard to see

how Gallifrey could ever be truly reformed.

The War could have been an opportunity for the inhabitants

of Gallifrey to come together in the face of a common threat,

but no, already it was clear to Tor Fasa that the conflict was

accentuating the social and cultural divisions. The villagers

would be used as collateral damage, as decoys, their

territories earmarked as experimental grounds for combating

the invading forces. Instead of pooling resources and

personnel, the Time Lords would steal from the outliers,

leaving them even more vulnerable than ever.

 Fasa was worried that unless the War Council reached out
to their off-world neighbours, then the rest of the universe

would become collateral in their war with the Daleks. The

Way of Life cult wasn’t dead, but it needed to be reformed as a

Peace Council instead of a cover for his re-education

movement. The biggest difference now was that, as they were

conscientious objectors, he no longer had to keep the cult’s

real intentions secret. They were tolerated by the War

Council, allowed a degree of autonomy as long as they didn’t

proselytise. Fasa was also reliant on Kendo’s influence in the

War Council, ensuring that they turned a blind eye to his

diplomatic efforts.

It gave Fasa a renewed sense of confidence, despite the vocal

opposition from the rent-a-crowd of angry protesters outside

the academy museum which housed his offices. Kendo had

allocated a few members of the chancellery guard to maintain

the peace, but even so, this latest development in the talks

required stealth. Fasa’s special guests had needed to be

personally escorted into the museum hall, under the cover of

the ceremonial robes of the fake cult. If their identities were

exposed, they were likely to have been lynched.

 As Fasa opened the meeting, he knew that it would be a

challenge for even some of his council members.

“Thank you for meeting at such short notice,” he said,

immediately getting down to business. “You will have noticed

that we have two new members in our midst. I would like you

to welcome them as fellow brothers against arms. Do not be

alarmed.”

It was clear to all that they had every reason to be alarmed.

As the visitors stood up, Tor Fasa was scratching his scar. He
only ever did that when he was nervous.

The new delegates lowered their cowls, provoking audible

gasps from the assembly. One member choked violently on

his water, while another, unable to help herself, shouted out,

“You have got to be kidding me.”

The grey complexion, tied-back long hair, and branded

necks decorated with distinctive cinderflower tattoos made

their identity clear.

“Percusians? Are you out of your mind, Fasa?” said Toban,

the most senior member of the committee. “I was expecting

outliers, but off-worlders… and scum like these?”

 “Toban. Hear them out, hear them out,” said Fasa, the
redness from his scar now spreading in blotches across his

face. “I can assure you they are unarmed.”

“They don’t need to be armed to be dangerous. If there’s a

Percusian about, you can bet your life there are at least two

Daleks waiting around the corner,” shouted Toban getting up

to leave.

“Activate maximum security level,” said Fasa.

Before Toban could escape, the door had dematerialised.

“I’m afraid I can’t let you do that,” Fasa continued. “The only

way out is to negotiate. That is after all why you are all here.”
“How in Gallifrey’s name did you get them here?” said Rosa,

who was usually the most open-minded member of the Peace

Council. If even she was suspicious, then Fasa knew he was

going to have a hard time convincing them.

“Their ship is docked in the wastelands. I brought them here

through the abandoned tunnel that connects the Citadel to

Arcadia and all stops in between. An old trade route. Evidence

of a time when the wastelands weren’t off go areas.”

Without warning, the Percusians drew weapons from their

Monks’ habits: Percusian triple-bladed tabards and assault

rifles.

“That wasn’t part of the agreement; you were supposed to

come unarmed,” said Fasa, panicking now.

“This ought to be all the proof you need that we come alone,”

said the first Percusian, dropping his weapons onto the

conference table. “If we had Daleks in tow we wouldn’t be

needing these.”

The second Percusian was a little less reluctant to lay aside

his arms, throwing them down only after deliberately aiming

his rifle at Toban.

“Come on, Milo, play nice. Greetings from Percusia. I am

Commissioner Mandre.”

Even the Percusian ambassador was having trouble

disguising his contempt for the Time Lords. Nobody on

Percusia knew exactly why they despised the sentient race so

much; it was as if a revulsion towards the Time Lords had

been wired into their genetic makeup.

That antipathy and the fact that Percusia was at the far

edge of the constellation of Kasterborous made them a

strategic ally for the Daleks. Indeed it was the Percusians who
launched the first pre-emptive strike on Gallifrey. It was little
more than a gesture to demonstrate to the Daleks that they
had the capability to breach Gallifrey’s notorious defences,

but the missiles carried a verbal message that echoed right

across the planet: “The Daleks are the Masters of

Kasterborous.”
Given the origins of the attack, the Time Lords were in no

doubt that this was a threat. Fasa chose instead to see it as a

warning and opened up communications with Percusia.

Caught between a rock and a hard place with their world

likely to be wiped out in the crossfire, surely they hadn’t sided

with the Daleks on principle. Fearing that even the most

sympathetic members of the Peace Council would deem this a

step too far, he’d kept this one part of his negotiating hand

private. He ought to have anticipated the backlash.

“Who else have you been talking to behind our backs? Dalek
central command?” sneered Toban.

“Calm down. Calm down. If we can get the Percusians on

side, then given that they have an open channel to the
Daleks, they could be our only way in. Tell them,” urged Fasa.

Mandre’s eyes darted disconcertingly around the room at

the sea of accusing faces.
 “Put yourselves in our shoes. We are a humble people, our
planet small and low in resources. You as our closest

neighbours have ignored us. Left us to face the devastating

winters, the time winds that still rage from the experiments of

your distant ancestors. Ancient history to you, but part of our

daily struggle. For all my lifetime we have lived in fear that the
ancient beast who ravaged our world will return from his lair

to feast again. We believe that only our poverty keeps it at

bay. The Daleks offered us a way to end that captivity. In
exchange for our help, they have promised to trap the Time

Devil inside his lair.”

“You’re crazy if you think the Daleks would let you live. A
Dalek empire has only room for their own kind,” said Toban.

“It’s not strictly true, Mandre, though, is it?” added Fasa,

completely throwing Toban and the others.
The Percusian quickly reached for his gun, fearful now that

he’d been set up.

“I mean about Gallifrey not helping your cause,” Fasa
explained.

“Yea… yea, we’ve all seen your scavenging raids in the

distance,” agreed Toban. It wasn’t exactly the line he was
hoping for, but it was a start. “You’re more than looked after

with the stolen produce of our planet. We only turn a blind

eye because, cowards that you are, you confine your activities
to the wastelands.”

“Oh, Toban, don’t be so naïve. Haven’t you ever wondered

why they’re never raided the cities or even the authorised

farms?” replied Fasa, putting a conciliatory arm around the

commissioner. “The Percusians have been receiving aid from
the outliers for centuries. Mostly the charity drops that the

city do-gooders have been offloading. Readymade aid

packages. Items that the outliers don’t need because, contrary
to what we’ve all been brought up to believe, they do very well

from themselves. A wasteland indeed. It’s the outliers that

made me realise that the Dalek message was meant as a
warning, not a threat. They warned us through the outliers at

first, but we dismissed them out of hand. The Percusians hate

Time Lords. Not Gallifrey… and certainly not the outliers.
They are torn in the middle. What if they had said no to the

Daleks?”
Tor Fasa knew he was taking a big risk disclosing his
activities in the wastelands, but his captive audience had
little choice but to hear him out.
“So what exactly are you proposing?” said Rosa. “That we
fight some mythical creature? The Matrix has no records of a

Time Devil having ever existed on Percusia.”

“Nor is there any evidence of the Toclafane or the Hybrid.
But I’ve never heard you dismiss them as fictions,” said Fasa.

“If we are to trust you we need a sign. Proof that the Time
Lords will not take up arms against us. Even if it means
letting the Daleks have their way for now,” said Mandre.

“For now?” said Toban with incredulity etched all over his
face. “Let the Daleks in and there’s no going back.”

“Isn’t it a little late to be saying that?” said Fasa.

“Destroy our world in retaliation against the Daleks, and the
Time Devil will be released. Daleks, Time Lords – none of you

would stand a chance,” Mandre asserted. “We will return in

thirty sunsfalls. A gesture of peaceful resistance is all that will
be needed to earn our consent. Then and only then do you

have our permission to investigate Percusia, and learn how

our planet and the beast below could silence the Daleks.”
“I though you wanted the creature dead.”
 “Some of us are concerned that an attack against the lair
will release instead of trap the devil. It’s your choice. Help us,

and Gallifrey could be saved; ignore us, and your planet will
be destroyed.”

***

It had gone far better than expected. The Peace Council and

the Percusian delegates had reluctantly agreed to Fasa’s

desperate plan though each party was clearly unsure about
the other’s credentials. Both were splinter groups with no

official backing, and their operation could easily be scuppered

by the actions of their respective superiors. But mistrust and

doubt notwithstanding, they were united by their respective

fears: the Percusians’ fear of the Time Devil and the
Gallifreyan Peace Council’s fear of the escalation of war

through the use of the banned weaponry in the Omega

Arsenal. Fasa knew that, with no small irony, the armoury –
the place the Peace Council feared the most – could offer the

most persuasive gesture of peace.

 Toban was the only potential loose cannon in the group, but

Fasa was hopeful that the more supportive Rosa would be

able to keep him on side. Toban’s criminal background was
absolutely essential and worth the undisguised disrespect

and lack of subtlety. Fasa suspected it was the challenge of

breaking into the Omega Arsenal that had turned him around
to the plan, more than a genuine commitment to the cause,

but principle and pragmatism were necessary, if uneasy,

bedfellows in the pursuit of peace.
Having put Toban and Rosa in charge of the heist, there was

little more that Fasa could do other than wait at this stage. It
wasn’t that he lacked the skills to break into the secure arms
unit – in his younger days Fasa had become quite adept at

getting into places he wasn’t allowed – it was the fact that he

lacked the courage to steal from them. He would regularly

break into the Archive of Heresies to conduct research for

what would probably become his own entry into the secret
library. He would take copious notes and scan pages upon

pages of illegal books and pamphlets, nervously and illogically

looking over his shoulder in case he’d be seen.
 The collection was stored in a spatial reflector vault under

the Tempered Sea. Its only visitors journeyed there on

servicing days to add to its records and to perform cleaning

and other maintenance duties. For the rest of the year, even a
TARDIS was unable to access the vault due to the spatial
reflector wall, which meant that anything or anyone who

crossed its threshold instantly found themselves leaving the

building. By faking an ancient heretical history book, Fasa
ingratiated himself with the custodian who happened to be

the one responsible for disabling the vault’s defences on

servicing days. Fortunately, it was a lot easier to break into
his office and take structural photographs of the anti-locking

mechanism in order to print out a clone device.

For over a century Fasa had been uploading all the primary
and secondary data he’d amassed from his research onto the

Altrix – a heavily encoded personal database he’d created for

himself. It was the voice of the inaccessible Shadow Matrix, a
subset of the Time Lord virtual time and space repository in

which unpalatable events had been quarantined as if they

were computer viruses.
 After the other Peace Council delegates left, Commissioner
Mandre and his deputy Milo remained behind.
“Before we return to Percusia, I have something that might

be of assistance in your research,” said Mandre, handing Fasa

a first-generation Gallifreyan data disc.
“Where did you get this? I haven’t seen one of these for

years.”
“It was found in an archaeological dig close to the Time

Devil’s lair. We recognised the symbols as Gallifreyan, but

have been unable to open it.”
“This could be priceless evidence that our races may have

once stood side by side,” said Fasa, eager to read the

contents.
“Or that the Time Lords once plundered our world and

handed us over to the Time Devil. According to our legends,

the creature is one of your people’s pets or experiments,” said
Milo.

Fasa grunted absently to signal whatever response the

unheard Percusian words were meant to engender.
“It looks remarkably well preserved, so with any luck I

should be able to upload it onto the Altrix,” he said,

rummaging through a pile of leads and adapters in his PDA
bag.

The data was still in the process of being decrypted when,

without warning, Mandre and Milo became edgy.
“Something’s coming,” said Milo. “The air… it’s changing.”

Seconds later the room was filled with the accompanying

winds and sounds of a materialising TARDIS.
“But that’s impossible…” said Fasa.

“A trap?” suggested Mandre pointing his rifle at the

academic.

“This isn’t my doing – you better hide, oh, and take this too
– quickly. I’ll deal with whoever it is.”
Milo grabbed Fasa’s PDA, and the two Percusians

scampered under the conference table.

Fasa breathed a sigh of relief as the TARDIS materialised,
morphing in and out of a familiar blue box shape before

settling on its uncloaked form.

“It’s ok, you can come out now,” he said. The Doctor had
been notable for his absence, but finally he was here, thought

Fasa, the one Time Lord with sufficient connections to provide

some much-needed insight into recent events.
 ***

Although they had parted on sour terms when the Doctor first

stole the TARDIS, every now and again the Doctor would
check in on his old friend. The renegade kept a diary of his
adventures in time and space, which to Fasa seemed very out

of character. His friend wasn’t one to reflect too much on the

events he had witnessed, preferring instead to step into the
unknown. Fasa decided that the sole purpose of the diary

must have been for his benefit, and it soon became the most
cited source in his alternative Altrix history. The Doctor would

turn up with a teapot and some finest English tea, eager to

hear the latest Gallifreyan gossip, while Fasa would scan the
latest pages of the Doctor’s diary into the Altrix.

After arranging for Mordicai to be Tor Fasa’s successor, the

Doctor had checked in on the academic one more time – on
what turned out to be the eve of war.

“How’s the young lad getting on?” the Doctor said, sipping
his tea.
 “Six months, Doctor. It was only six months ago and your
diary has doubled in size. You know what that means, don’t
you?”

“Well, I’m sure you’re going to delight in telling me.”

“This face of yours is wearing a little thin. It’s the usual mad
flurry of activity before you regenerate.”

“Maybe. But the distress calls have reached epidemic

proportions of late. Something big is in the air, I shouldn’t
wonder.”

“No more Daleks, though. How disappointing for you.”

“The silence and inactivity is a concern. So young
Mordicai… do you think he’s up to the job once you’ve popped

off? And incidentally, where are you planning to retire to,

anyway? I hope you’ve not been using my diary as a home-
finder.”

“Percusia would be ideal. It’s on the doorstep but sufficiently

off the radar, but even you’ve not been able to go there. So

Karn it is.”
“Goodness me – what a place to die!”
Fasa handed the Doctor’s diary back to him and joined him

for tea.
 “This Mordicai, he’s a bit rough around the edges, petulant
and prone to acts of lunacy…”
“That’s my boy...”

“But he’ll do. His love of the outsider is stronger than most.”
“He’s good at the day job, though, eh?”

“He knows his way around a TARDIS for sure, but he lets
his imagination get the better of him. Always suggesting
upgrades and constantly tinkering. Chancellor Goral was not

amused when his faulty Time Rotor was pimped after a

routine service. It wasn’t supposed to moan about the
weather and hover around the console room like a headless

Gallimite. It even reached the attention of President Romana,

but fortunately she took a shine to the lad – reminded her of
an old badge-wearing acquaintance of yours.”

The Doctor appeared to be delighted by the boy’s nerve.

“Goral the weather watcher? How apt.”
I wouldn’t be so amused if I were you – you don’t want to

know what he did to that sonic screwdriver of yours.”

***
Tor Fasa waited expectantly for his old friend the Doctor to
step out of the TARDIS.

And then his jaw dropped as a distinctive Omega Junior

Engineers pin badge glistened in the light, giving the emerging
traveller an angelic look.

It really didn’t suit the boy.

“Fasa. It’s been a while. Pleased to see me?” The

introduction might have been deliberately understated, but in

its bitter tone, Fasa could feel the full force of a rejected Time
Lord who had been discarded by his mentor and friend. This

was a meeting he’d been dreading ever since Mordicai had

failed to make the fast-track program.
“Mordicai? Where’s the Doctor?”

“Where indeed,” said Mordicai almost spitting out the words.

“What’s going on here, Fasa?” he added nodding towards
Mandre and Milo. “And don’t you dare start lecturing about

the price of peace. He looks the spitting image of the one who
announced war against our people.”
“If it was, he was a voice from the future and the message

was lost in translation. It was a statement of fact, a warning,

not a statement of intent. These are our friends, Mordicai; I
thought you knew better than to judge a man by his place of

birth. Write the Percusians off at your peril. Now tell me, what
brings the Doctor here, and why in Gallifrey’s name are you
travelling with him? You were assigned to be General Hex’s

fixit man.”
“Yeah. I know. Thanks for that. I mean really, thanks. I
thought we were supposed to be friends. A word, that’s all it
needed to get me onto the fast-track program. But oh, no, you

wanted me to fail again.”

“Mordicai, now is not the–”
“Oh, I think it’s the perfect time to bring you to your senses.
This has gone far enough. Wake up to the reality around you.
People are dying in battle, their limbs are getting blown off on
the training fields. Civilians – outliers, children as young as

ten expected to think and act like soldiers, and you’re sitting
comfortably in your castle trying to smooth talk the enemy?”
“As bad as that? Already?”
“Yes. Much worse. You want to see the Doctor. Be my guest.
It’s time your eyes were opened, too.”

Mordicai gestured Tor Fasa towards the TARDIS.

 The Percusians were already preparing to leave when Fasa
turned to them.
“Wait… the deal’s still on, yes?”
“We can’t condone any atrocities committed in the name of

your species. The outliers must be protected. Go with him

and see to it that they are not being used as collateral in your
war with the Daleks. We will return at the agreed time and
place for the handover and then we will see if you are ready.
In the meantime, we will appeal to our leaders and you must
do the same,” said Mandre.

“I’m working on it. I have an insider on the War Council. My

PDA… has the upload finished?”
Mandre handed the device back to Tor Fasa.
“Looks like the data was unrecoverable,” he said awkwardly.
“Ah, shame. This could have made all the difference,” replied
Fasa, locking the device and the data disc inside a

dimensionally reinforced filing cabinet already filled with

documents and artefacts related to his latest research
projects.
“Come on, old man,” said Mordicai impatiently, bundling
Fasa into the TARDIS. “I hope he knows what he’s doing, I
really do,” he added pointedly at the Percusian.

“I don’t understand,” said Milo as the TARDIS

dematerialised. “Under the table… the screen indicated the
upload was successful. Didn’t you read its contents?”
“Of course, but it’s imperative that the old man doesn’t
suspect we’ve discovered the truth. But he’s right. That data
disc does make all the difference. But you’re not going to like

it one bit when I tell you what the Time Lords have been
hiding from us all this time.”

***

For a race with the technology to travel across all of time and
space, it might have seemed surprising that even the more
adventurous of Time Lords had explored less than 5% of their
planet’s surface. The mountain regions were simply too
treacherous to negotiate and the vast Wastelands were no-go
areas. Even the air was considered defiled by some city-

dwellers, with the glass domes more a symbol of separation

than a functional necessity. Not everyone preferred the city
life, however, and the officially recognised farmlands and
villages were popular alternatives for those who valued the
diverse wildlife and stunning landscapes that Gallifrey
offered. Divided not by territories, the tribalism of Gallifrey

was based on function, class, religion and the academies. The

overwhelming majority of Time Lords stayed in the cities, but
it wasn’t unheard of for a Time Lord to choose the way of the
hermit in the mountains or the farmer in the fields.
Of all the off-limits regions on Gallifrey there was only one
place that every single resident, including the outliers, feared

above all else: The Death Zone. Until the Time War began, the
500 square mile stretch of land and sea had been locked in
time. No one could stray into the area accidentally and
nothing could get out of it: including its historical secrets.
But as unaccustomed to war as they were, the Time Lords

needed a suitable training area to prepare the troops.

One of the first decisions the War Council made was to
reopen the Death Zone as a training facility. The official line
for non-Time Lords was that the zone was once the site of a
territorial war between the outliers and Gallifreyans. The
outliers had apparently been slaughtering Gallifreyans with

the help of various alien races who all had a vested interest in
bringing down the Time Lords. At its centre was the original
Citadel and the Palace of Rassilon. The current capitol was
modelled on the original, after the enemies of the Time Lords
had been trapped inside the time locked original.
Academy students in their final year were taught the ‘higher

truth’ that the Death Zone represented a dark time in

Gallifreyan history where, due to boredom and mistaken
notions of heroism, the whole place had been set up as a
‘survival of the fittest’ game. The alien creatures had been
deliberately dropped into the Zone by the Time Lords to be
adversaries to both willing subjects and those required to do

penance. There had been no war – the official history was a

useful myth to preserve the social divisions on the planet.
Only accredited Time Lords could be trusted with this
version of the truth. But apparently it was all ok, because
Borusa put an end to the games and the place was sealed off.

It was heralded as a victory of progress over primitive and

magical superstitions. Super warriors couldn’t be made by a
series of physical tests, instead they had to be manufactured
by scientific advances in gene therapy. It was this revelation
as a student that was to be the springboard to Tor Fasa’s
search for the truth. Both stories were far too convenient, and

how could anybody be sure that one was true over the other?
Various parts of the Death Zone were now a hive of activity;
a new kind of game had begun. Native five-horned
wilderbeasts on the plains, Yetis in the caves, Raston warrior
robots in the mountains and zombie eagles in the skies all
stood in for the Daleks as various attachments of trainee

soldiers were deployed to wipe them out. At the very basic

level it was all intended to get the green soldiers accustomed
to killing, but it also helped in teaching military strategy and
acumen, particularly when it came to the more challenging
foes deeper into the zone.
General Hex was supervising the exercises. His current

charge were the new recruits who had been assigned to hunt
the easiest prey – the five-horned wilderbeast. Using advanced
perception filtering techniques, the soldiers would see the
familiar shape of a Dalek instead of the beast, which made for
some comical scenes such as Daleks feeding from the pools or

even engaging in mating rituals. Only after one had been shot
dead would the illusion be broken.
 Hex watched over the plains from his viewing platform. He
liked it up there as it provided rare moments to be alone. It
was a short-lived blessing as the circular lift clicked into place
beside him. He raised his eyebrows and didn’t bother to turn

around. It was bound to be Solake the Zecho.

“General Hex. The next battalion are ready and assembled.
Is the 517th Battalion ready to advance?”
Hex wiped his clothes and looked disdainfully at the stubby
lizard. Its forked spindly nostril tongues were flapping wildly

sending showers of mucus his way. This most distinctive

feature of a Zecho was an accident of evolution. It became
impractical for nature to keep the dual functioning extendable
taste organs and serum gatherers in close proximity to the
creature’s razor-sharp teeth. The more excitable the Zecho,
the viler its manners, observed Hex, and nothing seemed to

please them more than the thought of fresh meat being put to
the test.
“We’re pushing them through too quickly. We’ve already lost
enough at the Raston warrior stage. You were hired to get
them up to scratch, not to be gloating spectators in a blood

bath.”
 “Better to discover who your best fighters are out here than
on the real battlefield. A few deaths along the way are
inevitable.”
“The Raston warrior robot is a far tougher opponent than
the Daleks. It’s like dressing up a lion as a lamb.”
“It’s a necessary test of reactions, guile and stealth. You will

need them all to defeat the Daleks. Never assume to know

your enemy – you have no idea what modifications they are
working on. Our brief was to prepare you to face the ultimate
killing machine.”
Hex was tired of the rhetoric of the Zecho. The alien species

may have been especially selected by the War Council on

account of their famous victory over the Daleks. But in reality
it was hardy a full-on assault; more like a scouting mission –
probably a suicide one, knowing how expendable the Daleks
treated their own. The Zecho had been keen to big up his
credentials at every opportunity.

“The Zecho’s right, Hex.”

Suddenly Hex stood to attention. It was councillor Kendo
speaking on the short range holocom device. She turned to
the Zecho.
 “Excuse the General’s rudeness. He’s just a bit put out that
we’re recruiting outliers. But Hex is right on one matter. The

Raston robot is a step too far. Let’s skip that stage, eh? We’re
not looking for perfection here. It’s a fine balance between
quantity and quality. We need as many fit and able fighters as
possible.”

***

“It must be the Doctor’s TARDIS. The others have all been
accounted for. You do realise that you’re putting all our lives
in danger. Even the Doctor wouldn’t be this foolhardy.”
Mordicai was delighted that he’d managed to fool Tor Fasa.

It was the ultimate compliment of his engineering skills. But

mention of the Doctor rather spoilt the moment.
“Did you know?” he asked.
Fasa was nonplussed.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you are talking about.”
“Did you know that the Doctor was back on Gallifrey?”

“So it is his,” said Fasa, stroking the console unit. “The old
girl’s barely recognisable. He has so much faith in you, young
Mordicai… sees a little bit of himself inside you, I shouldn’t
wonder, but letting you fly his TARDIS? Now that is an
extraordinary honour.”
Fasa was expecting Mordicai to be filled with a mix of pride

and jubilation. The boy had no idea just how highly his hero
rated him. Instead Mordicai looked devastated.
“Has something happened to the Doctor?”
“I am nothing like him,” Mordicai asserted.
“A touch of humility? I guess the war does have its uses,
after all.”

Mordicai landed the TARDIS and turned on the scanner.

Fasa recognised the barren, fog-laden landscape
immediately.
It had been such a long time ago, but the deathly place was
etched on Fasa’s memory. He’d only ventured there once as a

boy, when he was as young as Mordicai, but he’d been

revisiting the wilderness ever since in his recurrent
nightmares, re-enacting the moment that he discovered the
Time Lords had been lying to everyone.
His scar seemed to remember it, too, calling louder than
ever to be scratched.
 Mordicai sensed Fasa’s fear. He was good at reading people;

it was knowing how to respond that tended to let him down,

as his hopeless attempts at wooing Savalia with poetry clearly
demonstrated.
He wanted to dive in with the obvious question – was this
the place where Fasa got his scar? Right now, however, the

answer didn’t matter and Mordicai thought better of probing

Fasa. It would be hard enough getting the old man on side.
“The Death Zone has been reactivated?” said Fasa. “Of all
the…”
Mordicai homed in on a band of fighters being issued with
Zechonian weapons.

“If it’s peace and justice you want, surely this is where you
need to be, not negotiating with aliens. We have to put a stop
to this.”
“Much as it pains me to say it, Mordicai, if the War Council
is insisting on fighting, then at least these foreign weapons

might save lives.”

“Look again, Fasa. It’s not the Zechos that are the problem.”
Mordicai zoomed in further to focus on the soldiers –
panning down to their footwear. The distinctive Shardon
Beast leather sandals looked quite out of place with the
standard Time Lord armour they were otherwise wearing.
“Outliers,” said Fasa gravely.

“Can you believe it? They are training outliers, not as

backups but to be used as the first line of defence, no doubt.
The forgotten are being turned into the expendables.”
“Kendo. What are you playing at?” muttered Fasa.
“Why don’t you ask her that yourself?” said Mordicai. “She’s

down the hill, in the first hut on the left. All you have to do is
get her away from her council cronies.”
“You’ve landed the Doctor’s TARDIS in the middle of the
training encampment? Even the Doctor wouldn’t be that
reckless. Leave me here, and return the TARDIS to him at
once.”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Mordicai.

On the TARDIS scanner, Mordicai pointed out three
approaching members of the War Council.
To Tor Fasa’s astonishment, they walked straight past the
TARDIS without so much as a second glance.

“The Doctor. He’s up to his neck in this,” Mordicai

explained. “Talk to Kendo. There’s no way she’d listen to me.
You’ve got to get her to stop this madness.”
“But what will you do? You can’t get away with stealing a
TARDIS, especially his. All TARDIS activity is strictly
monitored, any unauthorised journeys will be dealt with by
remote decommissioning. If the Daleks don’t blow you out of

the vortex, then the Time Lords will trap you inside it forever.”
“I wouldn’t be the first TARDIS thief, would I? Anyway, I’ve
no intention of leaving Gallifrey Present. I’ve going to design
my own weapons based on the Doctor’s sonic screwdriver.
Non-lethal, all of them, and all in the name of self-defence. I’m

going to sort out this mess. I’m going to travel the villages, tell
people to run, to hide, and give them the chance to save
themselves without being co-opted into the war. I’m the
Engineer now.”
He took off his engineer’s badge and handed it to Tor Fasa.
“I might not have been good enough to become a Time Lord

or to serve as your apprentice, but I’ve a higher calling now.

And I don’t know, I’d just… I’d really appreciate your blessing.
I need to know that we’re still on the same side.”
Mordicai was rarely one to share his emotions, but as the
tears welled up in the lad, Fasa realised that not only was he
consciously stepping into the gap left by his hero, the Doctor,

but he was also wanting him to do the same.

“It would be my honour,” said Fasa more by way of
sympathy than conviction. He pinned the badge back on
Mordicai. “I’m proud to call you my friend.”
“I can’t tell you how good that feels,” said Mordicai. “Talk to
Kendo. Make her see sense, but in case it goes horribly

wrong, I’m going to the villages. It’s too late for Savalia. I’ve
already lost her. I’ll do this in her honour and memory.”
Tor Fasa for the first time was beginning to doubt his ability
to influence Kendo. Had the lure of power corrupted even her,
he wondered. He couldn’t fault Mordicai’s ambition, but he

lacked the boy’s optimism. Saving the outliers from

recruitment would be nigh on impossible, and any act of open
revolt would likely be greeted with deadly force. A civil war
was the last thing Gallifrey needed at this time. He thought
back over his own attempts at diplomacy, and decided that
the Percusians would take the news of outliers being used as

collateral damage so badly that it would likely reinforce their

decision to side with the Daleks.
 There was one extreme solution, a back-up plan should all
else fail. Fasa knew it was a hope born of desperation, but
just maybe the Time Lords had inadvertently opened up a

pathway to their salvation.

“Mordicai. Before we part, I have something to show you. I
hope to Gallifrey that we won’t be forced to use it, but if
Gallifrey falls, then there is a way out of this and it’s right
here, in the Death Zone.”
“Gallifrey isn’t going to fall, not if I can help it,” said

Mordicai.
“If even the Doctor has fallen, then how can you be so sure?
You have my blessing, Mordicai, but it would be remiss of me
not to show you another way. Just in case.”
Rocks of Compassion and Betrayal

Tor Fasa had Mordicai’s insatiable curiosity to thank for his

eventual agreement to follow him on foot through the Death

Zone. The boy was always full of questions – it was his most
endearing, yet at the same time most irritating, feature. En

route Fasa expected to face a grilling. Mordicai was bound to

wonder how he knew his way around the zone. But instead,
he’d been unusually reserved.
Eventually they reached a crossroads. To the right the stony

path led up to the imposing Dark Tower. The building was

exactly as it had been depicted in the popular Gallifreyan

children’s pop-up book, A Time of Heroes. Mordicai was

clearly disappointed as Fasa led him in the opposite direction.

Finally Mordicai broke his silence.

“I thought this secret of yours would have had something to

do with Rassilon’s tomb.”

“I might not agree with her decision to militarise the people,

but I don’t want to see President Romana deposed. Gallifrey

help us if those fanatics manage to find a way of resurrecting

Rassilon. No… that way will only lead to more ruin. Our prize,

if that is what it proves to be, isn’t one wrapped in grandeur.”

Veering off the path and journeying deep into the Forest of
Wounds, Fasa took Mordicai to a rackety abandoned shed

that had been covered in thick weeds.

“What is this place?”

Fasa tried desperately to cut through the overgrowth to get

to the shed, but every time he slit through the weeds they

resealed themselves as if conspiring to keep it inaccessible.

“A defence mechanism?” said Mordicai, still sounding

disinterested and glancing instead at the off-limits tower.

“Not intentionally so. The shed is a fracture in time and

space. The weeds have found a way of evolving around it, but

attached to the surface they are continuously rejuvenated.

We’re going to have to squeeze our way through.”

Fasa was delighted. The presence of the weeds was a sure

sign that this remarkable building was still active.

As he forced his way within touching distance of the door,

Fasa’s thoughts returned to the day he was first led to the

site. It was as if he was reliving that very same story. It would

take all his mental strength to maintain the awareness that

this was a new encounter; one in which he wasn’t alone.

***

Located about 80 kilometres north of Arcadia, the Death Zone

had been a popular attraction when Tor Fasa was a newly

graduated Time Lord. But only from a distance. Arcadia itself

once benefited from the heavy flow of tourist traffic and

traded on the name of Rassilon in gift and souvenir shops. On

a clear day, from certain vantage points inside the city dome

and with the aid of the official telescope installations, it was

possible to marvel at the Dark Tower on the distant horizon or

observe the strange behaviour of the ‘ghosts of the games’,

including various species of wildlife unique to that part of

Gallifrey. The area had been sealed off with a spatial and

temporal distortion frame, leading Fasa and other cynics to

suspect that the images through the telescopes were being

manipulated. With personal viewing devices outlawed, the

official pictures were conveniently impossible to authenticate.

But before the extra security measures that had been

introduced following Borusa’s ill-fated quest for immortality,

the zone wasn’t completely impenetrable.

An infamous Arcadian by the name of Lavidia was running a

smuggling ring, extracting valuable artefacts from the Death

Zone and taking commissions from wealthy suitors. Fasa was

her youngest client, yet he offered her a figure well in excess

of her biggest windfall. All he asked for in return was safe

passage into the Death Zone, claiming to be an amateur

conservationist. She’d insisted on accompanying him

personally on his journey, telling him it would be a suicide

mission otherwise; but, suspecting that she was part of the
government cover up and was herself limited to certain

pathways, Fasa wandered off alone following an ancient map

he’d found in the Archive of Heresies.

It was supposed to be an archaeological expedition, but a

shovel wasn’t much good when trying to evade the native and
alien Death Zone dwellers. They may have been generations

on from the original players, but for them the game was well
and truly still active. He was just about getting by until he

accidentally walked into the lair of a Raston warrior robot.

One of the spears caught him on the side of the head, sending
him to the floor in pain. But just as the robot went in for the
kill, it disappeared. This time not by volition. Fasa’s last

thought as he slipped into unconsciousness was that

somebody must still be controlling the games.

***

First generation Fasa had woken up with a banging headache.

Eyes still closed only partly as a protection from the light, he

immediately felt his face. The last thing he could remember

was facing certain death at the hands of the Raston robot,
which surely meant only one thing. There was a hint of regret

that he would forever have to lie about the ‘where was your
first regeneration’ icebreaker, but also relief that he might

have been mercifully unconscious through the process. It was

an experience that was impossible to imagine before having

lived through it the first time. The thought of regeneration

excited most of his peers, but trepidation was equally
commonplace. There was the fear of a pain whose intensity

was forgotten, like the pangs of childbirth for the sake of

survival; there was the nagging worry that it might go wrong;
and there was the spectre of new image disapproval
syndrome, which no matter how much the Academy tutors

denied it, was a real curse for some.

The fact that various vanity options were available to the

wealthiest of Time Lords added to the anxiety about standard

regeneration and undermined the tutors’ efforts to reassure
their students. Whilst in real time the change occurred over

seconds, from the subject’s point of view it lasted hours due

to the exposure to otherwise hidden dimensions. Some were

known to deliberately render themselves unconscious, whilst

others paid for the instantaneous regeneration option as
patented by the Institute of Choice Based Regenerations,

despite the philosophical objections that this was a complete

reset and break from continuity.

But Fasa hadn’t got away with it after all. He was pretty
sure that his nose was the same, and running his fingers

across the still dripping wound on his forehead confirmed it.

At least now he could open his eyes and not worry about the
need to adjust to a whole new body. As soon as he did, his

other senses attuned themselves to his surroundings.

Everything but himself had indeed changed.
 He was lying on a zero bed in an otherwise empty and white-
walled square room. An elderly woman dressed in Time Lord

robes of a bygone age was knelt over him. Her face seemed
kind… reassuring.

“Where am I?” he said, grateful and unusually aware of the

sound of his own voice.
“It’s okay. You have been temporarily removed from the
games. We’ll patch you up and get you straight back into the

action.”

The woman sounded anything but kind. Sadistic was

perhaps the more appropriate description. She certainly

wasn’t showing any gentleness of touch as she bandaged his

wound.

“What is this place?”

She didn’t need to answer as a sudden judder confirmed

that he had been travelling in a lift.

The four walls collapsed with an unceremonious thump.

Fasa gasped at the new sight that greeted him.

“Welcome to the field hospital,” said the woman, smiling

somewhat manically.
 Fasa was now inside a giant open plan ward, stretching in

every direction as far as his old eyes could see.

“I don’t understand. All these people…”

“This is a fixed-point installation. We treat patients from

across the ages in present time; it saves on expenses. Those

ready to return step back into the exact moment in which

they entered the facility.”

Gingerly, Fasa stepped off the bed and followed the Matron

to a viewing scope that showed the surface of the Death Zone

in a state of constant flux, a bewildering kaleidoscope of

collapsed time.

The Matron indicated a palm-shaped unit.

“Place your hand on the time fixer.”

Fasa’s hand glowed as the image through the viewer

stabilised to reflect the Gallifrey of his present time.

“So… You are one of our rare clients from the post-games
era,” said the Matron. “And there’s me thinking your

bewilderment was a mark of concussion.”

“But why are you here? I mean, a hospital seems quite out
of keeping with the spirit of the games. Is this some kind of

covert, altruistic operation?”

 “If it was then nobody would be sent back onto the field. No,
we are an established feature of the game of Rassilon. The

Death Zone is a testing ground to pit our potential

competitors against each other in the race for immortality.

The aim is not to watch them be killed.”

“Tell me, is Rassilon still president, or are the legends true:

that he runs the game from his tomb?”

“We are not at liberty to discuss our time, nor to ask

questions about yours, sadly. Our job is to get you fit for the

fight or transport you to the Rock of Compassion, where the

incurables live out the rest of their days.”

“It doesn’t sound very compassionate. What about letting

them return to their own place and time?”

“The Death Zone is their place and time. And yours, too. You
can refuse treatment and return to the surface, or we can seal

up your wound and give you time to recuperate. What will it

be?”

The fact that the staff were from the distant past had given
Fasa a rare opportunity to be open about his concerns around

Gallifrey’s excesses. He felt confident that there would be no

come back, given that apparently he was free to leave the

hospital at will. He’d come hunting for evidence to discredit

the official history, and this was sheer gold dust. He decided
that it was worth hanging around to see what else could be

gleaned. If the staff refused to talk, then there were always

the patients.

***

Finding a patient who was willing to talk to a Time Lord was

harder than Fasa had anticipated. There must have been at

least a hundred different species represented, and the Time

Lords had made enemies of them all. There were a few

Gallifreyans scattered around the ward, but for the most part
they were outliers or those doing penance for their crimes.

One of the outliers stood out like a sore thumb. Dressed in an

odd combination of some futuristic chancellery guard uniform

and the ragtag attire of a wastelander, he looked more

equipped than most to survive the games. As Fasa

approached him, he could see no obvious sign of injury.

“If it’s my armour you’re after, then no, you can’t have it.”
“You’re leaving the games?”
 “I wasn’t part of the games in the first place. Now go away.
Nurse!”

“I knew this wasn’t your time! Tell me, who is the President

of Gallifrey? You’re obviously an outlier, but your clothes…” It

suddenly dawned on Fasa that although he’d come looking for

incriminating evidence about Gallifrey’s past, he might have

stumbled upon a more positive future. “Does that mean that

our two races will one day become one?”

“Does that thought disgust you?” said the soldier, finally

turning to face Tor Fasa. He did a double take and looked

confused.
“No… goodness no. This isn’t my time, either. I’m from a

divided Gallifrey in the future. I want to see our peoples come

together in peace. Our future depends on it.”

“The future?” mocked the soldier. “If you’ve got any sense,
you’ll go to Compassion.”

A nurse soon joined them and chastised the pair for

comparing notes.
“That’s cheating, you know,” he said. “Each combatant must

fight alone.”

“Neither of us has come from the games. Relax,” said Fasa.

 “Soldier 811, you’ll be pleased to know your request for

compassion has been granted. The transmat has been

prepared. You can now join the queue.”

As the nurse sauntered off, Fasa urged the soldier to

reconsider.

“You’re leaving Gallifrey? You don’t even know what this

rock is, or where it’s located. It could be a trap.”

“So long as it’s off world I don’t care.”

“Is the future really that bad?”

“I thought you would know the answer to that, Tor Fasa.”

“You know my name and face?” said Fasa, concerned that in

one time stream he might achieve notoriety for his heretical

views.
“How can you forget your fall from self-appointed architect

of peace to Gallifrey’s biggest War criminal? That must have

been quite a knock you took on your head when the sky came

crashing down.”
“I don’t understand.”

“Where we are from, there is no future. Come and see for

yourself.”
 The elderly soldier led the young Fasa to the viewing portal
and placed his own hand on the scanner.

The Death Zone was much the same as it had been in Fasa’s

time, but the skies above told a different story. Gallifrey was

under heavy assault from Dalek hoverships. In the distance,

devastating explosions ripped apart mountains and shattered

the sky trenches. Arcadia had already fallen and the rest of

the planet was about to go down with it.

“We’ve been fighting this war, outliers and Time Lords side

by side for over a hundred years, and look where it’s got us,”

said the soldier in resignation. “There’s little point in staying

now. Hardly anyone is left alive, not even your precious Time

Lords. We should have all come here when we first got the

chance.”

“How did you find out about this place? In my time, the
Death Zone is sealed off. There are no records of a hospital

having ever been here.”

“Typical Time Lord revisionism. The whole of Gallifrey is a
death zone – here… the wastelands, the villages and even the

cities. It’s impossible to tell the difference. War has become

the great leveller.”
 The soldier removed his hand, unable to bear any more of
the nightmare scenario.

“You never told me your name,” said Fasa.

“I’m just a number now. Soldier 811, that’s all you need to

know. Any more and it would break your heart.”

Fasa walked alongside the distraught soldier as he joined
the steady flow of transmat passengers to take his leave of

Gallifrey.
“It can’t end like this. I won’t let it,” declared Fasa.
The soldier smiled ruefully.

“I’ve heard those words before,” he said. “But uttered out of

failure, not hope. It was the arrogance of a Time Lord who
handed the initiative to the Daleks. One who, like you,

believed in peace. This is as much his doing as theirs.”

***

“Fasa… Fasa!”
Disorientated, the twelfth generation Tor Fasa woke up to

Mordicai’s calls.
 Mordicai had forced his way on all fours through the ever-

growing weeds to the semi-conscious Fasa, who had somehow

made it as far as the door of the shed. Unable to dislodge it,
he’d dragged Fasa back instead.

“Did you see it?” said Fasa.

“I could just about make out the entrance. What’s inside?”

“The way out – a portal to another world,” replied Fasa. “If

the worst happens, you must come back, bring as many as
you can and leave Gallifrey once and for all.”

Fasa’s pessimism surprised Mordicai. He had always

accused his mentor of not living in the real world and of
believing in peace against all the odds. But now, here he was,

accepting that his efforts to find a diplomatic solution could

fail spectacularly.
“Between us we can stop all this from happening,” said

Mordicai.
“Mordicai, for my whole life I’ve been trying to prevent the
Time War. I came to the Death Zone to save us from our past

and left it vowing to save us from the future. Inside that shed
I saw a vision of Gallifrey burning. One future among many, I
told myself, and I swore that it wouldn’t be mine. I fear I’m
out of time. Outliers joining the military? We’re getting
dangerously close to the end game.”

***

Leaving Mordicai to work from the bottom up in destabilising

the alliance of convenience between the Time Lords and the

outliers, Fasa tried to ensure that Kendo was still on board in
the War Council. Between his friends and his own left of field

diplomatic efforts, Fasa believed there was still a chance that

the unknown soldier’s world would not turn out to be his

own. Kendo’s role would be critical, particularly with the

Percusians likely to be angered at the enforced recruitment of
outliers.

She had listened to Fasa’s concerns and agreed that using

warrior races like the Zechos to train the troops was far from
ideal and that deploying outliers as human shields and

recruiting them as soldiers on the front line was unethical.

Fasa had urged her to find an alternative form of defence, a
strategy that made best use of the Time Lords’ abilities

without forcing them to become something they weren’t.

 Over the next three weeks Fasa’s life became increasingly
difficult in the Citadel. Kendo was almost like a closed book,

surrounded by other advisers from President Romana’s

loyalists; and the hostility towards the Peace Council had
increased, putting many off from participating. There was

little advantage in staying.

He was busy clearing out his academy office when Kendo
made her unexpected visit.

“You can’t retire now. Nobody can leave Gallifrey, not

without a presidential decree. And in any case, your TARDIS
has been decommissioned.”

“Change of plan. I’m leaving the Citadel to retire to the hills.

The Peace Council cannot operate in such a hostile

environment.”
“I’ll increase the security. I need you here. I still value your
advice.”

“Then why didn’t you stop the DZ training program?”

“Don’t you think I tried?”
“Clearly, not hard enough. I had hoped that your cousin’s

call up will have increased your determination to do the right

thing. Kendo, I’m really beginning to wonder why I bothered
to help you get onto the council. The power has corrupted

you.”
“Savalia will be taken care of. They all will.”
“And how is that supposed to happen? They’re dying before

they’ve even been deployed. It’s brutal. It’s unethical and it’s
completely unnecessary.”
“You told me to consider using our own gifts as Time Lords.

I found a compromise that was acceptable to the president.”

“A compromise?”
Kendo explained the regeneration project, proud of the

breakthrough and optimistic about its usefulness.

Tor Fasa was horrified.
“You don’t seem pleased.”

Fasa knew that if Kendo had been talking to the scientists,

they would have sent her to him for the scar tissue sample.

The only way to circumvent the devastating psychological

effects of regeneration on the untrained, and those without
access to zero rooms and the like, would be to use a very

specific vanity incarnation: rejuvenation. His scar tissue had

always fascinated the scientists as it provided evidence that it
was possible for cells to be replicated in the regeneration

process.
Once a supporter of the institute, Fasa fell out with them

after they started to badger him for a sample of his scar

tissue. Apparently they wanted to develop ways of restoring
existing regenerations. He’d suddenly turned against them,

and played an instrumental role in their decommissioning.

That, and the terrible accident that befell Nairo, is what had
forced the scientists underground.

No wonder Kendo was surprised when he volunteered the

scar tissue himself. She looked torn, unsure whether or not to
trust him. And she was right. Fasa was quite prepared to give

up his most intimate of secrets in order to stop the Time War.

It was a calculated risk, but he knew that the scientists would
not be able to achieve the desired results. It would cause

terrible consequences, but Fasa used his logical mind to

protect himself from any coming guilt. Peace was all that
mattered now, reputations and even friendships needed to be

sacrificed if Gallifrey was to be saved.

“I had guards positioned outside ready to take you by force.

I didn’t want it to come to that, but I really thought it would.

So thank you.”
“You should only be thanking me if it doesn’t work,” said
Fasa.

An awkward silence passed between them as Kendo hovered

by the door. Neither wanted to admit their insecurities or
express their acute fear of failure. If truth be told, on an

emotional level Fasa needed Kendo more than she did him.
Yes, her tacit support of the Peace Council had been

important, but that was nothing compared to her role in

helping him keep up his belief in reform. Their friendship
might have been born of convenience in order to protect each

other’s secret sojourns into the wasteland, but their fourfold

alliance with Mordicai and Savalia represented a vision for a
New Gallifrey, stripped of social and racial divisions and the

planet’s crushing inequalities.

The parting of the ways represented the end of that lofty
ambition, an acceptance that War had changed everything.

Kendo had placed her faith in the President and the council,
while Fasa had turned to the Percusians. Both knew that they
were taking massive risks in their new alliances and that they

were about to lose each other’s guiding and restraining hand.

But their friendship had become an inconvenience, a risk to
the integrity of their now separate missions. Only by parting

could they retain their effectiveness.

It was Fasa who broke the silence.
“This War has forced us apart… for now at least, but let’s

not allow it to destroy us. We might not approve of each

other’s decisions, but one day Gallifrey might need us to
stand together again.”

“You are a sweet if deluded man, Tor Fasa. I will always hold
you in my affections, but running away to the hills when the

entire universe is at War? It’s a dereliction of duty.”

“If you say so,” said Fasa, knowing full well that he’d be
arrested if Kendo knew the extent of his scheming. “If you can

prove to me that I was mistaken and that the council isn’t

responsible for escalating the War, then I’ll come running
back. I so badly want to be wrong. Good luck, Kendo.”

“And you Fasa… and you.”

***
Very early on in his search for truth, Tor Fasa had discovered

that a typical Gallifreyan atlas was littered with the most

inappropriate names. They reflected the politics of the history
makers more than the terrain itself. Thanks to the creativity

of the outliers the Wastelands were anything but, and the

unsuccessfully renamed Dead Zone (the new title lasted all of
two weeks) was full of albeit uncatalogued life. Mount

Perdition was yet another example. It was the last place an

unrepentant who desired to wallow in his own sin would want
to be. It was an area of natural beauty surrounded by scarlet

grasslands on one side and the ruby sands of the Perdendosi

beach on the other. The clean air exuded nothing but healing

and forgiveness.
Fasa, like the Doctor, suspected that the name had been
retconned into ancient history as part of the fictionalisation of

the Master’s bio in the Matrix during the events that led to
the creation of the databank’s Shadow. The very cave that
Fasa had made his new home was the birthplace of the

Master. According to the coroner’s report the renegade’s

parents had hung themselves there in shame many centuries
ago. A few hermits still lived in the region, but the Master’s
family’s homestead and farm had been superstitiously left
untended. A double suicide was enough to put off potential
suiters, never mind the identity of their only son.

The side of the mountain facing the sea had been drastically
cut back due to a combination of intensive mining operations
from the past and temporal shifts from the future. Centuries

ago, Gallifrey’s legendary explorer Drago Veloris had

discovered trapped within its caves the rare metal, velorium.
At first its only use was as a therapy tool, both legally and

illegally. The metal generated a more intense version of the

calming psychological effects of the environment. From zero
rooms and prison walls, to ornaments and amulets, velorium

had many uses. Huge sections of the mountain had been cut
away, with the gaps appearing overnight after the outbreak of
War, suggesting that the metal must somehow play a future

role in the Time War.

On the day of the Percusian airstrike that signalled the

beginning of the war, Gallifrey was suddenly filled with

temporal distortions – the land was stretched both temporally
and spatially, giving a vision of things to come. The sky

trenches in the north provided a blueprint for the ones

currently being erected over Jericho and Arcadia. It appeared
that the Time War could travel back in time, but not to any
point before it had started. At first Fasa could see no positive

military role for velorium – if used as armour or weapons, it

would surely have brought a counterproductive passiveness

to the fighters and an empathy with those they were

attacking, but he soon realised that the metal could feasibly
be used as bomb material to pacify the enemy. Either way,

nature was being co-opted into the war effort. Whatever the
reason, huge sections of mountain had been cut away, leaving
a cliff face Fasa could easily travel to from his new home by

literally walking through the mountain.

It was the ideal meeting place for the weapons drop. Toban
had only managed to steal a handful of arms from the Omega

Arsenal, but enough to cause widespread destruction in the

wrong hands. The symbolic gesture would hopefully reassure
the Percusians of their intentions. If not, then hopefully the

metal itself would play an influencing role on their reception.

The Peace Council made their way through the mountain,

using primitive wheelbarrows to transport the illegal

weaponry. Under the spell of the velorium, Fasa was in a
contemplative mood.

“If only the universe was filled with velorium and velo-
sensitive lifeforms. War would be a completely alien concept.”
“Ironic, though, isn’t it? The most destructive Time Lord of

all, the betrayer of worlds, was born here,” observed Rosa.

“Perhaps leaving his home is what drove the Master to

insanity. This mountain casts a spell over you, as if all is well

with the universe, even now.”
“He’d have a field day with all this merchandise. I haven’t

got a clue what most of it does,” said Toban. “Let’s hope the
Percusians are just as ignorant.”
At the cliff side, Mandre and Milo were waiting to greet

them, with their ship docked precariously half over the edge.
They inspected the contents of the wheelbarrows.
“The goods are genuine. The Omega stamp confirms that

they were assigned to the arsenal,” said Fasa.

“Clearly not all of them,” replied Mandre, nonchalantly
throwing out the chunks of velorium Fasa had planted in the

barrows. Clearly the metal had little effect on his species.

 “If these weapons were considered that dangerous, then why

didn’t your leaders destroy them in the first place? I presume

there are more where these came from?” said Mandre,
provoking Toban.

“If you think I’m going back then–”

“It’s a gesture of our commitment to peace, nothing more,”
said Fasa, grabbing one of the barrows. “With your help, there
will be no need for our leaders to use the others.”

Fasa was all set to push the barrow over the cliff, when Milo
stood in front of him, blocking his path.
Toban pulled out the nearest thing resembling a gun from
his barrow, but the velorium in the cliffside was clearly
affecting his ability to do anything with it.
“The price of peace,” said Mandre, laughing at Toban’s

predicament. “Exterminate them all.”

A gang of Percusians all armed with Dalek weapons leapt
out of the ship and became gunning them down.
Fasa pushed his barrow into Milo, flying over the edge of the
cliff with it.

The others didn’t stand a chance.

Milo watched Fasa and the weapons fall into the sea.
 “I’m sorry, Commissioner. For an old man he had enormous
strength.”
“No need,” said Mandre. “There’s enough left to give us an
advantage, especially with one of these little beauties. Our

masters will be delighted.”

He examined with glee a five-point star-shaped device, no
bigger than a human hand.
“Load up the ship,” he barked.

***

Washed up on the red beach, the last thing Tor Fasa would
ever see through brown eyes was the Percusian ship leaving
Gallifreyan skies.
A Time Lord’s final regeneration was the most popular for
vanity incarnations. Even the wealthiest could only afford one

bite of the cherry, and finishing his days in a designer form

was tempting even for Fasa. Many Time Lords chose to revisit
a favourite face from the past, and by way of completion a
return to their original body was by far the most popular
option. Fasa was surprised to find that the regen-kit was
undamaged inside his sodden jacket. The trauma of the fall

was already triggering his regeneration, and he had to work

quickly to inject himself in time.
“Let my end be as my beginning,” he muttered before every
cell in his body was transformed in a burst of artron energy.
Disorientated and in a state of amnesia, the reborn Fasa
knew he had to get home the long way round. He would climb

the mountain to the cave, in order to restore his mind in the

naturally formed zero corridor. But he held his head, at the
place where the scar had once been. There was something
else he had to do, but he couldn’t yet put his finger on it.

***

Each member of the War Council had been tasked with

responsibility for a specific component of the war effort. As
the least experienced councillor, Kendo’s portfolio was
restricted to home defence operations. It sounded less exotic

and important, but it was no job for idol hands. Whilst others
were busy planning major operations all across the universe,
Kendo had her work cut out dealing with issues closer to
home. She oversaw the construction of the sky trenches, the
training of the ground troops, the distribution of resources,
and the placement of refugees. Her appointment was an

indication of the Time Lords’ complacency when it came to the

protection of Gallifrey more than it was a recognition of her
qualities.
Things had been going terribly, both in Kendo’s assigned
missions and her personal quest to make an impact and
confound those doubters on the council who were questioning

her credentials. She had ordered a clampdown against

protesters in Jericho who were unhappy about their village
being earmarked as a testing ground for the new-fangled Sky
Trenches that she planned to open over Arcadia and the
Citadel. Military intervention in the village had turned a

peaceful protest into a bloodbath. The bloodthirsty Zechos

had been a nightmare to manage, straining diplomatic
relations with Gallifrey’s strategic allies. And what she hoped
would be her signature piece – the military regeneration
extension program – was causing more problems than it was
worth. She had stubbornly refused to abandon the plan even
though the effects of Fasa’s scar tissue had turned out to be
non-transferable after all.
On top of all this, she now had the ultimate security breach
to deal with. She was stood outside the compromised Time
Vault with her Presidential advisors and chief tactician

Marlita.
“How is this possible? There hasn’t been a single assault on
Gallifrey Present, not since the opening salvo. We’ve been
monitoring the skies and apart from the usual Percusian
wasteland raiders, there’s been nothing to report.”
“Councillor, this can only be an inside job. A rogue General

unhappy with his troops’ pathetic weapons? Outliers seeking

to arm themselves?” said Marlita.
“Or the Zechos?” suggested another advisor. Kendo ignored
her advisors and stepped into the Omega Arsenal, looking for
clues of her own.

“There’s no indication that specific weapons were stolen,”

said Marlita following her inside. “It was an opportunist theft
and the thieves left in a hurry.”
“I can see that, Marlita,” snapped Kendo. “But access to the
vaults is nigh on impossible. This must have been
meticulously planned. Unless…”

Suddenly, Kendo ran out of the vault and opened the

adjacent vault – home to the Archive of Heresies.
At the back of the library, a hole had been blasted through
to the Omega Arsenal, and subsequently blocked on the other
side by a weapons cabinet.
“Fasa,” she said, gravely, remembering how her disgraced

friend had boasted about how he’d used the library as his
second office ever since he’d had the access key copied as a
boy.
“There are rumours that his Peace Council have been
courting favour with the Percusians,” said Marlita. “You don’t
think…”

“Order Commander Bez to send a unit to recover the

weapons and apprehend him,” said Kendo urgently. “I want
him brought to me alive.”

***

The zero room effect of the velorium filled cave had aided
Fasa’s post-regeneration recovery immensely. However, he
was beginning to wish that the memories of recent events had
not come back. In his desperation to prevent the prophecy
he’d seen in the fixed time hospital all those years ago, he’d
inadvertently played a major hand in bringing it to fruition. It

was the very face he now bore that with the unknown
soldier’s help had seen the sky trenches fall out of the sky,
closely followed by celestial bodies that would surely rip the
heart out of Gallifrey. Only a weapon powerful enough to need
locking up in a vault could have had such a devastating

impact – the legendary Gravity Buster bomb shaped to

resemble a white point star.
His thoughts turned to Commissioner Mandre and his
sidekick. What could have possessed them to carry out such
an atrocity? Either the Daleks were controlling them now, or
something else had made the Percusians reneged on their

agreement and betray their pacifist principles. The use of

wastelanders as cannon fodder? Possibly, but there had to be
more to it than that. Fasa thought back to the last time he
had seen the Percusians in his office at the Citadel. Mandre
had looked perturbed and unsettled, but Fasa had assumed it

was a natural reaction to Mordicai’s unannounced arrival.

 “Of course,” he whispered to himself. “The data disc. I
wonder…”
Fasa gazed as his reflection in the broken mirror. It was
time to perform his usual post-regeneration ritual, but given
that this was exactly how he had looked before his injury in
Death Zone, he allowed himself longer than usual to indulge

in a bit of post-regeneration vanity. It was a reminder of more

innocent days when he still harboured the hope that his
suspicions about Gallifrey’s hidden past were based on
paranoia. It turned out that the reality was even worse than
he’d imagined in his most pessimistic moments, usually after

a heavy drinking session.

The Death Zone scar had come to represent for him the
brokenness of his civilisation – as if he had been branded by
the painted out defect of an entire race. Regeneration
cancelled the effects, which for him summed up the inbuilt
manipulative streak of the Time Lord psyche. Could there be a

more arrogant self-designation than Time Lord: the ultimate

delusion of a people so desperate to be masters over all? He
wasn’t having it. Returning from the Death Zone, a wounded
and frightened young man haunted by the vision of a future
Gallifrey that had destroyed herself, Fasa had vowed to never
forget his sojourn to the tomb of Rassilon. He’d feared that he

too might succumb to the rewriting of history – the only part

of time that the Time Lords could truly master. And so, the
scar had to stay.
Fasa opened a storage crate that had been doubling as a
bedside chair. Pushing aside a mound of books and
paraphernalia, he pulled out a lined, oversized helmet. He ran

his finger inside it, feeling for the retracted blade that had
been fitted to match the exact location and shape of his scar.
As soon as he put the helmet on, it moulded itself around his
head to form a snug fit. He flinched in anticipation of pain
and pressed against its outer shell, forcing the blade to pierce

his skin. The worst pain was to come when he retracted the
device. He kept the helmet on to prevent blood loss whilst
hunting in the crate for a fast healing patch.
“Get up and turn around. Tor Fasa. You’re under arrest.”
The solider stormed into the cave with several others in tow.
“And take that ridiculous contraption off your head.”

Fasa stood up to face him defiantly.

 “I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said. “If you want me, you’ll
have to come and get me.”
Fasa ran deeper into the cave, hopeful that by the time the
soldiers caught up with him, the velorium would have been in

sufficient quantities to have calmed them down.

It was a futile bid for freedom. The lead soldier fired a stun
bolt into his back.
He propped Fasa up against the cave wall.
“What kind of helmet is that, Captain Caelion?” asked one of
the soldiers.

“Gallifrey knows. A Time Lord regeneration accessory? The

old man’s never looked so young,” replied the unit leader,
attempting to remove the helmet. “Bloody thing won’t come
off.”
After a few more yanks he finally managed to wrench it from

Fasa’s head, leaving the Time Lord’s forehead a bloody mess

and taking off a fair bit of hair with it too.
“That’s disgusting.”
“I hope he liked being bald before,” joked Caelion, before
noticing the blade inside the helmet.
 He ripped off a piece of Fasa’s cloak and turned it into a

makeshift bandage.
“You people are seriously messed up,” said Caelion.
Fasa came round to the sight of Caelion wiping off the blood
from the side of his face. “If the council are granting you
regenerations, then they could at least have trained you

properly,” he said. “Don’t you know how dangerous it is to

attack a Time Lord so soon after the change? You could have
killed me.”
“Well, they never said anything about self-harming,” sneered
Caelion.
“What if it’s not Fasa, but someone trying to pass himself off

as him?” suggested a soldier.

“Either way, he’s involved and can take us to the weapons.”
“Ok. You’ve got me soldier-boy. Promise you’ll let me go and
I’ll take you to them… and Fasa, too,” replied Fasa, indicating
the cave.

“It’s Captain to you, lad. And no deal,” replied Caelion

poking his weapon into Fasa’s back. “The way I see it, you’ve
got no choice in the matter anyway, so lead on.”
 As they walked deeper into the cave, the velorium began to
affect the soldiers, a fact that Fasa would have taken
advantage of had he not lost the will to fight. Instead he

turned to Caelion, ready to confess.

“I have betrayed our people, but it was never my intention.
What’s left of the weapons lies buried in the sea. The rest
have all been taken by the Percusians. You’ve got to get me
back to the Citadel immediately. We need to warn the

council.”
“And Fasa?”
“Is me. Councillor Kendo will vouch for that. You can untie
me, you know. I will gladly go willingly. There is nothing left
for me here and I deserve whatever punishment the council
decide to inflict.”

Caelion, though not quite sure why, accepted his prisoner’s

words at face value and released him. He wasn’t usually one
to trust his instincts, but it seemed like the right thing to do.
Not one of his soldiers challenged the decision.
“Peace. We go together in the name of peace, understood?”

said Fasa.
 ***

It wasn’t until they were in sight of the Citadel that the effects
of the velorium deposit had worn off sufficiently enough for
Caelion to question why he’d ordered his detachment to

exchange their weapons for rocks. In such small doses the

power of velorium was almost entirely dependent on the
placebo effect, which in turn was predicated upon a desire to
escape. Caelion had little such inclination. Serving the War
Council had given him a sense of pride and nobility that few

of his kinsfolk could relate to. This was an embarrassing

development and he risked losing the confidence of his unit.
His failure to bring back Fasa would also reinforce the views
of the most puritanical members of the council who were
already deeply uncomfortable with the levels of responsibility
some of the wastelanders had been given.

He’d hoped for a quiet entrance, but in the distance he

could see an unusual amount of activity outside the Citadel.
It looked like the chancellery guard were on some kind of
exercise.
 “Wait,” he ordered, signalling his men to hide behind some

rocks as he checked the lie of the land with the sense-

enhancer function on his helmet, a handy device that brought
distant sights, sounds and even smells close.
Fasa could sense Caelion’s unease.
“No need to fret. This won’t come back on you. Like I told
you, I’m your willing prisoner. I’ve no intention of running.”

“You did this to me, didn’t you? What was it, some kind of
Time Lord mind trick?” said Caelion, adjusting the focus of
his device.
“I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Caelion. We Time
Lords may have spent centuries perfecting the art of time

manipulation, but few among us have ever dared to question

why. I researched the matter for years, unhappy with the
scientific and the religious answers. And do you know what I
discovered? We weren’t driven by the fear of a cataclysmic
event in our future, or the desire to pass from one dimension
to another for the sake of survival. We weren’t trying to get

one up over our neighbours, and we certainly weren’t trying to

construct a multisystem empire. The Time Lords were just
looking for something to believe in and a realm to call our
own, one filled with powers, gifts and a reputation that could
silence the beating drum of meaninglessness. We became
masters of time because we were absolutely useless at being

masters over the mind. Time Lords have always feared

telepaths even more than we do the Daleks. That’s why we are
in this mess in the first place. So no, Caelion. There’s nothing
supernatural or hyper-sensual going on. It’s all in the rocks.
The power of nature. Even the earth protests against war.”
“Well, thanks for the history lesson. But I don’t think these

rocks are going to save us now, do you?”

Caelion passed Fasa his helmet.
Ahead of them, a sea of villagers were marching towards the
Citadel, armed with what looked like sonic torches. Together
they emitted a series of loud and disharmonious shrills and

whistles. It wasn’t clear if the protesters were armed with

other weapons, but the noise was enough to signal a
destructive intent. Fasa gasped when he noticed Mordicai at
the head of the rebels.
Shielding the Citadel, a ring of chancellery guards had
formed a second barrier around the outside of the dome.
 Caelion wasn’t sure if it was the sonic torches or the guards’
shields, but his com-device was unable to reach Kendo due to
the interference.
Fasa was more concerned by the potential retaliatory
actions of the guards than the protesters. There was only one

way the outliers could have gained access to such makeshift

non-lethal weapons.
“Mordicai, what are you doing…” he muttered to himself,
emerging from the rock.
“Get down,” shouted Caelion.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s not the enemy,” said Fasa,

immediately reassessing the situation when the sonic torches

were suddenly pointed at the Citadel in unison, causing the
guards’ shields to shatter and cracks to form across the
dome. “No, no, no – this isn’t right… It can’t end like this. I
won’t let it. Caelion. Gallifrey is falling and there’s nothing

you or I can do to stop it.”

“We have to protect the High Council.”
“No. It’s too late now. Take your men and get them to safety.
There’s a portal hidden in the Forest of Wounds. It’s the
access point to the Rock of Compassion. If you want to live,
that’s where you’ll go.”

“In the Death Zone? You’re as crazy as you look. It’ll take
decades to reach if the time displacements have spread south
of Arcadia. Maybe even centuries. You might be able to inject
us with a regeneration formula but you can’t make us Time
Lords. You freaks are the only people I know who can have

more birthdays than my call-up number.”

Fasa read Caelion’s military insignia and smiled.
“I have a feeling you’re going to make it, soldier 811.”
Before Caelion could respond, Fasa turned and ran towards
the battle zone, waving the helmet about frantically in an
effort to gain Mordicai’s attention.

Caelion’s men tried to stop the Time Lord by throwing their

stones at him, but Fasa continued to run down the hill
towards the protesters. To Caelion’s astonishment, he was
singing a song of peace even as the stones hit him.
Without warning, a huge energy bolt shot out from one of
the sky trenches. The trench had rotated 180 degrees,

redirecting its defences from the skies above to the surface

below. The energy beam lit up the entire area, folding time
and space so that Fasa now found himself directly between
the two warring factions. The ground had given way to form a
deep crater. Some of the protesters had fallen through it while
the rest were standing around the edge unable to reach the

Citadel.
Fasa dusted himself down at the bottom of the crater as
laser bolts and sonic booms zipped across the gap above him.
Undeterred by the lights and the sounds of death and
destruction, Fasa continued to sing as he struggled to climb

up to the surface: a song of peace in the midst of war. A song

that nobody else could possibly hear.

We are time lords not war lords

And we won’t take up arms
Or strike back in anger

We’re not here for the fight

There’s no point in a war

When there’s only one side
And you need to turn back
With no time left to kill.
 ***

An eerie silence descended, and for a brief moment Fasa

wondered if by some miracle both sides had heard his call.
But the firing had stopped because everybody was now

looking up in horror at the sky. The area was swathed in the

cold shadow of a Percusian battleship that was inexplicably
falling straight down onto the sky trench. Before the trench
had revolved back to destroy the ship, gravity and mass were
reconfigured in the spaces within and around it. Fasa looked

on in horror as the sky trench joined the ship in careering

towards the crater.

***

The cloister bell tolled from the Citadel, but its sound was
distorted, bent by the impact of the Gravity Buster. The dome
was cracking. The Citadel itself had been breached, not by the
power of the Daleks, but by the Percusians firing one of the
Time Lords’ home grown weapons, unwittingly aided and
abetted by the outliers’ sonic assault and the Time Lords’

desperate attempt to silence them. The War was ending at its

very beginning and beginning at its very end, creating an
eternity where peace could not exist even for a second. As the
sky trench hit the ground and exploded into fragments
around him, Fasa’s last conscious thought was that the
universe wouldn’t be so lucky.

Instead, she would be falling forever.

 PART IV

Savalia’s War
The New Recruit

Nairo had come out to wave goodbye. Number 5 – the little

curly-haired girl. Beylon’s granddaughter stood next to her,

her expression caught somewhere between a smile and some

sort of guilt-ridden fear. Savalia forced an encouraging smile

as she leaned out the back of the cart.

“Don’t forget the list on the kitchen table,” she called to her
mother. “There are cloths in the left-hand cupboard and–”
“Down in back.” A large hand grabbed her by the back of her

collar, pulling her back to her seat on the floor of the cart.
Savalia mumbled an apology, scooting away so her back was

against the wall of the cart. She found herself wedged between
two men. One she recognised from town: youthful and

muscular, but asthmatic. He wouldn’t last a week. The other

was a new face, likely from one of the places the recruiters
had stopped earlier. Not much younger than herself, scrawny

limbs sticking out awkwardly from outgrown clothes. He was

practically vibrating with excitement.

“I saw what you did back there. Amazing. Real hero.”

 Savalia shook her head. “No. No, I only did what I had to.

That’s not heroics.”

“Think that’s the definition, really.” He grinned. “Caelion.”

“Savalia.”

“Your daughter going to be okay?”

“That’s my…” She held her tongue. Pity was the last thing
she needed in this cart. “That’s my hope, anyway. She’s got

good people looking after her, though.”

There wasn’t much place for the conversation to go after

that. Savalia pulled her knees up to her chest and propped

her chin on them. The cart stopped a few more places, picking

up ‘volunteers’ as it went, until floor space on the cart was at

a premium. When one especially silly recruit decided he was

going to sit in the guard’s lap, it was decided they should all

stand for the remainder of the journey.

“Ever been to the Citadel?” Pressed together like tinned-fish,

Savalia could hear Caelion’s voice right by her ear.

“Once, when I was little. We were visiting my uncle and

cousin. I don’t remember much of it. Just that it was all very

tall and very shiny.”

 Savalia could practically feel the beaming smile Caelion was

wearing just a fraction of a breath away. “Even from inside?

Really? I always imagined it must be better from a distance.

You get inside the bubble and it’s all just smoke and smell

and angry people.”

“Mm. No. Not last I was there.”

“You’re going to fight,” muttered a stocky woman to Savalia’s

right, “not to sightsee.” A snort. “Shiny. Only shiny things

you’re likely to see are your own insides under the midday

suns.”

Caelion huffed out a breath. “Guess we’re bringing the angry

people with us,” he groused under his breath, but beyond

that, nothing.

She wasn’t wrong, Savalia thought grimly. Truly, it would be

a shock if they saw anything of the Citadel that wasn’t behind

or below the main drag. A cart full of outliers being brought in

to fight, likely to die? Savalia would be amazed if their

existence was even acknowledged.

It wasn’t long until the bubble on the horizon began to loom

over them. Savalia tilted her head back to look. One large,

uneven hole marred the translucent exterior – the first tap of

a spoon against an egg. Already, she could see tiny ships

working to repair it, bright energy arcing across the gap as

the bubble re-formed.

And, as expected, the hastily gathered troops were not to see

any of the Citadel’s finer side. As soon as they reached the

gate, the cart took a sharp left, following a dirt road around
the circumference of the bubble. The cart ground to a halt,

toppling the occupants like a chest of wooden soldiers.

Savalia ducked out from under her fellow recruits and hooked

an arm over the side of the cart, leaning out as far as she
could to see what had caused the delay.
Another cart.

And another.
An endless line of carts, each as full of people as their own,

disappearing around the curve of the wall.

“Just how many of us are they planning to go through?”
Caelion laughed. It was a flippant comment, but Savalia could

hear the shake in his voice.

Every few minutes, the line would come to life again, move

the space of a cart, then stop. Like a conveyor belt. The sun
beat down on the top of Savalia’s head, scorching the part in
her hair. She almost welcomed their turn at the end of the
line, if only to get some shade over her.

Their turn came.

The back was dropped off their cart and they were tumbled
out like so much produce. Caelion grabbed onto Savalia’s arm

like a lost child in the shuffle. Normally she would have

pushed him away, but she was feeling it, too. Even a friendly

face of less than a day was a comfort.

“All right?” Savalia asked gently.

“Yeah. I’m great.” Caelion tossed her a reassured grin.

“Never better. Just, you know, don’t want either of us to get
separated in the shuffle. You’re the only person I know here.

I… er… I think.”
Savalia took stock of their surroundings. It was cool and

dark where they were, so she hadn’t given much thought to

where they’d ended up save that she wasn’t being fried alive

anymore. The rectangle of bright light from the large entrance

they’d come through told her they weren’t underground; but
without that, she might have believed it from the chill and the

network of pipes and machinery around them. It was some

sort of warehouse, whatever it was, back and away from the
eyes of the Citadel.

“You two come as a set?” barked a small voice.

“What?”

Savalia felt a sharp strike against the back of her legs. She
yelped, releasing Caelion’s arm as she jumped, and he was
swept off in the crowds. She looked down. A petite woman –

no, a little girl, not more than six or seven – in a dress

uniform glared up at her from under a shaggy blonde fringe, a

short whip tucked under her arm.

“Into line,” she snapped, pointing past Savalia. “Go on.”
Savalia stared.

“What, you think I’m going to walk you there? Move!”

Savalia jumped back before another jab could hit her,

turning and stumbling into a metal barricade. A closer look

showed it wasn’t a barricade – it was a corral. And recruits

were lining up inside it… for what, she wasn’t sure. But she
found she preferred the idea of standing in line for no reason
over another shout from the little uniformed girl.

The line moved shockingly quickly, punctuated every few

minutes by the sound of a heavy load being rolled out
through an unseen door. Were they being divided into units?
Being shipped out elsewhere? Something else entirely?

“Behind the screen, shirt off.” The man at the front of the
line didn’t even make eye contact. Savalia stepped behind the

screen – not so much a screen as a quickly erected piece of

metal sheeting – and was met with a tired glance from an old
woman seated nearby.
“You heard the man. Haven’t got all day.”

“O-Oh.” Savalia turned away from the woman, taking off her

top.

“Name and combat experience.”

“S-Savalia. Experience… none?”

The woman wheeled her chair around, taking Savalia by one

hip and giving her a gentle nudge to get them facing each
other. Savalia looked away, avoiding eye contact as the

woman began taking vitals and measurements.

“Don’t look much like someone who’s not seen combat,” the

woman muttered, tapping in a few notes. “Guess that’s why

they like bringing your sort in.”

“My sort?”
 “Mm.” The woman stood up and began prodding Savalia’s

neck, shining lights in her eyes, peering in her ears. “You’re

shaping up a lot better than most of the ones coming through

today, though. I thought they’d already picked off all the good

ones earlier.”

Savalia wasn’t entirely sure how to answer.

“Right. Arm out. Your choice.

Savalia stuck out her left arm, and the woman fastened a

self-tightening cinch around it as she pulled out a small

needle. “Who, uh… who’s the little girl up front?”

“Uniform? Whip? Temper?”

“Yes, her.”

The woman snorted. “Ah, that’s Commander Bez. You’ll

likely end up in his unit… sorry, her.” She was surprisingly

gently as she drew blood. “Always takes me a few days, you

know. Last week she was a big hulking brute of a man, could
strangle you with one finger. Has a double heart attack one

night, and… well, like you saw.” She withdrew the needle and

phial, wiping up the spot on Savalia’s arm. “Put some

pressure on that. Mind you, she’s got temper and a half to
make up for it, so just do as she says and you’ll have enough
body parts left to lose properly on the battlefield.”

“Thanks…”

“Pop your shirt back on and take this.” The woman

scribbled out a note on a piece of paper.

The wait after the line and medical examination was the

longest yet. Despite the crowd gathered, there was an eerie

silence. Little knots of people clutching their papers, each

marked with varying letters and numbers.

“Right! Eyes front!” shouted a familiar voice. Everyone

looked up. It was Commander Bez, perched on the cab of a

nearby carriage. “We’re dividing you up into squads. Look

down at your sheets, which I assume you still have.”

Savalia looked down at hers. A-B. Whatever that meant.

“Got them? Good. Now. We don’t recruit into Double-A;

you’ll get there if you get there. So next up, A-B.” She pointed

down into the cart she was standing on. “In you get. You’re

coming with me.”

Savalia gripped her paper and wove her way through the

crowd to the cart, pulling herself up over the low side. This

one had seats. Not fancy ones, but seats nonetheless. She sat
down, folding her hands in her hap. Commander Bez caught

her eye.
“Oh, fancy meeting you again. Learned to follow directions,

have we?”

“Mm…” Savalia glanced up. “Yes, ma’am.”

Bez snorted, but she smiled a little. “Good. That’s all you
have to do.”

A body pushed in next to Savalia’s. Caelion. He was gripping

his paper, rubbing the inside of his left elbow. “Ha. A-B.
Who’d have thought?”

“Is that… good?” Savalia kept her voice low, trying not to

attract the Commander’s attention.

Caelion gave an understated half-shrug. “I mean… you

heard what she said. You can only rank up into Double-A. We

must be top of the recruits.”

Savalia smiled weakly, hunching over her knees. “I’m not

entirely sure that’s something to be happy about.”

***

“Still no answer?”
 Savalia stared into the depths of her message box. Empty,
save for a scrap of seal backing someone had dropped into it.

“Not a thing. Is there some other way she’d get in touch?”

“What, you mean like a personal visit?” Caelion snickered.

Savalia couldn’t see the joke. She shut the message box,

trundling back to the mess table.

“Come on. You don’t really have a cousin who’s a senator,

do you?” Caelion trotted along beside her. He was grinning

broadly, as though he were in on some sort of joke between

the two of them. When she didn’t return the smile, simply

sitting back down and ripping a chunk of hard bread off the
roll on her tray, his face fell.

“You are kidding.”

Savalia shook her head glumly.

Caelion scooted into his seat opposite her. “But I thought

you volunteered. Why would you want to go home?”

“I have my reasons.”

“Scared?”
“No.” Savalia looked up severely. Then looked away. “I mean.

No more than anyone else. We’re all afraid, aren’t we?”

 “Not the Commander.” Caelion nodded toward the practice

grounds a few yards away. Commander Bez was in warm-up

attire, gleefully showing a handful of shoulders how to take

down an enormous training dummy with a stick twice as long

as herself.

Savalia allowed herself a laugh. “Okay, not all of us. But…

no. That’s not why.” She stirred at whatever she was meant to

be eating in the main portion of her tray; how something

could taste like nothing and still smell disgusting was beyond

her. “I suppose… there are places I’d be better utilised.”

“That’s what they all say,” muttered someone passing

behind her. He plunked down his tray a few feet to her right,

climbing over the long bench to sit down and tucking in with
all the energy of a child attacking his packed lunch.

“Is that so?” Savalia’s tone was clipped; more than she’d

intended. It must have embarrassed Caelion especially, as he

was wide-eyed, staring down at his tray.

The man turned – enough to show he was giving her

attention, not enough to give her the impression that it was

any sort of chore. He wasn't dressed like a soldier... well, he

was, but not like one of them specifically. More like violence-
for-hire in a long coat. “We’re all here for one thing. The same
thing. What makes you think you’d be ‘better’ somewhere

else?”

“Because not everyone’s the same.” Savalia leaned on the

table. “Everyone has a story. Everyone here. You can’t judge

them until you know it.”

“Can’t I.” The man shoved a spoonful of sludge into his

mouth. “You talk as though having a story makes you any

more deserving of your personal needs than anyone else

here.”

“I’m…” Savalia gritted her teeth. “I’m not. Because we all

are.” She turned away, glaring at her tray. “Clearly you’ve not

met many people if that’s how you think of us.”

The man shook his head and chuckled. Savalia wasn’t sure

what was so funny. Caelion cleared his throat pointedly.

“What?” Savalia hissed.

Caelion motioned to the man with his eyes.

“What?”
“... Forget it.”

“What?”
 But Caelion had fallen silent, apparently fascinated with the
rock on his tray being passed off as bread.

The rest of the evening was the typical blur: hit people, get
hit by people, laugh it off. Get pulled up out of the dirt by

Caelion. The man in the coat was there, too; but he spent
most of his time shooting the life out of one unfortunate
dummy in a corner. Her fellow unit members would stare at

him in shifts, watching open-mouthed for a few moments

before looking away and going back to their own business.
He was gone by nightfall.

Exhaustion had been the only sedative Savalia had needed

for the last two weeks. She hit the creaky bunk and knew
nothing until morning. Even on the nights when she didn't

pass out right away, her brain tended to swim with nothing
worse than plans for getting in touch with Kendo. She'd be
composing her next letter in her head, and before she was two

sentences deep, it was morning and the first sunrise was

assaulting her eyelids.
Tonight, she was nearly asleep, feeling the last little threads

of consciousness unravel as she sank into the minimal

comfort of her rough blanket–
 Your mother could already be dead and you wouldn't even

know.
The thought was a glass arrow piercing the base of Savalia's
skull.

She tried to steady her breathing, surrounded by snores and

mumbles from others who slept far easier. Closed her eyes.

Exhaled. Steadied her hearts as best she could. But the

thought was there, planted with no hope of being uprooted.
She stared up at the underside of her bunk. It would be

easier if she had something to do to get her mind off the whole
mess. Something to write. BESS still hadn’t found her yet.
Was there a reason? Were any ‘unofficial’ communications

being kept out? All she wanted was to hear what Mordicai had
to say. Probably a blast of frustration, seeing as she’d met his
last missive with critique. Why couldn’t she just say it was

fine? Just… deal with it? Like what little he could do and
appreciate it for what it was? For all she knew, she’d scared
him off.

Her hand itched to write.

She grabbed a pen and some paper from the box under her
bunk and tiptoed outside, trying not to wake anyone as she
went. There was a spot behind the barracks that caught a
bright shaft of moonlight on clear nights: enough to write by.
The night was clear and the guards were looking the other

way. She settled herself against the wall, licking the tip of her
pen thoughtfully. Maybe no words for Mordicai just yet. But it
had been a long time since she’d written just for her.

A peace of silence, a war of thoughts–

“You're out late.”
“Hggggh!” Savalia jumped, accidentally flicking her pen into

the air. It bounced away a few feet in the dirt.

Caelion went to fetch it. “Element of surprise,” he muttered,

handing the pen to her and sitting next to her. “You all right?”
“Hah. Sure.” Savalia wiped the dirt from the tip of her pen.
“Just not expecting anyone else to be out this late.”

“Oh, I'm always out. I like my moonlight walks. Used to do it

all the time at home... don't see a reason to give it up now.”
He glanced over at Savalia's paper. “Writing?”

Savalia pressed the paper to her chest self-consciously out

of reflex, but pulled it away again slowly. There was nothing
particularly sensitive in it. Probably. “Mm. Just some. Er.

Poetry.”
 “Ah, a poet-soldier. That’s romantic.”
“Well, I don’t often write for me anymore. Usually I just trade

verses with Mordicai.”

“Mordicai?”
“My boyfriend.”

Caelion blinked. “Oh.” He blinked again. “O-Oh. Ha. Well.”

He slumped against the wall, laughing awkwardly. “I mean, I
ought to have guessed.”

“I don't understand.”
“Don't... don't worry about it.” He forced a smile. “So you
write back and forth, then?”

“Mm. It's the only way we've been able to keep up. While
he's at the Academy and I'm... well, when I was at home. I’m

waiting on his, but...”

Caelion raised an eyebrow. “I should have guessed you’d
hook up with a city dweller, you rebel you. He’s not keen on

sending letters to the front lines?”

Savalia opened her mouth to retort, but closed it again. She
hadn't even thought of that. BESS would be able to track her

down without Mordicai knowing her location, but… what

would he say if he knew where she was? She could tell him
the truth, of course, if she saw him. It wasn't out of any sort

of commitment. It was to help someone else. She was trying –

with little success – to not be there. But knowing Mordicai,
ever the engineer, that wouldn't be black and white enough

for him.
“I... guess,” she said at last. “I’m not entirely sure how he’d
take it. He has… opinions.”

“Not much of a boyfriend if you can't tell him the truth.”

“What?”
Caelion shrugged. It looked like an attempt at a casual

shrug – a forced one. “I just mean, you know. This is a pretty

big decision. A major one. I’m not especially impressed by a
relationship where you feel the need to hide something like

this.”
“Impressed… What do you know?” Savalia clutched the

paper tighter. “You don't know him. You barely know me.”
Caelion shrugged. “I know people. And if you have to lie to
someone who claims to care about you–”

Savalia stood abruptly. “I should get back to bed.”

“Hey. Come on. Sav.”
 “Don't call me Sav.” Savalia threw him a glare. “Only my

friends call me that.”

She gripped the single line of poetry close to her chest,

stalking back to the bunks. Fortunately, the sizzling anger

she currently felt toward Caelion cauterized the wound from
earlier, clearing her head enough to let her sleep.

***

Into another cart, off on another ride. No one had been told
where they were off to this time, and Commander Bez wasn’t
forthcoming with information. Well, not spoken information.

Her body language said plenty. She’d hopped up onto the cab
of the vehicle, balanced there like a wing-walker, peering into
the distance and giggling gleefully.

“Let the DZ training commence!”

“Guess it’s dangerous where we’re going,” Caelion said with
a laugh. “The Commander’s acting like it’s her birthday.”

Savalia didn’t answer.

“Look. Sav… S-Savalia. I’m sorry, all right? I didn’t mean it

the way it sounded.”

 Savalia propped her elbow on the wooden fence of the
carriage, curling her hand into a loose fist and propping her
chin on it. She watched the empty expanse rumble past them.

Caelion flopped himself down in the spot next to her. “Oh,

come on. We’re in the middle of nowhere, doing nothing but
fighting day in and day out, with no other friends around. You

can’t possibly give me the silent treatment forever.”

She removed her chin from her hand, turning toward him

with an exaggerated motion, keeping her eyes as dead as

possible. Watch. Me.
“Uch,” Caelion sneered and shook his head, sliding back to

another seat. The spot was quickly filled by Commander Bez,

her boots clomping into it as she jumped from the carriage.
She bounced into a sitting position, turning her face up

toward Savalia.
“You.”
“Commander?” Savalia wiped the disdain from her face, lest

Bez accidentally think it was directed at her. She was small,

but she’d bruised her fair share of ankles in the unit already.
“You’ve been holding out on me.”
 Savalia blinked, rubbing her eyes – partly in confusion,
partly from the dust kicked up by the carriage. “I-I’m not sure

how, sir.”
“Ha, there’s always one.” Bez punched Savalia in the arm; it
was surprisingly sharp coming from such a small fist. “You’ll

never guess what just came down from the War Council.”
She was right – no one ever could. First there were
commands to route any attacks to the local parks, and now

there was this outing out of nowhere. “I probably won’t, sir.”

“Just a little peek at the resume you failed to mention when

you first came in.”

“R-Resume? Sir?”
A giggle from the Commander – it was a strange sound,

bright with childhood but sharp with experience. “Oh, don’t

try to hide it. It explains everything. The fitness, the
assertiveness, the fact that you’re one of three recruits who

wasn’t bleeding out their ears on the first day.”

“I… er… I’m not aware of any resume, sir.”
“Of course you’re not.” Commander Bez leaned back in her

seat, looking out at the landscape rolling past them. “Well,

we’ll see for sure today, I guess.” Then she leaned in – and up
– conspiratorially. “But if what I’ve seen is accurate, there’s

really no reason for you to be down here with these grunts.”

“S-Sir?”
The carriage jerked to a halt, and Commander Bez leaped to

her feet. “We’ll take this up again later. Not a word to the
others, understand?”
Savalia offered a small, bewildered salute. “Understood, sir.”

The back of the carriage dropped, and Savalia’s fellow

soldiers piled out. Commander Bez had already run off to a
pile of… something… covered by a large, dark cloth, and was

struggling to uncover it.

“Savalia! Desda!” She jerked her head toward the pile. “Give

a hand!”
“Yes, sir!” Savalia and another soldier rushed forward,
helping Bez pull the weighty cloth aside. It revealed, as

Savalia had guessed it might, a weapons rack. Bez dusted her

hands off, then grabbed a gun from the rack and handed it up
to Savalia. The gun looked alien and felt unnatural to touch.

“We’re going to have a guest lecturer today, class!” the

Commander shouted as she began handing out weapons. “Be
on your best behavior, and watch your posture! They’ve no
patience for time-wasters.”
“Yes, sir!” chorused the rest of the unit as Savalia looked

down at the weapon in her hands. It was a beam gun – that

much she knew. But what she couldn’t shake was just how
familiar it looked… with several slim rods surrounding the

barrel in a shape that all of them had learned to fear being on

the wrong end of.
Bez talked. Bluffed. Bragged. Said words and names that

Savalia didn’t know, but felt she should. A hologram on the

other side of Bez showed a group of robed, collared Time
Lords watching them critically, occasionally muttering

between themselves.
Savalia couldn’t help but feel bitter. Couldn’t help but
wonder if Kendo was amongst them. Safe. Not burning up in

this heat.
A firm chop landed in the middle of her forehead.

“Ow!”
“Are you listening, child?”
Savalia shouldered her gun, glaring at the deliverer of the

chop. “I’m not a child, I’m–”

 It was the man from the mess. The one with the sad smile.
The one who couldn’t be bothered. “Eyes front. You’ll need to
know these things.”

“Hmph.”
The man continued to talk. Range in meters, blast radius.

All things she didn’t know. She felt a prod at her shoulder.
“How can you talk to him that way?” It was Desda. The
woman who had helped her uncover the weapons rack. She

was short, stocky. Looked like she couldn’t be bowled over by

anything in this arsenal.
“Pretty easily,” Savalia muttered back.

“Even given who he is?”

“Never seen him before.”
Desda took a shallow breath. The look – knowing, fearful, a

bit sad – reminded Savalia of Caelion’s look when the man

had sat with him over lunch. “It’s him.”
“Him?”

Desda’s eyes did the talking. There was only one ‘him’ who
didn’t need elaboration.

Savalia whipped her head around. “No.”

A slow nod.
 “No, he’d never.” The disbelieving conversation continued in
a whisper. “Guns? Soldiers? He wouldn’t!”

“He would now.”

“There’s no way that’s the Doctor.”
“Shh.” Desda put up a hand. “He doesn’t go by that now.”

“What does he go by, then?”

“Well… nothing.”

Savalia shook her head. “He must go by something. What do

people say when he shows up?”
“Usually?” Desda turned her eyes forward again. “‘Oh my

God.’”
Trading Places and Changing Faces

When the Death Zone training was unexpectedly cut short,

most of the unit were delighted. After several days of shooting

down fake yet real targets, Caelion in particular had been

growing restless.

As they flew out of the zone to what was to be their

permanent base of operations north of Arcadia, Savalia was
reeling from her last kill on the training ground.
When the target exploded violently, everyone knew that it

couldn’t have been a wilderbeast like the rest. This was

mechanical. Bez sounded almost hopeful that the real enemy

might have encroached on their territory. In the end it turned

out to be a security bot. Odd to find one out here, given they’d

mostly been decommissioned.

Savalia’s heart had raced. Was this Mordicai’s BESS, the

one the lovers had affectionately christened as Bessie? Had

the drone come to deliver the poem after all?

Before they took flight, Savalia headed off to the scene on

the pretense of picking up a battle trophy.

 It was unmistakably Bessie. She knew that even before

she’d found the velorium-plated cylinder that housed the

hand written chain poem. Mordicai with typical lack of

imagination had carved into her chest-plate ‘I love Savalia’.

The poem was undamaged, protected by the powerful metal

cylinder. She was mortified to discover that Mordicai had

chosen not to add the next line. She stood at the site and

poured out her heart fearing she had driven him away.

Discarding the cylinder she took the poem back to camp.

She tried hard to erase him from her thoughts as they

headed to the frontline, but clutching the recovered poem, she

knew it would never be that easy to let go.

***

“That. Was. Amazing!” Commander Bez was practically

bouncing around in her quarters, like a child after too much

sugar. “Savalia, you were fantastic. Three brutes with one

round of slugs! Pow-pow-pow!” She stood on her makeshift

sofa, imitating Savalia’s stance.

 “Thank you, Commander.” Savalia stood at attention,

watching Bez rocket around her private quarters like a free

electron.

Bez jumped down, breathless. “Oh, it was a sight. The War

Council wasn’t wrong about you, soldier. You’re destined for

greatness. And yet you started here? You should have been a
Double-A right off the top.”

“I… was told that new recruits can only start at A-B.”

“Oh. Oh, of course. ‘New recruits.’” Bez threw an

exaggerated wink. “Sit down, Savalia. Sit, sit.”

“Sir?”

“Oh, at ease.” She waved a tiny hand, pulling herself up into

the chair behind her desk. Savalia noticed a box and a few

cushions had been stacked on it to allow her to see over the

desktop. “No need for all that between us.”

Savalia lowered herself carefully onto the sofa, tucking her

hands between her knees. “I’m… not sure I understand.”

“You’re good, private. You’re very good, and you’re hiding it.
At a time when none of us should be hiding our gifts.” She

opened a box on the table, pulling out a rope of red candy and

biting off a mouthful. “We’re at war. We’re in a war we never

thought could happen. With shots fired by people we’ve never

even seen before. Everything we thought we knew is off.” She

turned the box toward Savalia.

“I’m… aware of that, sir.” Hesitantly, Savalia pulled out a

rope from the box and took a small bite. It tasted like sugar

and berries and wax. Mostly wax.

“Modesty may be attractive in the outside world, but we’ve

no room for it here. If we have talent, it should be utilised.”

The candy rope hanging from the corner of her mouth like the

tongue of a bewildered baby snake, Bez shuffled through a

pile of papers. “How good are you with maps?”
Nothing was making any sense. Though, to be fair, nothing

had made sense since the carts had come to her village.
“Fairly good, sir. I’ve had to make several for my b… my friend

when he came to visit. They’re not tidy, but they’re good

enough.”
“Tidy doesn’t win a war. It’ll do. How quickly can you draw

up a tactical map of North Arcadia and the surrounding areas

if I give you blueprints?”

Savalia flinched as Bez hurled a stack of clipped-together

papers into her lap with surprising force. She flipped through
them. “If I start after evening exercises–”
Bez waved a hand. “No evening exercises. If you started now,

when would I have it?”

“B-by moonrise, sir.”
“Perfect.” Bez hopped out of her chair, walking over the desk

and dropping to the ground in front of it. “Follow me. Bring

the papers.”

The Commander led Savalia out of her barracks and over to

a small, unoccupied room with a desk and a cot – smaller

than Bez’s own quarters, but still private. A lamp hung on

either side of the door, and other than the rumpled sheet on
the cot, it was neat as a pin. It stood out like a sore thumb

with its wooden door and panelled walls in sharp contrast to

the cold metallic feel of the rest of the complex.

“Whatsisname – you know, Mr. Famous – he usually bunks

here when he comes through. But it’s yours now. He can

sleep rough with the others. It’ll make him feel all soldier-y.”
Bez gestured to the desk. “Make yourself at home, Corporal
Savalia.”

Savalia’s jaw dropped. “What?”

 Bez wrinkled her face in a childish pout. “If you want better
than that, you’ll have to work for it. Get to it, Corporal. We

reconvene at moonrise.” She glanced over Savalia from head

to toe. “You’ll need a nicer uniform, too. Can’t have the

shovelheads seeing an officer looking like that.”

The tiny commander breezed out through the doorway,
leaving Savalia more confused than she’d been since she

started.

***

It took a few days to adjust to her new living conditions. The

war was in full flow just north of the complex, and the whole
place was shielded from the temporal distortions, save from

the corridors at night. Savalia once dared herself to walked

through them after-dark, but she made it no further than her

opened door, such was the intensity of the sensual and

psychological disturbance.
One morning she woke up at the crack of dawn, convinced

that she’d had an unexpected meeting with one of the ghosts

in the corridor. It was Mordicai. He’d come like a knight in
shining armour to take her away from the battle. She had
sent him packing, leaving him in no doubt that they were

over.
Savalia decided that although this was almost certainly a

dream, a way of resolving her conflicting instincts to run and

to fight, she would treat it as if it was a genuine encounter.
This was her chance to let go. If it wasn’t for Caelion’s rude
entrance, she’d have destroyed the scroll of incomplete chain

poetry there and then.

“Too good for us now, huh?”

Savalia flinched barely awake and lifted her head from the
desk. A figure stood silhouetted in the moonlight shining

through the door of her new barracks. “Who’s there?”

“Forgotten me now and everything.” The figure propped itself

against the doorframe. “Oh. Sorry. ‘Corporal.’” A quick mock-

salute.

“Caelion.” Savalia rose from her seat, peering at him

through the dark. “You should be getting dressed for the day’s
battle.”

“And you should be in the barracks, but here we are.”

 Savalia gestured around herself. “I have a new job. I didn’t

ask to do it. I didn’t ask to be here in the first place.”

“Jumped right into it, though, didn’t you? Disappeared into

the Commander’s quarters a few weeks ago, and suddenly

you’ve got your nice new uniform and your nice new job.”

“You know, last I checked, we’re both still far away from
home fighting someone else’s war and five steps from dying.”

Caelion snorted. “Not you, though.”

“Yes, me, too. Still me. I wasn’t elected President, I was just
popped up a rank.”

“Oh, right, right. That’s why you’ve been spending all your

time being a face instead of a gun whenever the Citadel sees

us. That’s why you’re always riding up front with the

Commander. That’s why you’re suddenly too valuable to lose.”

Savalia looked askance. “It’s no more comfortable up front

than it is in the back.”

Caelion sputtered out a laugh. “Ah, listen to that. Poor

thing. Seat a little too rough on your posh arse, Corporal?”

“My mother is dying.” Savalia was on her feet without

realising it, tears stinging her eyes. “My mother is… out there.

Dying. And there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. I can’t

get her to a hospital, I can’t get her out to Red Forge or
somewhere safe… If I don’t come back, who’s going to look

after her? My family? You want to talk about ‘too good’, here I

am within spitting distance of them and they won’t even

acknowledge my existence. If I die, I’m not the only victim.”

“How’s the boyfriend taking it?”

The white-hot fire of her last real or imagined encounter

with Mordicai sprang to life. “Oh, what do you think you

know?”

“You still haven’t told him, have you?”

“I have, as a matter of fact.”

“And?”

Savalia faltered. “Leave my quarters, Private.”

She expected a laugh. An “I told you so.” Shouting, mockery,

something. But instead, Caelion sat down on her cot, folding

his hands and looking down at his feet. “I’m sorry.”

“Sure.”

“I am.” He tilted his head, looking over at her. “I was a

bastard.”

“Yeah. You were.”

 “I never meant… I never assumed.” He smiled, embarrassed.

“Truth is, I’d never have said any of that if I ever thought he
was anything but good.”

Savalia ran her hands over the paper in front of her,

collecting her thoughts. Replaying the conversation – such as

it was – with Mordicai in her mind. “I don’t think it makes

him bad. I really don’t. He has opinions. We all do.”

“Yeah, well. Until I see him taking a taser to the chest, I’m

not convinced he can really understand what we’re going

through.”

“‘We’? I thought I was too good for you now.”

Caelion’s embarrassed smile turned sad. “I’m afraid you

might always have been.”

“At ease, don’t get up, just stay where you – oh.”

Commander Bez stopped mid-stride through the curtain

covering Savalia’s door, spotting Caelion on the cot. Her head

turned toward Savalia. “Sorry, Corporal, were you about to

get somewhere?”

Savalia rolled her eyes; Caelion turned his face as far from

either girl’s gaze as he could. “Just reminiscing, sir. Is there a

problem?”
 “Opposite of a problem. A massive, whopping un-problem.
I’ve just heard from…” Bez glanced back at Caelion. The

glance was returned blankly.

“What?”
All things considered, Savalia winced. “I… think this might

be above your pay grade, Private.”

“Oh. Right.” Caelion stood, saluting to each of them. “Sir.

Ma’am.”
Bez craned her neck around, waiting for Caelion to be out of

sight and earshot before clambering up onto Savalia’s desk.

“We’ve hit the absolute jackpot, Corporal. If you thought

special training was top-tier, your mind’s about to be blown.”

“Quite frankly, sir, I can’t even begin to imagine how

anyone’s going to top that.”

“Right? But it’s happening.” Bez pulled a small roll of paper

from her nightgown and slapped it on Savalia’s desk. “The

War Council loves us.”

Savalia spread the missive out flat, her eyes scanning the
words. “… single regenerations?” She looked up. “That can’t

be right, sir. You can’t just do that. Can you?”

 “Apparently there’s a new whizz-kid on the Council who’s

got some connections.” Bez clapped her hands together. “One

hundred test phials of injectable DNA reprogramming. Pop

that in our foot soldiers, and we’re unbeatable.”

“You… this…” Savalia tensed, looking across at Bez. The

tiny commander’s eyes were flashing with fire and excitement,

her fists clenched in her lap.

“Sir, with all due respect, I worry about their ability to cope

with the regeneration process. It’s not just a physical change;

it can cause genuine psychological trauma, especially for

those who haven’t had the training to cope with its effects.

Surely you of all…” She caught herself. “Surely you of all

people… would most want to look after the welfare of the

unit.”

Bez waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, that’s sorted. The team

behind them apparently has some way of cancelling out the

physical change and the regeneration crisis.”

Savalia shook her head. “That can’t be done. There’s…

there’s literally no way to do that.”

“Corporal.” Bez’s eyes had gone hard, and for a brief

moment Savalia could see the commander’s previous lives –
cold and no-nonsense – glaring out at her. “I respect you
hugely as a soldier and as a tactician. But you have no

Academy training, correct?”

Savalia sighed. “Correct. But I have familial ties, and I’ve

seen what can happen to someone unprepared. I just… worry

for the well-being of our soldiers.”

The hardness left Bez’s face, and she grinned, slapping

Savalia on the arm. “That’s what’s good about you, Corporal.

The face. The hearts. It’s no wonder Councillor Kendo speaks

so highly of you.”

“… Kendo?”
“Yeah. That whizz-kid I mentioned. She’s pretty green, but

she really seems to know what she’s about. Those

regenerations? All her idea. Hey, maybe she’s eyeing you for

first crack at one.” Bez slid down off Savalia’s desk. “Get some
rest, Corporal. The first shipment comes in tomorrow, and

we’ll have to keep everyone from clawing each other’s eyes out
for a phial.”
Savalia couldn’t even focus enough to murmur a reply.

***
Caelion leaned back toward Savalia in the cart. “Maybe I’ll get
to try that whole regeneration thing today, eh?”

“The goal is not to get to try it out.” Savalia sighed. “I still

think this is a terrible idea.”

“Then why’d you get one?”

“What?”
Caelion slapped his arm. “Saw you getting a needle the other

day. Figured you’d finally buckled and joined the cool kids.”
“No, that was… something else.” Not an injection, in
Savalia’s case, but a blood sample. What it was for, she didn’t

know. Bez had said something about a new initiative and part
of her latest promotion. But beyond that, nothing.
“Hey…” Savalia hunched over, elbows on her knees. “How

high an officer do you have to be to talk to the War Council?”

“Oh, I think that’s only Commander Pipsqueak. Why, got a
complaint… Major?”

Savalia sighed into her hand as she rubbed her face. “No, I
just… no. It’s nothing.” It was, of course, many things. But
they all boiled down to one: asking Kendo what the hell was

going on. And since Tor Fasa seemed to have disappeared off
the face of Gallifrey, there was little hope of getting a message
through. Unless Bez decided to just go for broke and promote

her all the way up and behind a desk.

That… wouldn’t be terrible.
The enemy were attacking from the epicentre. They’d

discovered a temporal passage into the barracks, and a dozen

or so of unit C-Q had been taken out before an anonymous

soldier (‘anonymous soldier’ always means the same person

these days) put the interloper down and dropped her back
outside like a dead mouse at the bottom of a garden path.

Now, it was their turn.

***

There were screams, followed by a massive explosion, from

the front cart. Every head turned. They’d hit a mine just

outside the entrance.

“Dammit!” Bez leaped up from her seat at the front of the
rearmost cart, jumping into the back of the cart ahead of her

and leapfrogging her way up to Savalia. “They were waiting!”

“Yeah…” Savalia peered ahead, every muscle tensed.
“Probably had plenty of time to lay things out while we were
busy taking out their intruder.”
All the carts had stopped. Savalia and Bez raced to the
front-most that was still in one piece. Soldiers were doused in

blood and rubble, a few of the younger ones panicking at the

sudden attack. Bez waved toward the back; five of the unit’s
heaviest built soldiers rant to the front, armed and armored.

“See if you can spot any hiding around the edges,” Bez
hissed. “Whatever you do, don't let anyone past the entryway
unless I signal.”

The five soldiers ran past her and covered the entrance. And
then...

Nothing happened.
“Was that it?” Savalia squinted toward the entrance. “Just
the mine? What were they doing, firing off a warning shot?”

“No... no, that can't be right. They must have rogues out
there. Or they're waiting for us to step out. No good them
trying to pile in here while we're taking up most of the space.”

“That would mean we can't clear the passage at all, though,

wouldn't it? Whether we go out or retreat, they have a way
in.”
 Bez flailed her tiny hands in aggravation. “I know, I know.
And something tells me they're just as patient as we are, if

not more so.” She peered at the armored soldiers up front.

“Problem is, that probably was not the only mine. So no
matter how prepared we are, we risk arbitrarily losing anyone

we send out.”
“I mean, you know... not really?”
Bez and Savalia turned at the sound of the voice. Caelion

was beaming. “Not really,” he repeated. “Why not send some

of us experiments out? I mean, isn't that what we're for?”
“No,” Savalia snapped. “That's... no, that's not what you're

'for' at all!” Caelion opened his mouth to protest, but Savalia

glared back. “You stay where you are, Private.”

Caelion threw her a sour, almost betrayed look back, but

leaned back in his seat.
Two of the heavily-armed soldiers by the entrance threw

back a few hand signs and a shake of the head. They couldn't
see anyone. Bez sighed. “Right. So they just laid out a bunch
of mines hoping we'd storm out. Major, coordinate the

sweepers. I'll see if we can figure out where else they might be
trying to get in.”
 Savalia hopped out of her cart and found the sweepers –

Maric and Jac, a pair of young twin brothers who were the
envy of most other units, but (fortunately) never saw much
work. Maric swept, Jac deactivated. Between them and with a

few handheld devices, they could clear a minefield faster than

any equipment sent the army's way. For obvious reasons,
they'd also talked each other into going in for single shots of

regeneration. As distasteful as Savalia found the whole

exercise, she couldn't blame them in this case.
“Right, how much have you heard?”

Maric pursed his lips, wrinkling his nose in overstated

thought. “Pretty much everything?”
“Sounds like an easy one,” Jac added.

“Sure, just... get the heaviest stuff you can stand on. And
take a couple of the big lugs up front with you. We're almost

certain the enemy has looped around somewhere else, but I'd
rather be paranoid.”
Both twins grinned and saluted in unison. “Be as paranoid

as you like, ma'am,” one of them said; she'd lost track of

which.
“They'll be fine, Major.”
 Savalia sighed, climbing back into her seat. “I know, sir. I

just... I don't know. A lot of them remind me of people I lived

with. Probably because a lot of them aren't from terribly far

away. This might sound odd to you, but... well, we were family
even if we weren't. Because we were all in the same dire
straits.”

“What makes you think I wouldn't understand that?” Bez

motioned around the tunnel with her chin. “What do you
think this is?”

“I... hadn't thought of that.”

“Major, you're good. You do your job, you show a good face
to the people out there who aren't fond of us or the war, and

you look after the rest. You're the only one who's not noticed
you have family here now.” Bez popped open a small flask,
drinking from it and letting out a sigh of satisfaction. She

offered it to Savalia.
“Thank you... I think.” Savalia took a drink. Sugary water
with a hint of fruit in it. She handed the flask back, trying not

to smile. Then the smile faded. “Sir. Well. On the subject of

family–”
 “Gunners right outside!” shouted one of the soldiers by the
door. “We've lost the twins!”
Bez and Savalia both jumped to their feet. “Not for long,” Bez

shouted back. “Heavy arms, move out! Everyone else, fall

back. I don't want you out there unless you have enough on
your back to start a family in! Regenerations are not armour –

I repeat, regenerations are not armour!”

“Where's Caelion?” Savalia looked around the cart. His seat

was conspicuously empty. “Commander, where's Private

Caelion?”
“No time for that, Major! We have a whole unit to worry

about!”
“Oh, no...” Savalia jumped out of the cart and dashed
through the entryway. She could see the few deactivated

mines the twins had found; she knew she couldn't go any
farther than that safely. Everyone around her was engaged
enough that she could lie low, peering through legs and dust

for her fallen friends.

Not far away, a pale man with a vague scruff of dark hair
and a dark-skinned woman were clinging to each other,
crawling back toward the carts. The woman caught Savalia's
eye.

“We're all right! Jac is a little dizzy, but that's all. We'll get
ourselves back.”
“But... but you're not–”

“I know. Bit different. But it was all a test run anyway,

wasn't it?” The woman – Maric, it seemed – even flashed a
smile and a thumbs-up as she dragged herself and her twin to

safety.
Savalia tried not to stare after them, but she was caught by

surprise for a moment. The regenerations hadn't gone as

planned – that much was obvious. But both of them seemed
fine. Was it true, then? Were they safe?

She was disabused of this extremely quickly.

“Help! Someone help! They're going to kill me!”
Savalia stood up as much as she dared in a crouching run,

dashing toward the sound of the voice. A man, a stranger –

skinny, weakly built – lay on his side near a tripped mine,
clutching his head. “They're going to kill me, they're going to

kill me, what am I doing here...”

 “C-Caelion? Caelion, is that you?” She grabbed his face

between her hands, looking into his eyes. It was something

she'd learned with her mother: no matter how different they
looked or acted, sometimes there was something in the eyes

to clue you in. She searched for Caelion in the stranger's

wide, terrified eyes.
“S-Sav... Sav, it's you!” He clung to her, trembling. “Wait...

why do I know you... who are you... why do I know you?!”

“It's all right. It's all right, come on. Come with me. Stay
low.”

Caelion – his new face contorted in fear – tried to pull away.

“No! No, tell me why they're trying to kill me! What did I do?

What did we do? Why are they killing us!?”

Savalia grabbed his hand, pulling him along. “We're soldiers.
Remember? It's not you, it's just–”

“I'm dead, Sav! They killed me! I'm dead and I don't know
where I went and... who is this!? Whose voice is this!? Savalia,
where did I go!?”

***
“I'm going to go have a word with the War Council.” Bez's
voice was unnaturally calm and dark. “Or, well, the lady who
thought this was such a great idea.”

Savalia nodded, not looking up from her desk. Between her

and the door of her quarters were half a dozen cots and
bedrolls, each occupied by a sleeping soldier.

“There are other things you should be doing, Major. This

isn't your mess to clean up.”
“I'm looking after my family, sir.” Savalia looked up with a

half-smile. “Believe it or not, I'm in my element right now.”

Bez shook her head. “They're not good for anything
anymore. You know that.”

“Not necessarily. Give them time.”

“Mm.” Bez nodded slowly. Then a silence. Then: “You're not
going to say it?”

“Say what?”
“You told me so.”

Savalia sighed, leaning forward on the desk. “We each said

what we thought was right. What good would tallying up do
now?”
 Bez smiled – not her cynical smirk or her crazed childish
grin, but a tired, old smile. For a moment, Savalia could see
the years behind the young face. “Remind me, I have a story

to tell you someday.”

“Yes, sir.”

“But for now, I've a politician to yell at. I'm looking forward
to it.”
Once Bez had made her exist, Savalia went back to her

radio. “Sorry, the boss was in. Go ahead.”

“Nothing solid yet,” came the voice through the receiver.
“But we do have a rumour.”

“Right now, rumours are good. What have we got?”

A cough. A clearing of the throat. Caelion still wasn't used to
his new voice, it seemed. “The twins tracked down some

information concerning Tor Fasa's old home and... well... it's

looking good. Or bad, I guess. Depending on your point of
view.”

“So he's not gone off-world after all. Good. Keep on the trail.
I want to know exactly what we're pinning on him because,

frankly, I refuse to believe it's nothing. His fingerprints are all

over this.”
 “How so?”
“Trust me.” One of the bedroll occupants moaned slightly in

her sleep. “Sorry, poorly patient. I'll check back in later.”

Savalia directed her attention to the cots and bedrolls again.
The twins had been a special case; they were there for each

other, which had likely dampened the psychological

implications. But other than that, it had been a disaster

across the board. Arbitrary regenerations inflicted on people

unprepared to deal with them. Some had ended up too old to
fight (she'd never say “too young” near the Commander,

though that was a consideration), others lost their training

and muscle memory to new builds. And regardless, no one
was sure what to do about the new face in the mirror.

Fortunately, Savalia had dealt with this every day of her life.
Literally. So looking after the regenerated soldiers was, rather
grimly, a bit of comforting normality after so long in the

barracks. Also fortunately, any unused phials were sent back.

Angrily.
There was one measurable advantage to the unexpected,

out-of-commission new faces in the unit, however: they were

out-of-commission new faces. So they could be anywhere.
And if Kendo wasn't going to answer Savalia's letters, then

she'd go about getting information in whatever way she could.

So as the rest of Gallifrey wondered at Tor Fasa's absence,
Savalia got everything she needed live from the site.

And then... she was sent for.

“I can't stop them.” Commander Bez had grown
progressively more serious, less enthusiastic, recently. “I'd
like to, of course. But I can't.”

Savalia smiled. “You tried, though, didn't you?”

In return, she got Bez's bloodthirsty grin – but it almost felt
like a mask now. “Made up a few new words and all. But
you're sent for. And I can't do anything about it.”
Savalia nodded.
“You know... if you disappeared. Just ran home to your

family in the night. I wouldn't know what to do about it. I

couldn't stop you. I couldn't even stop you if you raided the
barracks for supplies and transport before you left.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, not if you were quiet about it.”

Savalia turned it over in her mind. “I'd...”

 “Major, if I lose you, I'd rather it be to someone who deserves
you.”
“No. Or, well. Not yet. I have questions. And if I don't go,
they'll pull someone else.” Savalia straightened the collar of

her uniform, as though expecting to be pulled up in front of

the council right then. “I think I may be able to get us some
answers.”
“One last thing before you do go. Who in god’s name is
Mordicai? Only I’ve a couple of angry Zecho’s outside my
office vying for his blood, and they seem to think you might be

able to help them find him.”

***

As Savalia stood on the steps of the Citadel, she almost

wished she'd taken the Commander’s offer. She could have

gone looking for Mordicai after the ridiculous claims of the

Zechonian visitors, the last people she’d spoken to before
heading off to see Kendo. Whatever trouble he’d been in, she
now knew that their encounter at the camp wasn’t a dream.
Mordicai had gone rogue. More than that, she now knew that
he still loved her. She clutched the poem again. Everything

had changed, so many things lost forever, not least of which

her mother, but the poem and all that it signified remained.
She would use it not to dream of a way out, but to inspire her
to stand up against the war crimes she had been forced to
witness and even participate in.
What answers did she have? Her own cousin poisoning the

troops to maintain her political standing... and a needle full of

something, pointed straight for Savalia's own veins. The man
she loved, and her own people – if they were her own people
anymore, she wondered as she looked down at herself in
military attire – rumoured to be advancing on the Citadel in

revolt, presumably bearing the same distasteful Zechonian

weapons she'd had to choke down using herself.
And one of the few people she trusted had gone rogue and
was now in danger of becoming the newly regenerated and
psychologically unstable Caelion’s first present day kill.
Bez.

Mother.
… I should have gone home.
 PART V

Mordicai’s War
Hero No More

According to the official line, Mordicai’s expulsion from the

Academy was down to his frivolous personality. At his appeal

hearing the judge ratified the decision by claiming that since

the compulsion to fool around was, in Mordicai’s case, a

genetic flaw, then no amount of education could rectify it.

Mordicai was convinced the judge had got it all wrong,
blaming his attitude on the burdensome first-year
curriculum, heavily weighted as it was towards non-science-

based subjects. The arts all bored him to tears, but one in
particular wound him up so much that he found it impossible

to take his education seriously. If History with its

mythologising of the past and propensity to restrict the

scientific method had been made optional, he’d have got

through the year no problem. Instead, the wretched subject

was the bedrock of the entire syllabus.

Because of what Mordicai called the idolatry of history, some

of Gallifrey’s most remarkable natural phenomenon were

shrouded in mystery, untouchable and off-limits when it

came to scientific analysis. The Untempered Schism was a

prime example. It was crying out for investigation. The only

canonical explanation as to this strange fissure in time and

space was that it was a tear from the Eye of Harmony. Really?

The Eye blinked one day and out she popped? The flowery

language might indeed be a symbolic way of describing a

science-based occurrence, but on Gallifrey science was never

allowed to ask why. Time Lord scientists constructed theories

through observation, while historians used story and never

the twain shall meet. And so, the schism was explained in a

fairy tale and protected from scientific enquiry by the

unobservable Eye. There were many contradictory versions of

the schism’s origins, depending on political and religious

affiliations (another reason why Mordicai believed that the

subject was fundamentally flawed), but all of them posited

that the temporal schism created the Time Lords, either with

or without the help of Omega and/or Rassilon.

In truth, thought Mordicai wryly, whatever their roots, Time

Lords now created themselves. They had reduced the schism

to an initiation rite, using fairly arbitrary rules as to who

passed the test. He’d been through the ordeal once before,

and now because of the War he was back again.

The queue to the Untempered Schism was several miles

long. The emergency measures aimed at swelling the ranks of

Time Lords included the removal of the age restriction and the

once-in-a-lifetime nature of the rite of passage. For the latest

batch of undergraduates, several decades of Academy training

would be condensed into a two-week crash course, making it

all the more important to test the mettle of the candidates

through the ancient ritual. In peace, not everyone aspired to

Time Lord status, but in war it was seen as a survival

essential.
Mordicai joined the line, concerned about his mentor’s state

of mind now that Fasa’s TARDIS had been decommissioned. It

seemed odd to think of a Time Lord without a TARDIS, but

that was the reality now for everyone still on Gallifrey – not

that there would have been enough for one between six

anyway. These home-based Time Lords would be deployed in

spatial, chemical and temporal warfare initiatives, or as lab

technicians, weather watchers, advisers, strategists and

guinea pigs. Some would be stationed on Gallifrey to help

with the home defence, whilst the majority would be

transported via rudimentary cloaked space shuttles to one of

the Eyes of Gallifrey – the off-world satellites in the

neighbouring constellations of Shadowborous, which housed

the rent-a-TARDISes severed of their symbiotic links to a

specific set of owners, the battle-TARDISes, the decoy

TARDISes, and the prison ship TARDISes.

The wailing and the screaming that echoed around the

Citadel’s Weeping Field was understandable as families found

themselves torn apart by mixed results. It was clear that

many of them intended to sign up to the fast track program
not because they yearned for Time Lord status, but because

they were desperate to be evacuated off the planet, at least

until the threat of war was over.

Mordicai was surprised to discover that the Schism Stare

was being supervised by two old rivals from his first stint as
an Academy student.

“Mental Mordicai,” laughed Tregoras. “Do you really think

you’d be able to survive two more weeks at the Academy?”

“Treg. Just get on with it, eh?”

 Tregoras’ partner Baron was far less jovial about the
prospect of Mordicai taking a shortcut towards becoming a

Time Lord.
“Six years we’ve been slogging our guts off, and you couldn’t
even manage six months. If you pass this test… well, there’s

no justice in the world.”

“Chill, Baron,” said Mordicai. “I know more about the inner

workings of a TARDIS than your whole class put together, and

that includes the teacher.”

“Shame you’ll never get to fly one, then,” Baron sniped.

“The War Council knows I’m wasted down here. They’ll be
needing my TARDIS engineering skills on the satellites.”

“Dream on Mordicai, dream on,” smiled Tregoras. “The

schism will see you now.”

***

Having been through the ordeal nine years ago, Mordicai

knew exactly what to expect. Tregoras was right – it was a

two-way connection as the temporal schism searched the

souls of those who dared to approach. Both parties had to be
in agreement. Mordicai found it helpful to personify the
vortex, even though it went against his scientific principles:

she was choosing her Time Lords as much as they were

choosing her.

He approached the window, eyes closed, and knelt down in

the mud.
“Hi, babe. It’s me again. Just want to say, I hope you didn’t

take offence at my reaction the last time we met. It was

nerves, that’s all. I love you, really. Honest.”

Tregoras and Baron watched on a few yards away.

“What’s he blabbering on about?” said Baron.
“Come on, Mord. Get on with it,” shouted Tregoras.

Mordicai bowed his head, still avoiding eye contact with the
schism.

“I don’t know if anyone’s bothered to tell you this, but things

aren’t looking great. Gallifrey is under attack, and I think my

engineering qualities are going to be vital, so you know – go

easy on me. Oh, and if you could bless me with any skills in
the art of love, specifically of the poetic kind, well that would

be just great.”
 Baron had had quite enough. He marched up to Mordicai
and pulled his head up by the hair.

“You’re not here to pray,” he sneered.

Mordicai finally opened his eyes.

It was happening again, despite his best efforts.

He bit his tongue and held his hand over his mouth, but the
urge to laugh was uncontrollable. The force of his laugher
projected his hand away. He was soon doubled up in

hysterics, and rolling over in the mud in a state of ecstasy

and unbridled delight.

Tregoras shook his head while Baron kicked Mordicai a few

times in a futile effort to take the smile off his face. Between

them they managed to drag him away to the processing desk

at the side of the schism.

***

Word of Mordicai’s unprecedented reaction to the Untempered

Schism had even reached President Romana. The academies’

finest historians had no idea how to interpret his reaction.

Was it a unique manifestation of vortex-induced madness, or

a sign that he was more equipped than most to travel through

the dimensions? In the end, with the President’s consent, they

took a gamble with him, accepting his application to join the

Prydonian chapter. Six months later, when it had all gone so

horribly wrong, unbeknownst to Mordicai, ‘laughter in the

face of the vortex’ was added to the official list of disqualifying

criteria.

When Mordicai had finally composed himself, he stood up in

front of the desk expecting to receive the badge of approval.

“I’m sorry, Mordicai. It’s a no,” said Tregoras.

“A no? But I passed the first time, why not now?”

Sitting at his desk, Tregoras unwound a ridiculously long

ancient scroll listing even the most subtle reactions, such as

the number of times the subject blinked with each one

marked as a pass or a fail. Right at the very bottom,

handwritten in different coloured ink to the ancient font, was

the verdict on laughter.

“I’m sorry,” he said, handing Mordicai a note.

“What’s this?”
“Your assignment. Not everyone gets to join the Academy,

but nobody leaves here without a job to do. You are to report
to General Hex first thing in the morning to serve Gallifrey as
his personal assistant and coat bearer.”

“I demand to speak to whoever’s in charge. Kendo. Fasa.

Anyone. I’m an experienced TARDIS engineer, for goodness’

sake,” protested Mordicai.

“You know full well that it is strictly forbidden for any

Gallifreyan to travel off world unless they are a Time Lord.

You need to let this go now, or I’ll have you arrested.”

Tregoras gestured towards the chancellery guards who were

patrolling the queue to maintain order.

“Bye, loser,” said Baron, pleased with himself for noticing

the irony of having had the last laugh.

***

Back in his 51st floor studio apartment in Omega Towers, the

most intimidating building in Citadel’s district 41 – a

residential conurbation for those working in the service

industries – Mordicai was in the mood for taking stuff apart

again. His flat was overstuffed with gadgets and components,

a hodgepodge of various half-finished inventions many of

which were piled precariously on top of each other.

Returning home to mess around with his gadgets was better

than attacking Tor Fasa, the real object of his anger. His

mentor, as a senior academic, would have surely known

about the amendment to the exclusion criteria. Why had he

let him carry on the charade of trying to become a Time Lord?

And why hadn’t he taken steps to make Mordicai his assistant

instead of Hex’s? Mordicai needed time to think before

confronting him. It was never good to be driven by instinct

alone.

The only bit of available floor space should have been the

corner reserved for sleeping, but even that looked cluttered,

covered as it was in several scrunched-up pieces of paper,

each one an aborted attempt to reply to Savalia’s chain poem.

Running away to live out the rest of his days with Savalia in
the wasteland was a tempting proposition right now, but he

should have done it in the first place. An official assignment

effectively made him a marked man now. He’d be tracked and

hunted down by one of the Biometrically Enabled Security

Systems. They had been specifically invented to go where no
Gallifreyan was allowed to go.

Mordicai had a black and yellow BESS of his own, albeit an

obsolete model. He pulled the rust-bucket out from

underneath his useless homebuilt poetry generator and

switched her on.

“Hi, Bessie. How long has it been since you visited the

Wastelands?”
Mordicai had recovered Bessie on one of his scavenger

hunts in the dumping grounds of Felicia. He’d reprogramed

her into a postal drone for the sole purpose of exchanging

letters and recorded messages with Savalia. She had no voice

capabilities, but Mordicai’s question was rhetorical.

“Two weeks, but it feels like years,” he said, crashing out on

his bed of scrunched up paper. “Playback the last message

from Savalia.”

“Mordicai. A poet isn’t supposed to stick to the rules every

time. Break a few… express yourself. It’s just… well, you

come across so cold. Stilted. Lacking in heart. You do have a

heart, don’t you? There’s no point trying to impress me with

your technical knowhow, I want to be moved by your love.

Woo me, don’t wow me.”

He must have replayed Savalia’s well-meant advice a

thousand times, but still he hadn’t cracked it; even the poetry

generator was hopeless. If her words were meant to relax him

then they were having the opposite effect. He felt pressured…

cornered… challenged. One more rejection could be the last,

and he simply had to provide the perfect response.

“I can’t do, it Sav. I’ve tried, Gallifrey knows how hard I’ve

tried. But whatever I say will be inadequate. Love cannot be

contained by words… they sound feeble and insincere every

time. You’re right, love can’t be forced into a set of rules. But

nor can she break them. She exists outside of time and space
and there’s no way of controlling her. You’ve just invented

another rule for her – the rule of non-conformity. And there’s

nobody who can possibly know more about being a rebel than

I do. It just… it doesn’t work in this context.”

Mordicai was indeed rebellious by nature, despite being so

OCD about finding out how things operated. The uneasy

juxtaposition of the two personality traits made him the most

highly-strung person Savalia had ever met. He sensed that
she pitied him, or at best considered him quaintly childish.
He played up to it, to be fair, throwing toddler tantrums for

effect. His love for Savalia was messy and complicated. There

was romance, but there was also a need for a substitute

mother figure. His parents had disowned him when he was

slung out of the Academy, leaving him to, in their eyes, rot in

his studio flat on the opposite side of the city. His father had

always been distant, but he had a bond with his mother and
missed her terribly. Savalia’s closeness to her own mother,

though born of tragedy, was something he envied.

Bessie’s breastplate flashed and a serious of beeps

confirmed that Mordicai’s last words had been recorded.

“No, you weren’t supposed to record that. Did I say I wanted

to send a reply?”

It was too late. Bessie’s faulty programming was far more

rebellious than Mordicai.

“Stop. I don’t want to be the one to break the chain…”

Mordicai shouted as Bessie launched herself out of his
apartment window, driven by the prime directive to deliver his

words to Savalia.
 ***

Dutifully, the next morning Mordicai reported to Hex in his

Citadel office.

Hex didn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact, he didn’t suffer

anybody gladly. His face was notorious for being permanently
etched in a scowl. He barely looked up to acknowledge his

new charge as one of his soldiers introduced them.

“Another new recruit, Sir. Shall I assign him to the 53rd
Battalion?”

“Wretched thing’s gone on the blink again,” shouted Hex,

smashing his PDA with his fist.
“Here, let me,” said Mordicai. “It’ll be dust on the voice

sensor preventing boot-up. A common fault with this model.”

Within seconds, Mordicai had opened the PDA, removed the
source of the interference and successfully rebooted the

software.
Hex looked on, unusually passive, impressed by Mordicai’s
nerve and skills.

“I know you… you’re that TARDIS engineer, Mandica…”

“Mordicai, sir.”
 “So, 53rd Battalion?” said the soldier.

“No. Leave this one with me. His skills might be better
employed elsewhere. That will be all.”
Alone with Mordicai, Hex changed tact.

“War is no time for jokers. Pull off one of your ‘look at me

aren’t I clever stunts’ on the battlefield and you’ll be Dalek

toast,” he sneered.
“I was just trying to help,”
“Tor Fasa warned me about you. Give you a gun and within

an hour you’ll have turned it into a Gallimite catcher. You’re

not soldier material, but I could use your technological
knowhow. I’m having to run the training program with all

kinds of faulty and unreliable equipment. There’ll be plenty of

work for you by my side. Any good with holographic interface
panels?”

***

An hour later, Hex was flying Mordicai over the mountains of

Solace and Solitude in a rickety two-seater light aircraft.
 “Apologies for the primitive form of transport,” shouted Hex
above the noise of the propellers. “Below the sky trenches,
we’re having to go back to basics. These are harder to

monitor, and can’t be sabotaged from a distance.”

“Where are we going?”
“To a readymade training ground. You’re going to love it.

Hold tight now.”

Hex pushed the craft to its limits, taking her up level with
the sky trenches.

“Any good with heights, Mordicai?” said Hex, bringing the

plane down to land on one of the trenches. Like most of them,

it was still under construction.

“Doesn’t look like training ground material to me,” said
Mordicai.

“I like to see the view from up here and look in on the

workers. You’ll be checking her for defects when we stop off
again on the way back, but generally speaking the holocoms

are in much better shape up here. The higher up you go, the
more advanced the tech.”
Hex stood on the cockpit, arms spread wide as he took in

the atmosphere.
 By contrast, Mordicai couldn’t stop coughing as he struggled
for breath.

“The smell of war. Don’t you just love it?”

“It smells like a Felician scrapyard.”
Hex waved at a number of workers and walked to an

unfinished edge, daringly leaning over.

“Come on, join me. Invigorating, eh?”
Mordicai wasn’t as sure as he stood a couple of inches back.

“That’s where we’re headed,” said Hex, pointing to a mist

filled region surrounded by an imposing transparent wall.
Mordicai recognised it instantly: The Death Zone. Even

though they were too far away, Mordicai could hear the death
chimes of the winds that infamously echoed around the

derelict Tower of Rassilon like a broken and ghostly cloister

bell.
Hex grinned at Mordicai’s shocked reaction.

“The source of every child’s nightmares. A sign of what the

whole of Gallifrey would have become had the outliers won
the war. Finally we’ve put it to good use again.”

“So that’s Arcadia to the West?”

 “On the cusp of the Time War, yes. The future is getting

closer, taking up more and more space. Look further to the

north and you’ll see the skies ablaze and littered with Dalek
hoverboards. That’s what we’re facing – a nightmare that

makes the Death Zone look like paradise. We’re training up

the ground troops to keep the time splinters in place and
prevent that future from seeping through, while across the

universe the Time Lords are using the present to fight it.”
On the second and final leg of their journey, Hex flew over
the wall of the Death Zone and took Mordicai on a whistle-

stop tour of the training camps, opening his eyes to a side of

the war effort he never knew existed.
“I heard the rumours about the Zechos,” said Mordicai after

they landed at the command base. “But reopening the Death

Zone? Is that really necessary?”

“War is brutal, making this an ideal training ground. This is

where the soldiers learn the art of combat, ready for the next
stage in the Dalek onslaught.”

“Including outliers?” said Mordicai, horrified at the sight of

villagers kitted out in army uniforms.
 “The distant skies over the northern territories warn us

against complacency. It may not look like it from where we’re

standing, but this is no overreaction. Do you think the

council would be fast-tracking Time Lords or defiling

ourselves with outliers for the fun of it? Current predictions
are that the conflict will reach Time War levels here in the

south within a month. We need to be prepared for the worst.”

“I don’t like it. I want no part of this,” said Mordicai. “There
has to be another way.”

“Here’s a map of the camp. Each barrack and tent should

have a fully functioning holocom. That’s your first job. Service
them and make sure they are all fully operational, starting

with the orientation tents at the entrance to the zone. Try

anything stupid and I’ll have the Zechos rip out every organ
from your body. When you’re done, report back to me in the

monitoring station.”

***

The first and the largest tent was situated at the perimeter of

the Death Zone. It appeared to be functioning as a holding

area for the latest batch of recruits.
Mordicai felt the eyes of every Zecho and outlier glaring at
him as he walked through the compound to the technology

hub in the centre.

The outliers were spitting at him and peppering him with
various embittered taunts as he passed.

“Home wrecker.”
“War bringer.”

“Murdering scum.”
The Zechos seemed to be encouraging this display of anger,
presumably hopeful of redirecting the venom onto the

battlefield. But every so often the lizards would shower the

reluctant recruits with their own mucus filled spit to hold
them back, before sadistically doing the same to Mordicai.

“Now that’s how you spit,” said one of them.

“I just here to repair to holocom. Hex’s orders.”
“Oh, well that’s all right, then,” said the Zecho in a mocking

tone. “And we are under instructions to break you all. Signed

and sealed by Hextible Horatio himself.”
He picked up Mordicai and launched him towards the hub.

Mordicai’s fall was broken by the crowd of outliers.

 “Can we kill him?” said a boy who must have only be around
five years of age. His eyes were consumed by a degree of hate

that no child with such little life experience could reasonably

have possessed, thought Mordicai.
“He’s already dead to you,” replied the Zecho. “Let the ghost

of Gallifrey do his job.”

Mordicai dusted himself down and made his way to the hub
as the outliers parted to form a path for him. It wasn’t long

before the uneasy quiet was broken. The tent was blasted
with disharmonious music, forcing Mordicai to squeeze his

ears in pain.
“What are you trying to do?” he said, spluttering and
catching his breath. “These people are supposed to be fighting

for us, but you’re treating them like prisoners of war.”

“Every battleground is a prison. Any fighter worthy of the
name must be driven by a desperation to break out of its

walls,” explained the Zecho.

“So what is this? A hate factory? You’ll turn them against
even you if you carry on like this.”

“The anti-Dalek propaganda in the next tent redirects the

hate. Our tried and tested methods are infallible.”
 “So I won’t be getting the spitting treatment in there?” said

Mordicai eager to move on.

***

Mordicai shouldn’t have been so keen to enter the second

orientation tent. A film was in full flow, documenting some of

the most heinous crimes of the Daleks. Watching a group of

innocent Thal children about to get exterminated en masse
and hearing them plead for their lives was too much.

Mordicai ran out of the tent to vomit.

“You, too?” said a young girl who was slumped against a

rock. “We have to go back in. You know that, don’t you?”
She looked about six years old. Her unkempt and knotted
curly locks of ginger and blonde hair hid a sweet yet burnt

and scarred face.

“We could run…” suggested Mordicai.
“You’re funny,” replied the girl, genuinely laughing.

Mordicai knew it was a stupid suggestion, they could only

either run deeper into the Death Zone or back towards the
Death Zone’s heavily guarded entrance.
 “Are your parents inside?” he asked.
“We got separated when the Zechos stormed our village. I
don’t even know if they are still alive.”

She hopped off the rock, sat beside Mordicai and gently
grabbed his Omega engineer’s badge.
“Are you one of them? A Time Lord. This looks important.”

It was Mordicai’s turn to laugh.

“Not quite. But it’s important to me. Where are you from?”
“Red Forge in the Barachi Peninsula. Do you know it?”

“I’ve heard of it. I had no idea the Time Lords were recruiting
outliers. I’m sorry.”
“We don’t call ourselves that,” she replied curtly. “To us, you

are the Others.”

“Of course we are. Well, I’m not like the ‘others’,” said
Mordicai. “One day I want to live in the waste… in the plains

of Dotheia.”
“Dotheia is beautiful. We used to go there on holiday. It’s so

sad. What could these Daleks possibly want with Dotheia and
Red Forge? Some of us think it’s a trick… that this Time War
is a lie, and they are taking us here to punish us for the sins

of our fathers.”
 “Why is it sad? Tell me? What’s happened to Dotheia?” said
Mordicai, scaring the girl with his sudden urgency.
“What’s to tell? It’s the same story everywhere. The villages

have been emptied. They came for our doctors and nurses,
then they came back for anyone who was fit enough to join

the army. Dotheia was one of the first to go. A group of

refugees led by the face changer came to warn us.”
“The face changer? Did she have a daughter with her? Her

name’s Savalia. And…. And I think I love her.”

The girl shook her head.
Mordicai broke down in tears. For the first time in his life,

the L word had truly resonated. The mood he was in, he knew
exactly how to write the next lines of the chain poem. It was
such lousy timing, he thought, troubled by the

inappropriateness of such a display of raw emotion in front of

a young orphaned child.
The girl put an arm around him and gave him a tissue from

her pocket.
“I hope you find each other, Mister Engineer.”

***
Bessie wasn’t used to playing a game of chase with her target,

but either the tracking software was corrupted or Savalia was

being kept off the radar. She had been returning to Dotheia
when new data suggested that Savalia had moved to the

Death Zone.
Bessie didn’t exactly breeze her way through the guarded

entrance into the Zone.

The security officers weren’t fans of their AI equivalents and
refused to open the gate.

“Another blessed BESS. If you’ve been sent here as our

replacement, then sorry Missus, but there’s a war going on
and machine kind can’t be trusted. We’ve got orders to shut

you all down.”

“Hey, that means stop, damn you.”
Bessie had started decoding the lock, her yellow and black

chassis defended by a crackling shield of electric blue.

“Raise the alarm, Simli. This one’s gone rogue.”
Simli was still reaching for the alert trigger when the fully

charged electrical field around Bessie shot out like vertical

lightning bolts, knocking the two guards down. With the gate

now open, Bessie hovered inside.

Bessie reasoned that the exclusion wall around the Death
Zone was interfering with her tracking system, but her

augmented AI chip was convinced that Savalia was

somewhere in the expansive region. The prime directive
demanded that she search every inch until Mordicai’s
message had found its intended audience.

***

Mordicai had spent the last fifteen minutes extolling Savalia’s

virtues to the Red Forge girl, but as he reminded himself of
some of her finer qualities, he realised his priorities were all

wrong. He’d never hear the end of it if he abandoned the

children to go and find her.
“She’d want me to keep you safe,” suggested Mordicai. “No
child should be used as a soldier, I don’t care how bad this
war gets.”

Mordicai composed himself and taking the girl’s hand, led

her back inside the propaganda tent, determined to facilitate
the release of every child in the Death Zone.
“I’ll fix the holocom and talk to Hex. This isn’t the Time Lord
way,” he whispered as they bundled their way through the
back row of the transfixed audience.

They were soon stopped by a heavily perspiring lad.

“Haiso! Where do you think you’ve been?”
“I needed some fresh air, Tiron, that’s all.”
“You need to stay and listen, sis. How else can you survive
against the Daleks?”
“Don’t worry,” said Mordicai. I’ll get her out of here.”

“You’ll do no such thing. Haiso, who is this man?”

“He’s the Engineer and he’s going to fix Gallifrey,” replied
Haiso with a twinkle in her eye.
“As if,” laughed Tiron, the smile quickly evaporating as he
felt the cold butt of a Zecho gun pressed against his back.
“Silence and pay attention all of you.”

Mordicai was about to point out the real reason for his
presence, when the tent echoed with the familiar sound of the
Doctor’s TARDIS materialising on the stage in front of the
large screen.
 Mordicai stood open mouthed as an unfamiliar figure

stepped out of the Doctor’s distinctive blue box.

The elfin face was young, and yet his eyes were heavy and
tired as if he’d been carrying the weight of a thousand years
upon his shoulders.
“Doctor!” shouted Mordicai, breaking the hushed and
expectant silence.

After a pause the place erupted into applause. Mordicai

remembered Savalia’s words, that the Doctor was a cult figure
to the outliers, and that many believed that one day he would
be the one to unite the peoples of Gallifrey. He was the one
Time Lord they were sure to listen to.

“Hush. Hush. No more…. The Death Zone has no need for a

Doctor. Unless he is a miracle worker, which he clearly isn’t.
The presentation you are about to see will complete this stage
of your orientation. The renegade Time Lord known as the
Doctor has battled the Daleks more than any other. He won
many victories, but ultimately even he failed. The Doctor’s

secrets are being shared today, entries from his diary

pertaining to the abominations of Skaro. Learn from them so
that you can avoid making the same mistakes.”
 The man in the bandolier began to rip apart pages from the
diary, flinging them into the audience.
“Read them and now tell me that this Doctor made the right

calls. Instead your survival is dependent on following the

leadership of the Zechos.”
“No. No,” shouted Mordicai running onto the stage. “This
can’t be right. I know the Doctor. I’ve met him. He wouldn’t
agree with this, or anything you’ve said.”
Mordicai leapt onto the stage and grabbed the man’s coat,

shaking him.
The Zechos aimed their weapons at Mordicai, but the elfin
man called them to stand down.
“The Doctor is dead. They killed him. Nobody can save you
now, except yourselves. I’m sorry.”

Mordicai stared into the stranger’s eyes, unwilling to accept

his devastating news, and then he was struck by the dawning
realisation. Lying had long been part of the Doctor’s MO. He
allowed himself a smile.
“You’re him, aren’t you? You’re him,” he whispered. Mordicai
turned to the audience. “This is a clever ruse – a trick. Don’t

you see – this is him. He must know something we don’t. Just

go along with it. If we go into battle with the Doctor’s blessing,
then it must be for the greater good of Gallifrey.”
The Doctor could barely keep eye contact as the people
encouraged by Mordicai’s words and egged on by the Zechos
began to clap wildly again, cheering not for him but for

Gallifrey. An ancient outliers’ protest song had become a

battle cry aimed no longer at the Time Lords, but at the
Daleks.
“Gallifrey belongs to us not them, she is us and we are her.
As surely as her twin suns rise to form a single light, so too
shall we. One Gallifrey… one people… one time. One

Gallifrey… one people… one time.”

Mordicai noticed that Haiso, hoisted up by her brother, was
cheering along with the rest of them.
The commanding Zecho addressed the crowd, ordering them
to file out to the next tent to receive their uniforms, weapons

and training briefs.

“Don’t let them down, Doctor,” said Mordicai. “There are
children here.”
Mordicai pulled out his sonic screwdriver – an empty frame
ever since he had reused its various components in other
gadgets, but still nonetheless symbolic of his desire to be like

his hero.
“Do you remember this? It belonged to an old friend of
yours. Fasa was keeping it safe until a rightful heir was
found. It was quite an honour when he gave it to me.
Apparently, I was the chosen one. You didn’t just give me a
job at the Academy, you gave me a calling… to be like you. I

want to be your successor, not his.”

A tear formed in the Doctor’s eyes.
“May I?” he said, taking it with an unsteady hand.
A wry smile spread across his face.
“Empty. Useless, just like the man who gave it to you.
Coward that he was. I may not be the Doctor, but he made me

who I am. It was his choice to say no more.”

“I thought it was meant to symbolise the way of peace,”
replied Mordicai, forlornly looking at the screwdriver. “Tell me
you’re not really sending them into war?”
“It’s just a scientific instrument, Mordicai. You of all people

should know better than to romanticise the physical.”

“But…”
 “I am sorry. This Time War cannot be stopped by a Doctor;
he can only keep on patching up the victims of this endless
war. But, what’s the point? Only a warrior can win.”
“Or maybe an engineer?” suggested Mordicai.

The Doctor smiled.

“Maybe. You might want to start by putting that back
together again,” he replied, returning the sonic as the Zecho
commander joined them.
“Thank you Lord,” said the Zecho. “Next batch is due in five

hours. Are you sure you still want to make a live appearance?
I mean, a recorded message is fine. We could use this idiot as
part of the routine, it worked a treat – I’ve never seen them so
hyped up.”
“It’s important that I say the words to their faces. To run
and hide is the coward’s way. The more I see, the more I hate

and the more I hate the more I fight.”

He gripped his bandolier and stepped back inside his
TARDIS.
He turned to face Mordicai one final time.
“Gallifrey is sick, but so too are her doctors. Gallifrey is

broken, but I wonder… are all her engineers broken, too?”

 “Wait!” said Mordicai as the TARDIS dematerialised. “What’s
that supposed to mean?”

***

Bessie was ill equipped to deal with the various species still at

large deeper in the Death Zone, but crossing the Plain of the
Wilderbeasts should have been simple enough. The nervous
creatures fled from the robot as she trundled through the red
fields, but as she made her way through the Vale of Damaged
Reputations, the drone came under heavy fire from the

recruits. The perception filter installed in their weaponry was

indiscriminate, so much so that the recruits had to be
branded with perception filter blockers in case they started
firing at each other. Bessie had effectively become a Dalek,
just like the creatures who had been running away from her.
The correct BESS protocol when coming under fire was to

attack and call for reinforcements, but Mordicai had disabled

the latter for obvious reasons. Bessie turned directly towards
the platoon on the hill, ready to begin what would effectively
be a suicide mission.
 ***

Savalia pulled her weapon back.

“That one’s no wilderbeast,” she said. “Its behaviour is all
wrong.”
“Just shoot it down like the rest of them,” ordered Bez. “It’s
probably a Zecho plant. Put there as part of the test. Not

every Dalek will act predictably.”

“No. This is all wrong. I’m switching off the perception filter.
I’m not killing a target I can’t see.”
“You’ll do no such thing. It will completely destroy the
illusion.”

“Oh, for Gallifrey’s sake, Commander. We know this is all

fake.”
“My orders are to eliminate any soldier who meddles with
their gear,” said Bez. “Kill the creature or be killed.”
Caelion crawled towards Savalia, holstered his own weapon
and attempted to move Savalia’s armed hand to point the gun

at the target.
 “Come on, Sav. Do as the commander says – you get the
final kill.”

***

Bessie was conflicted. She was under attack and yet her
intended message recipient was a member of the aggressive
party.
Adjusting the settings on her in built immobilisers, she fired
a warning laser blast towards the platoon, setting the field

supplies tent ablaze.

Next job was to pick off all the others, leaving Savalia alone
to accept the communication.

***

“Shoot the rogue beast down now,” ordered Bez, joining in the
assault.
Bessie exploded, sending a blinding light into the night sky.
Caelion looked on horrified.
 “You don’t think that one was a real Dalek, do you? What

if…”
“Do you think a real Dalek would go down quite so easily?”
laughed their resident Zecho coach.
Savalia stood up and threw her helmet to the ground
angrily.

“How much more of this nonsense have we got to put up

with? I’m tired of playing games.”
“You’ll be pleased to know that this platoon is ready for the
real deal. Your training is complete,” replied Commander Bez.
“Complete? But we’ve only just begun,” said Caelion.
“Direct orders from the War Council,” replied Bez. “Perhaps

this was a creature from the final phase, sent here to

persuade you that you are ready?”
“A Raston robot? The creature didn’t move fast enough,”
protested Savalia, pulling out the perception filter blocker
from the back of her head.

“Are you mad?” said Caelion.

“What does it matter now? Our training’s finished. You
heard the commander.”
 Bez nodded and the whole platoon gratefully removed the
devices – they itched like hell.
“It was a BESS drone,” laughed Caelion, observing the

distinct black and yellow metal.

Bez looked surprised at first, but then joined in the
laughter.
“See, I told you. Planted here by the War Council as part of
the test.”

While the others followed Commander Bez and the Zecho

back towards base, Savalia stayed a little while longer,
looking thoughtfully at the smouldering remains in the
distance.
Bez’s reasoning made good sense, but there was a small
chance this was Mordicai’s rebel BESS.

“Come on Sav – time to go,” shouted Caelion.

“I’ll join you in a bit. I’m going to fetch a memento to take
back to camp.”
“You’re a sentimental young thing, aren’t you?” shrugged
Caelion.

“If you say so,” replied Savalia through gritted teeth. He

might be a hopeless poet, but at least Mordicai knew her
better than that.

***

While the Zechos prepared the propaganda tent for the next

group of recruits, Mordicai worked on repairing the damaged

holocom.
Job completed, he tested out his handiwork by contacting
Hex at the command centre.
“Mordicai,” said Hex in irritation as his hologram flickered

unsteadily. “Do you really have to call me every time you’re

checking the coms? You should trust your skills more. There
are at least three wilderplain encampments with faulty
holocoms, but they could all do with a service, get them
sorted and report back to me.”
The Zecho commander, overhearing the conversation

laughed bullishly. “Lord Hex, your little engineer has been

quite the star of the show this morning. He’s wasted here –
you should give him to us for the battlefield.”
“He wouldn’t last a day. The wilderbeasts would eat him
alive.”
 “What have you done to the Doctor?” said Mordicai.

“I hope you didn’t call him that,” replied Hex. “The last man
to make that mistake lost his tongue.”
“The Doctor’s no thug.”
“Not literally, you fool… though I wouldn’t put it past him.”
“General. There are children here. I want no part of this
madness.”

“There are children here,” said the Zecho mockingly.

“Children make the best fighters – their reaction speeds, their
cunning – even their ears and eyes are superior to your adult
kind. Of course there are children here.”
“We do ensure there are special protective measures in

place,” said Hex. “Mordicai, you have no choice.”

“Yes I do. I exercise my right to object under article 178 of
the Rassilon War Manual. I’m joining the Peace Council.”
“Then you will never become a Time Lord. Such naivety. The
Peace Council services the war as much as the rest of us.
Just ask Tor Fasa.”

“So I’m free to go?”

“It will cost you everything, but be my guest,” sneered the
Commander, cutting off the signal.
 “So what are you waiting for? Go home, you coward,”
slurred the Zecho.
Rise of the Engineer

The allocations tent had almost been cleared, with the latest

batch of new recruits marching over the hill to take up their

positions. Concerned about Haiso’s immediate fate, Mordicai

fought against the instinct to run.

Walking up to the summit of the hill, he looked down over

the vast field. Several small encampments were dotted along
its edge. The freshly assigned soldiers were shooting at the
wilderbeasts. Some were huddled together near their

respective bases, others were marching through the field,

presumably en route to the next stage in their training.

“I thought you were going home,” said the Zecho

commander, joining Mordicai on the hill.

“Change of plan. I’ve a job to do. Soldiers to protect.”

“Disappointing, I was looking forward to shooting you in the

back.”

Mordicai tagged along with the last group of twenty or so as

they made their way from the supplies tent to their battle-

station.
 “Have you seen a Red Forge girl, about this high – ash blond

hair – Haiso?”

“The Red Forgers were among the first to be assigned,”

replied one of the outliers. “Haven’t you forgotten something?”

he added, staring at his long brown technician’s coat and

overloaded rucksack full of tools.

“This is my armour and my weapons of choice,” Mordicai

replied. “I’m not here for the fight.”

“You’re a Time Lord?”

“Sort of. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry? We’re in this together now, my friend. It’s time to

cast aside our differences and take out the Dalek scum.
Doctor’s orders, remember?”

Mordicai bit his tongue, and with great reluctance nodded.

Half-heartedly he joined in the battle chants as they marched

over the hill. They were acting like people possessed. Mordicai

consoled himself with the thought that perhaps something in

the armour, or the rest of the conditioning process, was

responsible.

***
Mordicai checked each of the bases, working with little care

and attention on the holocoms as he continued his hunt for

Haiso. Finally, he found her brother in the camp furthest to

the east, enthusiastically brandishing a Zecho fire bow and

shooting arrows into a copse of trees at the other side of the

plain.

“Got one!” he said, triumphantly.

“Where’s Haiso?” asked Mordicai.

“She’s gone on a children’s raid through the marshlands to

the lake of shattered dreams. Apparently there’s a

contingency of Daleks holed up there. They’re going to take

them by stealth.”

“It’s a herd of wilderbeasts, for Gallifrey’s sake. You’re mad,

the lot of you.”

“Well, if that’s so, she’ll be fine, then, won’t she?”

“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Mordicai replied as a

Zecho hover-car sped off into the plains and headed towards
the lake.

“Relax, they’ll just be monitoring them, that’s all. That’s the

trouble with you Time Lords, you don’t trust anybody except
yourselves.”

***

Haiso was not as fast as the other children and trailed behind

while the others cut through the grass to clear the path. She
was accused by some of pretending so that she didn’t have to

do the hard graft. Others teased her – “Hey-slow, keep up.”

After half an hour of this relentless baiting, she decided to live

up to the name, sauntering along on purpose until they were

out of sight.
She noticed something metallic glistening in overgrowth,

and with the path ahead neatly carved out for her, decided to
go and investigate. The Daleks could wait.

All except for the one that had skulked up beside her.
“Hello,” she said nervously raising her gun. This would be
her first kill, and though she felt more than ready and able

after the initial orientation, she was having second thoughts.

“I know you’re not really the enemy. I could just let you go.

Are you lost?” she said, reaching out to touch the creature,
curious as to how it would feel.
 She immediately pulled back her hand as the perception
filter flickered on and off, sending sharp waves of pain into

the back of her head. She had seen enough to notice that the
creature was wounded.
She poured some water from her hipflask into a makeshift

container and placed it before the Dalek-cloaked beast. Up

close the distortion of a Dalek form bending over was quite

comical, reminding her of how preposterous the whole idea

was.

Hoping that the creature had been suitably tamed by her act
of kindness, she turned away to investigate the pieces of
metal that lay strewn across the area.

Amongst the debris was a velorium-plated cylinder

decorated with ancient Gallifreyan symbols. It looked to be

valuable, even though it was empty. Whilst the rest of the

metal pieces were charred, there was barely a scratch on the

cylinder.
As she turned to head off with her newly found treasure, she
could have sworn she heard a muffled voice from under the

mud. She dug away at it as best she could, but the wet mud
was hard to remove, and disturbing the ground was making
the audio device slip further down. She tried to yank it out
with the cylinder, the longest item in her possession, and got

a face full of mud for her troubles. Eventually she managed to

scoop it up inside the tube. It was a tiny tetrahedron with

speaker holes. The voice message, clearly stuck in a loop, was

loud but nonetheless incoherent and staccato. Nonetheless, it
felt important, and so she placed the lid back on the cylinder.

Wiping away the mud from her eyes, she looked up to

discover that she was now being circled by several cloaked

wilderbeasts. She should have been prepared for this. The

wilderbeasts, unlike the Daleks, never left one of their own to
die lost and alone.

***

Savalia held the scroll of incomplete chain poetry close to her

chest as her unit was evacuated by air from the Death Zone,
ready to engage in real conflict.
Perhaps Caelion was right: she was certainly more

sentimental than she’d thought.

 A pang of guilt hit Savalia as she recalled her last overly
harsh message to Mordicai. The fact that he had returned

Bess to her without adding the next line of the poem said it
all.

She had pushed her lover away, but maybe it was for the
best. If Mordicai found out she had joined the military, he’d
be livid. His protective streak was rather endearing, even if
misplaced. As an outlier, Savalia knew how to look after

herself. She had needed to come of age well before time in

order to care for her mother. If anything, Mordicai was the

one more likely to need a watchful eye. He was always putting

the wrong perspective on things. He’d be hopeless in war for

missing the bigger picture. The world could be blowing up

around him and he’d be focused on the tiny details, trying to

save the inconsequential and probably getting his head blown

up for his troubles.

***

“You’re crazy, man. One of us will shoot you down,” shouted

Tiron as Mordicai prepared to enter the plain.

 “I have to make sure she’s safe.”

“You’ve only just met her. Why care? Have you forgotten
who we are?”

“That’s why I’m going,” whispered Mordicai. “Do you really

think the Time Lords are going to treat you fairly? You’re

nothing but collateral to them.”

“So what – we just sit back and let the Daleks destroy us

all? It might not be our war, but it’s happening on our soil.

Like the Doctor says, this could bring peace between our
peoples.”

“It’s not peace we need between us, but justice. And this

isn’t right.”

“At least take a bow,” insisted Tiron, realising he was

wasting his breathe on the stubborn rebel.

“What would I need a weapon for? I’m hardly going to kill

one of us, am I? And to me, your so-called enemies are just

innocent wilderbeasts. My tools are all I need to survive,”

replied Mordicai, patting his rucksack. As he did so, Mordicai

unintentionally felt the sonic screwdriver in the back pouch.

It gave him an idea.
 Tiron looked on in bemusement. The floor was filled with all
manner of gadgets and odds and ends as Mordicai searched

the contents of his rucksack for a torch, a toaster and a

music player, each of which contained a key component of the

sonic screwdriver.

When it was finally complete, Mordicai waved the sonic

around, flicking buttons to produce various sound and light

combinations.
“What in Gallifrey’s name is that thing?”

“To be honest I can’t be certain of its function, but it has to

be better than a weapon. Besides, if it’s as good as the Doctor

says then I won’t be needing the rest of this gear. It’ll only

slow me down.”

“Now I know you’re completely off your head.”

Mordicai grinned wildly as he threw down the rucksack. For

some reason that was completely beyond Tiron, the engineer

seemed to think that this was a huge compliment.

As he walked away, Mordicai morphed into Dalek form in

Tiron’s line of perception, but then quite unexpectedly the

filter collapsed. Mordicai, with his back still turned, was

pressing the sonic, waving it over his head as a farewell

gesture.
“Well, I never,” laughed Tiron. “Keep the sonic device on,

Mordicai – it breaks the filter – keep it on, your life might

depend on it,” he shouted. “And stick to the long grass.”

***

Having taken apart the sonic and investigated its components

and programming thoroughly, Mordicai was struggling to

understand how it could possibly serve as a perception

corrector. The device hadn’t even been fitted with basic

artificial intelligence. The technology was a throwback to the

dark times, when in the wake of the last Time War, Gallifrey

had been plunged into a recession. As the civilisation came

out of the shadows of shame, the economical sonic

substitution program was abandoned in favour of solar, laser

and the new kid on the block, synth-organic power options.

Even in the Doctor’s youth the sonic screwdriver would have

been seen as old fashioned and used only as a children’s toy

or a basic tool for first year students.
 But retro worked for the Doctor, who in Mordicai’s view
styled himself as a walking anachronism, both in relation to

his precious Earth and his slightly less precious Gallifrey.

Mordicai had only met the Doctor the once, on that

remarkable day when his hero came to him for help.

Romantic and childishly optimistic, the immaculately-

groomed renegade was very different from the cynical, scruffy

man he’d just encountered in the Death Zone.

After he’d been thrown out of the Academy, Mordicai’s

parents wanted nothing to do with him and shipped him off to

work for his uncle, the caretaker of the Omega Residential

Towers Complex. Six years later he became the resident lift

engineer, which – though poorly paid – gave him free

accommodation in the tower. To fund his geeky gadget-

making hobby, Mordicai advertised his services as a

freelancer, and for the twelve thousand or so residents of the

Towers, he soon became the go-to person for repairs of

anything from a freezer to a void space security box. He was

popular and successful enough to fund his hobby, but

Mordicai was deeply unhappy. Years of mental abuse from his

overbearing parents had taken their toll; and contrary to what

his ridiculing of the Academy system and all who passed

through it might suggest, he hated himself for messing up his

education. Respected as a fixer of things, but laughed at for

his wacky creations; it was a very lonely hobby, indeed.

Something had to give to pull him out of the spiralling

depression that was making life unbearable.

Salvation came, as it most often does, in the most

unexpected of ways and at the most inconsiderate of times:

six-thirteen in the morning to be precise, on one of Mordicai’s

rare days off. He’d been rudely awakened by the emergency

call-out alarm.

Lift eight was on the blink again. Trundling out with his

work coat thrown over his pyjamas, he took lift nine down to
floor 42, the location of the trapped lift. Mordicai was annoyed

to discover that the alarm raiser was stood outside the lift.

“Why didn’t you just take lift nine? There’s obviously nobody

inside.”
“I was curious to see how long it would take you to get here.

Knowing my luck, I’ll be the other side of that door one day,”

laughed the resident. “Thirteen minutes. Not bad.”

“Have you nothing better to do with your time?”
 “When I noticed the lift was stuck, I’m afraid the temptation
was far too great.” The resident flicked open a pocket watch

and dangled it in front of Mordicai. “Remember this? Repairs

while you wait. I was stood inside that dingy flat of yours for

nearly two hours and it’s still not right. I suppose making it
toll like a cloister bell every two hours was your idea of a

joke? So yeah, an extra thirteen minutes so that I can waste a

little bit of your time, too? It’s been worth every second. Bye.”
“There’s no pleasing some people,” muttered Mordicai after

the disgruntled customer left in lift nine.

Lift number eight rattled as if answering him.

“I’ll deal with you later,” said Mordicai writing across the

door ‘out of order… again,’ with a laser pen.

He yawned, turned to go and promptly jumped at the sound

of loud knocking coming from inside the lift.

Spurred into action, he forced the doors open, wedging them

apart with a metal rod.

“What the…?”
Mordicai stepped into the lift. It wasn’t built to be bigger on

the inside, but then again nor had it been designed to look
like a gothic cathedral, or travel across time and space. A
man bathed in shadows was hammering furiously at a switch
on the hexagonal console of a TARDIS.

Without even looking up, the stranger addressed him.

“I’d have landed her inside your flat – only there wasn’t the

room space.”
“Who are you?” said Mordicai.
“Exactly,” replied the stranger, looking up at Mordicai and

grinning. “Who. Am. I? Well, right now, I’m a foolish Time

Lord with a non-compliant TARDIS who seems to think that
materialising inside a lift is a good idea. And now, she

appears to be stuck. Ironic, don’t you think?”

“Smashing the console’s hardly going to help.”
“I’m a great pilot – when she lets me. Honest. I’m just not so

good when it comes to the technical stuff. But, you on the

other hand...” The stranger approached Mordicai and polished
his badge. “You’re an Omega engineer of unrivalled skill. I’m

the Doctor, by the way, and I’m here to book her in for a
service.”

***
As Mordicai recalled his life-changing encounter with the

Doctor, he remembered how happy and even proud the

renegade was of his own name. He sensed that this new
Doctor was from a point much further on in the Time War,

the effects of which were clearly devastating. He must have

known at the time that the Omega badge was pretty much

standard for all first year Academy students, and meant

nothing, but nonetheless his hero was as proud of it as he
was, and somehow the Doctor knew that he was wasted

working as a maintenance engineer in the Towers.

Mordicai took the Doctor to his flat to fetch his tools to work
on the TARDIS; and, unlike everybody else, the Doctor raved

about his inventions.

“They’re nearly as good as my trusted sonic screwdriver,” he
said, waving it around the flat with abandon and kick-starting

all manner of gadgets like a boy in a toy shop.

After the TARDIS had been revitalised, Mordicai begged the
Doctor to take him on a trip, but he was having none of it.

“One trip? If only it was that simple. I’m not very good at
keeping such promises, and I think the TARDIS would love to
keep you. Besides, Gallifrey needs you. Who knows, one day
you might get your own TARDIS.”
“Have you ever heard of an Academy reject being given a

second chance? I should never have laughed at the

Untempered Schism.”
“Ah, the Untempered Schism. The beginning and end of

everything. The place where our past, present and futures

flash before us, and we discover who we are. They say that
our reactions are a mirror of the vortex’s to us. It made me

feel better about running away.”

“That figures. I’m a laughing stock.”

“What if she was laughing with you, at the ridiculousness of

the ceremony?”
“Well, if that’s true, then she’s running with you, too.”

“Whatever the truth. Just make sure you get the last laugh,
eh? And remember, there’s more than one way to get a
TARDIS.”

***
Mordicai ought to have been on high alert crossing the plain,
but despite the urgency and danger of his quest, the sonic

screwdriver with its association with the Doctor was putting

him in a reflective mood.
His thoughts were rudely interrupted by the earth-shaking

rumbles of a wilderbeast stampede heading straight for him.

He fell to the ground trusting luck to save him from being
crushed. He held up the sonic and set it to emit a high-

pitched beat, and to his astonishment the herd parted like the
Red Sea to pass either side of him, leaving him in the centre
of a circle of uncrushed grass.

Kissing the humble device, it suddenly dawned on him that

it could make for a very handy defence. If it could work to

disrupt the movements of the wilderbeasts, what about the

Daleks and the Time Lords, or even their weapons and tech?
Between the extremes of peace negotiations and responding

eye-for-eye, perhaps there was another way to survive, one

that neither Council had properly considered.
He dusted himself down, ready to press on, when an

altogether different rumble broke the eerie post-stampede

silence of the Death Zone. It was the Zecho transporter,
heading back to base. Tied to the back were several crushed

bodies. For the second time that day Mordicai vomited in

disgust. The corpses, clearly all children, were smacking
against the ground as the vehicle sped past.

***

The stampede saved Haiso’s life. The wilderbeasts had been

circling her menacingly, even after the reunited youngling had
hobbled back to them. But suddenly their ears pricked up,

and they headed off to join the galloping herd.

Pushing the velorium-plated cylinder into her belt, Haiso set
off to find her way to the lake. The stampede had broken the

path that had been cut by the rest of the troop, and she soon
found herself hopelessly lost.

***

At the lakeside, Mordicai’s worst fears were confirmed. There

was no one there. The children must have all been crushed in
the stampede. When the Zechos had come to join them, then
either they’d already known about the approaching stampede

from Hex’s cameras, or the noise or vibrations of their

transporter had triggered it. One thing was beyond question –

they had innocent blood on their hands.

To his surprise, there were still two Zechos in the area
cleaning up the mess… or hiding the evidence. Mordicai,

staying out of sight, climbed into an amber glow tree, close

enough to hear the lizards. It was fortuitous that the Zecho’s
strict moral code made it beholden upon them to always

speak in the language of the landowners.

“I’ve never seen the beasts move at such speed. But there’s
no signs the recruits did anything out of the ordinary to

startle them.”
“It’s the fact that the trainees were taken unawares and too
stupid to safely respond to the situation that concerns me. It’s

one thing following orders, but when the enemy acts in

unexpected ways they need to show greater initiative. This
incident needs to be added to the instruction video.”

Mordicai wasn’t having that.

He jumped out of the tree and confronted the Zechos.
 “If you hadn’t driven through the plains like madmen, this
wouldn’t have happened. What’s the point in teaching them
the art of stealth?”

“Our transporters aren’t to blame here. They’ve never

troubled the beasts before.”
The Zechos eyed up Mordicai with great curiosity.

“What are you doing out here without armour or weaponry?

This is most irregular.”

“I’ve got all I need for the fight,” said Mordicai defiantly,
brandishing the sonic screwdriver.
“A sonic wave emitter? Well, that explains the stampede.”

“Don’t you dare pin this one on me,” Mordicai exclaimed.

“You’ve already done that to yourself. Your badge betrays
you. Omega engineer? Typical Time Lord arrogance. You think

you can fix things, when you’re the ones who break them in
the first place. The Daleks see this as your greatest weakness.
Forget the numbers, you need these outliers fighting for you

because the pride of your race will bring you down without
them.”
“At least my people have something to be proud of. Ever

heard the Kasterborian saying about the Zechos? – a race

whose one goodness is the ability to spit.” Mordicai, throwing
caution to the wind, spat at the Zecho to illustrate his point.

“How can you treat the dead like cattle? What do you plan to
do with the bodies?”
“As per your leaders’ instructions they have been disposed

of in the Pit of Rassilon with the other casualties,” said the

Zecho with amusement, pointing out the returning
transporter. “If you feel that much for the corpses, I’m more

than happy to throw you in with them… alive.”

The transporter stopped beside them.

“Has the waste material been disposed of?” said the lead
Zecho, looking for a reaction in Mordicai.
The driver nodded.

“We found one alive on the way back. Wandering in the tall
grass. Well, go on – show your face, girl.”
To Mordicai’s obvious delight, Haiso’s head popped up from

the rear passenger seat.

“Haiso! Thank the suns of Gallifrey! Are you hurt?”
“… Mordicai, is that really you?”

“Please tell me that Dalek doesn’t suit me,” replied Mordicai,

switching on the sonic to break the perception filter. “Are you
ok?”

“Just a few grazes, that’s all. What did I miss? I got a bit
lost,” said Haiso, clearly oblivious to the tragedy.
“You don’t want to know.”

“I’ve not even killed one wilderbeast yet,” confessed Haiso. “I

came across an injured one, and just couldn’t bring myself to
do it. Please tell me you’ve come to take me home. I don’t

want to be here.”
“Enough,” shouted the senior Zecho. “Have these battle-shy
time wasters thrown into the pit. They need to be

decommissioned at once.”
Mordicai brazenly approached the leader, getting a face full

of mucus for his troubles.

“Why not just kill me now, lizard breath?”
“That would be a breach of our contract. But accidental

falls? Such things can’t be helped.”

“An accident? Like this, you mean?” said Mordicai,
attempting to disorientate the Zecho with the highest setting

on the sonic.
“You are trying to defeat me with a toy?” laughed the Zecho,
completely unaffected. He took the sonic, ready to snap it in
half with his bare hands.
On the transporter, Haiso made the most of this momentary
distraction. It was the perfect size, she thought, taking out

the velorium-plated cylinder and pushing it into one of the

driver’s eyes. He fell out of the hovering transporter, knocking
over both Mordicai and the senior Zecho.

Mordicai scrambled in the mud for the dropped sonic

screwdriver, while the three Zechos all reached for their
weapons.

Haiso tried to drive the transporter; but instead of going

forwards it flew backwards, knocking out the third Zecho
before colliding into a tree, bouncing forward and spinning

out of control.
“Why didn’t you go for the guns?” she shouted at Mordicai,
closing her eyes and unwittingly pressing hard on the brake

as the two Zechos fired their weapons at him.

The transporter finally slowed down to a halt. Haiso was

curled up in the driver’s seat, her hands over her eyes, ready
to accept her fate.
“I did, Haiso. I did.”
 Mordicai climbed into the transporter and put an arm
around Haiso.
Tentatively, she opened her eyes. The Zechos lay comatose

on their backs, a stunned expression on their faces.

Mordicai flung the sonic into the air triumphantly and

caught it.
“You… killed them?”
“Not exactly. They killed themselves when they pulled their

electrified triggers. Turns out this little baby is quite the

hero,” said Mordicai, kissing the sonic. “They shot as they fell
back, missing me by a mile. Now let’s get out of here. But, if

you don’t mind, I think I’ll drive.”

***

Mordicai flew the transporter at top speed, straight out of the

Death Zone, crashing through the entry point.

“We can’t leave my brother behind,” protested Haiso.

“We had no choice,” said Mordicai.

“Where are we going?”

“Dotheia. My girlfriend will take care of you.”
 “What about you?”
“I’m returning to the Citadel. I have friends who can help get

the Death Zone shut down again. Let’s hope it’s not too late
for your brother.”
“The Pit of Rassilon? What is it?”

“Originally it was a myth perpetuated by the Rassilon

resurrection cult. They say that the souls of departed Time

Lords travel there, and that when the pit is at maximum

capacity the Lord will return. A religious mathematician
calculated that it would take 7 million and 8,556 souls to

bring him back.”

“But it’s an actual place, in the Death Zone?”
“A group of fundamentalists built it and started sacrificing

babies, trying to speed his return. It was one of the reasons

why the area was sealed off.”
“Your people are surprisingly full of superstitious nonsense.”

“Technology doesn’t replace religion, it just sends it

underground.”
“Literally,” observed Haiso, shuddering at the thought.

Once they were safely away from the Death Zone, Mordicai
piloted the transporter with more care. As they travelled
across the Gallifreyan landscape, he felt freer than he’d ever

been.
They stopped to gather and eat protein berries in the
picturesque valley of Karlisa.

“How is it we’ve been allowed to travel freely?” asked Haiso.

“The Time Lords are too busy monitoring the skies for Dalek
activity. Security lapses were bound to creep in, now that the
BESSes have been deactivated.”

“Sounds to me like the Time Lords have become paranoid

about their tech. Not the best place to be with the Daleks on
the move.”
“No. We’re shooting ourselves in the foot.”
Haiso remembered the Bess symbol on one of the pieces of
broken metal she’d found in the Death Zone.

“I think this was from one of the BESSes you’re on about,”

she said, showing Mordicai the velorium-plated cylinder.
“Where did you get this from?” he said, recognising it
instantly.
“I found a wreckage on the plain.”

Mordicai grabbed it and removed the top, not seeing the tiny
recorder chip in the bottom.
 “The scroll – where is the scroll?”
“It was empty when I found it,” said Haiso. “You know what
it is?”
Mordicai hurried back to the transporter. Haiso struggled to

keep up.
“We’ve got to get to Dotheia now. I have to find out what
happened to Savalia.”

***

Dotheia appeared to be deserted. If the infirmed and the

elderly had been left behind from the Zecho-led recruitment
drive and the sojourn to Red Forge, then they were keeping
their presence well hidden.
He looked for clues in Savalia’s house, going through her
closet in panic, before slumping on her bed, sniffing her

favourite cowl.
“She must have been there,” he said. “In the Death Zone. I
was hoping Bessie had got lost.”
An elderly neighbour walked in on them.
“Beylon,” said Mordicai, relieved to see a familiar face.
 “Mordicai, it’s good to see you! We thought you were the

Zechos on another recruitment drive.”

“Savalia? Tell me she’s not been sent to war?”
“I’m sorry, Mordicai. But you must be strong – she was very
brave and took my granddaughter’s place.”
“Where are the others?” replied Mordicai.
“You remind me of Narlo,” said Beylon, looking at Haiso.

“They said they’d come back for more – even younger ones, so
Savalia’s mother and the other elders have taken my
granddaughter and all the children into hiding at Red Forge.”
Mordicai was about to ask Haiso if she’d met Narlo, but the
girl looked troubled and pulled Mordicai aside.

“Narlo was with me, in the Death Zone,” she whispered.

Mordicai turned back to Beylon.
“I will do what I can to save us all. But I need a favour. I’m
leaving Haiso here. Keep her safe until I return.”
“Wouldn’t Red Forge be safer?”
Mordicai glared at Haiso to prevent her from revealing the

truth.
“Undoubtedly, but I haven’t time. I’ve got to return to the
Citadel at once.”
 ***

Mordicai felt like a fraud. Who was he kidding? He’d escaped

from the Death Zone without a clue about how he would
continue the Doctor’s legacy and restore peace to Gallifrey.
He’d lied to Haiso just to get her to safety, and Savalia’s
already plundered village seemed like the best hiding place
right now. To make matters worse, Haiso was placing

tremendous faith in him, buoyed by the fact that he had once

met the Doctor. The one thing he was certain of was that
Haiso’s idea that the outliers could reach out to the
Percusians for support was ridiculous. How could a race
dependent on secondhand charity aid offer an effective

alternative to war? It was the kind of pie-in-the-sky thinking

his old mentor Tor Fasa would have been proud of.
He’d promised Haiso that he was returning to the Citadel to
get the Death Zone program shut down. It was true he had
contacts in high places, but whether or not he could still call
Kendo and Tor Fasa friends was another matter. That, and

the likelihood that Hex would get wind of his attack on the
Zechos, made returning to the Citadel a reckless task. The
revelation that Savalia was possibly out there fighting on the
front line had shaken him out of the illusion that the Doctor
was commissioning him to be the Engineer. In any case, he
wasn’t at all cut out to serve a higher purpose. All he wanted

was love and security, and the dream of running away from it
all with Savalia would never go away unless he’d first tried to
make it happen. He suspected Haiso knew that he was
ditching his altruistic plans to rescue his lover. After all, why
else would she have brought him the cylinder just as he was
leaving? He’d told her instead she could keep it, but he

regretted that decision now. It could have been useful if he

did get the opportunity for reconciliation – he’d have been
able to write the last verse, seal it inside and give it to her in
person.
First he had to find her, and that meant going to the

epicentre of the Time War, to the army encampment north of

Arcadia. If the Zecho wasn’t lying, then the Doctor would be
there, too; and surely he’d be much easier to find first. He’d
feel more protected on the front line because of the Doctor’s
presence there than he would back inside the Citadel with
friends he couldn’t even trust. He would try again to persuade

his fallen hero to find another way, hopefully leaving him free
to run away into the sunset with Savalia with his guilt
assuaged. Clutching the sonic screwdriver that had brought
death under his charge, he resolved to return the device to its
rightful owner.
Throwing caution to the wind, given how useless he’d be at

stealth, Mordicai brazenly drove the stolen Zecho transporter

to the sentry gate, accidentally ramming into it.
“Damn Zecho scum, someone ought to teach you animals
some manners,” muttered the duty guard to himself. He’d
clearly been asleep on the job thought Mordicai as a
disgruntled, bleary eyed greeted him on the holoscreen. “What

is it this time, come to pick up more dead flesh to feed on, or

is this another weapons drop? Because either way, it’s not on
the schedule.”
Mordicai rather enjoyed seeing the look on the guard’s face
change when he lowered his cowl.

“I’ve got something far more valuable to deliver.”

“What the? This is a civilian-free zone. Can’t you read the
signs?”
 “Relax! I’m the Engineer.”
“The what?”
“Surely you must have heard of me?”
The guard looked non-plussed.

“I’ve come from the Death Zone. The Bandolier man will
vouch for me. He left this behind in the training tent.”
“Throw it over. I’ll see he gets it.”
“Can’t I come in for a bit? Been a long journey and I’m
famished.”

“Absolutely not.”
“Aw, come on… let me give it to him in person. I’ll make it
worth your while.”
“Do you think a bribe still works on Gallifrey?” said the
guard, signalling towards the raging, reality-twisting battle
ahead. “That’s the end of the world just around the corner,

and it’s getting closer by the minute.”

“What if I could get you out of the frontline? I can put in a
good word for–”
“I’m fully prepared and willing to die here, as should you
and every Gallifreyan be. Now drop the sonic device and be on

your way.”
 Mordicai fished through his pockets and produced a
scrunched-up paper bag, offering the guard its contents
through the bars of the gate.
“Try one. If you like it the whole bag is yours. If you don’t
want the rest, I’ll give it up as a lost cause. Promise.”
The guard shook his head. The boy was persistent at least,

though why anybody would want to visit the bandolier man

was beyond him.
The sweets inside the bag were heavily scented, and
strangely alluring. They were impossible to resist.
Precisely 39 seconds later he was out cold.

“Laced with concentrated velorium, the perfect sleeping pill,”

said Mordicai, switching on the sonic. “Now let’s see how good
you are with Time Lord security.”
Twenty minutes later, a rather dishevelled Mordicai had
climbed over the fifty-foot gate. He’d had quite enough of
these barriers by now. It was symbolic of the fact that

Gallifrey, despite its united army, was just as divided as ever.

Any attack was likely to come from the skies above, so the sky
trenches made perfect sense. Ground defences smacked
instead of a fear of civil rebellion, either that or the Time
Lords were hiding secrets even more terrifying than those he
had already encountered. Mordicai tried to bury to the back of

his mind any thought about what else they might have
planned for Savalia and the other recruits. Rumours were rife
of hidden weapons arsenals and of secret scientific
laboratories where all kinds of crazy genetic, temporal and
spatial experiments were taking place.
Inside the sentry post Mordicai had much better luck with

the sonic. Having edited the surveillance footage, he accessed

the layout of the barracks. Though there was no mention of
his name, it didn’t take a genius to work out which room was
doubling as the Doctor’s quarters. The wood panelling and the
analogue door stood out like a sore thumb compared to the

metallic, cold and clinical constructions around it. The retro

feel was a reassuring sign that however much this incarnation
had changed, he was still the Doctor. With the out-of-place
guest room situated adjacent to the duty commander’s office,
he was at the heart of the action and yet equally aloof from it.
Mordicai had timed his entrance to be after dark, but with

the battle raging beyond the far perimeter the twisted

dimensions of the present, past and future were leaking
through the time locked walls of the base. It was at once day
and night. He realised that the gate was providing a protective
barrier that folded time and space back in the direction of the
fault line. Maybe the Time Lords weren’t as nefarious as he

thought.
Mordicai would have to forget subterfuge and adopt the
clumsy brashness his hero was famous for. The corridors
were at once empty and full. Ghosts of old battles and of wars
to come were walking alongside him, their voices echoing
through the walls. There were the odd moments of elation,

but these were rare interruptions to the demoralising litany of

loss. How the soldiers could possibly fight in these conditions
was beyond him – it was hard enough simply trying to walk in
a straight line.
Frustratingly, the wooden door to the guest room was locked

and the sonic was having no discernible effect. Instead

Mordicai had to rely on brute force. The time shifts helped in
that regard, multiplying each shoulder barge a thousand
times to give him the appearance of super human strength. It
also meant that the sound of the door hitting the ground
would go unnoticed as it joined in with the cacophony of
explosions, voices and laser blasts that tormented his

eardrums.
He realised that each soldier must be fighting across
countless time zones, despite only expending the energy
generated in one. At the epicentre an extermination beam
fired one hundred years in the past or the future could strike

at any given moment. It meant that death was most likely to

come accidentally. It chuckled Mordicai to think that despite
all that Zecho training in accuracy, victory – survival – was a
hit and miss affair. The Time War strategists were wasting
their time. It was all a game of chance with the odds heavily
stacked against them.

After a couple more strikes, the door’s hinges flew off and
Mordicai fell on top of it into the guest room. The time
distortions inside the room were much more pronounced than
in the corridor. It was immediately obvious that this specific
area was a major target at some point in the War.

“Roll over. Roll over to the side!”

He wasn’t sure if the voice was that of a ghost or not, but its
authority was enough to make him comply.
 Unbelievably, the next thing he saw was Savalia crawling
towards the door.
“Come on,” she said. “Help me push it back up.”

As they lifted the door back onto its frame, Mordicai was
amazed that despite being made of wood, somehow it was
deflecting the rays back into the corridor.
As soon as the entrance was sealed, the sensual
bombardment had completely stopped.

An eerie silence descended.

The pair stood side by side with their backs against the
door. Mordicai looked somewhat embarrassed as Savalia
noticed the sonic screwdriver sticking out of a top pocket.
“Oh, Mordicai! What are you like? Didn’t you read the fairy
tales? I think you’ll find that the knight is supposed to turn

up with a weapon that works, not an empty shell. Keep

pushing against it while I find something to prop it up.”
Even now she was putting him down, thought Mordicai.
Even now.
“But it’s not…” he began.

Savalia slid the cot up against the door, knocking Mordicai

over in the process.
 “You shouldn’t be here,” she said coldly.
“I shouldn’t be here?”
“As soon as the corridor stabilisers are switched back on
you go away and you never come back, understood?”
“That’s gratitude for you,” replied Mordicai. “Corridor

stabilisers?”
“Every room in the base is fitted with state-of-the-art
dimension inhibitors, but the energy required is enormous.
The ones in the corridor automatically cut off afterhours to
save power. When you smashed the door down you broke the

seal. You could have killed me.”

“You’re lucky you’re not dead already. Savalia, this isn’t
you…”
“Someone has to do it. If it wasn’t me, it would have been
Narlo.”
“You’ve got to break free of the conditioning,” said Mordicai,

worried that the spurs on her jacket might mean she was
already too far gone. “Come with me, Sav.”
“Cut the paranoid crap, it doesn’t suit you. Anyway – come
with you where, exactly? In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re in
the middle of a time war. Gallifrey needs me more than you

do.”
“We don’t have to fight to win this war. Not like this,
anyway.”
“You’ve been spending too much time with Fasa. Go back to
your ivory tower, Mordicai. But just you remember one thing:
the only reason you’ve still got a home to go to is because of

us. There’s nobody else.”

Mordicai looked absently at the sonic screwdriver.
“Not even him,” added Savalia bitterly. “Especially not him. I
hate to break it to you Mordy, but…”
“…the Doctor’s gone all trigger happy like the rest of you,”

said Mordy, showing off the fact that he now had a working
sonic by shattering a glass of water. “Where is he, anyway? I
came to return this.”
Mordicai revelled in seeing the look of surprise on Savalia’s
face.
“This is his room, right? What’s up, Sav… a punctured ego

from finding out that I didn’t come here for you?”

“I didn’t ask for this, Mordicai. Do you really think I woke up
one day and said to myself, you know what – today I’m going
to leave my mother and betray everything I ever believed in
just because that sounds like fun. I didn’t choose the war.
The war chose me.”

“Of course not. I saw what the Time Lords are doing in the
Death Zone. Like I said, this isn’t you.”
“But this is exactly who I am now, Mordy… the person I was
called to be. Serving Gallifrey matters more than a childish
poem, or a stupid infatuation.”
“Say what you want. You can’t hurt me, Savalia. I hated the

poetry with a passion. Why else do you think I was so bad at

writing it? Like you, it meant nothing to me. I was only ever
after one thing. You were just another rule to break, an
irresistible challenge to see what the touch of an outlier felt
like. Citadel girls are way too easy.”

Savalia slapped Mordicai across the face and immediately

cursed herself for showing her feelings. He grinned back at
her, clearly expecting them to now kiss and make-up. She
was used to outsmarting him in conversation, but trading
insults was the one speech type in which Mordicai could give
as good as he got. That was the last time she was going to let

her guard slip, and there was no way she’d be following

script, however much she still wanted him. She could turn
him away just as effectively with the truth.
“I never saw myself as a damsel in distress or a victim in
need of rescue. So, no, I’m not disappointed that you didn’t
come here for me. I’m relieved. It makes what I’m about to do

so much easier.”
The room was instantly plunged into darkness. Mordicai felt
a strong sensation of falling into empty space. He tried to
speak, but if he had succeeded, he couldn’t hear himself. The
only facts present to him were his memories, jumbled and yet
more vivid than ever. He wondered at first if Savalia had shot

and killed him: perhaps he was falling into the Pit of Rassilon.
Was his mind being reawakened as part of the revivification of
the ancient ruler? With reality itself absent, even a sceptic like
himself had nothing but myths left to fall back on.
Slowly, the world reformed around Mordicai and his senses

returned to normal. He was sat in the Zecho transporter, back

outside the army base. There was music coming from the
sentry point, the same bland nostalgic piece he’d heard
playing when he first arrived. The sentry guard should still be
out for the count, so either the last thirty minutes had not
happened, or he’d been unconscious for several hours.
Suspicious, Mordicai examined the area. He felt a twinge in

his chest and was suddenly hit by a familiar smell from

childhood, one he used to wake up to every day – burnt toast
and honey.
Instead of answering the guard, this time Mordicai turned
the vehicle around. He had no choice but to reject Savalia and

the Doctor as lost causes. With no other way in, he knew that
if he tried to get back to the guest room the outcome would be
the same. Savalia had indeed shot him, using the long-
outlawed Consequence Repeater. Originally invented as sleep
therapy, the dimension-shifting device could fix a bed to a
certain dream. In the right hands, a loving parent would use

it to ensure their child no longer had nightmares by saving a

good night. So long as the bed remained in the exact same
location, a person could in theory enjoy the very same night’s
sleep for the rest of their lives. It was a slightly off-sync time
loop that always started and ended with a jolt. The subject
would be returned to a few moments before the loop began,

allowing them the choice of whether or not to follow the same

path. Mordicai’s father was one of the reasons the
instrument was banned. He used it to give Mordicai recurring
nightmares. Others abused the technology to relive their
twisted fantasies, or to repeat their crimes over and over
again.

The consequence repeater linked a particular point in space

with a particular point in time for a particular individual.
There was no way of getting back inside the base without
triggering the same outcomes. As soon as he stood in front of
the gate, Mordicai knew he would be following his own ghost.

Savalia had effectively taken ownership of one of his

footprints. No wonder she wanted to believe he no longer
cared for her. She knew what that device meant to him
because he had opened up to her about his past. It was in the
open air derelict theatre outside Dotheia. Their special place.
Mordicai felt aggrieved that Savalia hadn’t sent him back

further in time to relive happier days. She could have even

used the weapon on herself. She had the power to return
Gallifrey to a point before the Time War, but she’d used it to
ensure that the fight went on unimpeded. A device like that in
all likelihood came from the rumoured hidden arsenal.
Mordicai dreaded to think what fresh atrocities it could be
used for or what other weapons might have been
recommissioned. Fasa needed to know the extent of the Time
Lords’ folly. The reopening of the Death Zone, the
enslavement of outliers, and the use of questionable time
manipulation technology would surely be enough to force his
mentor into taking a more aggressive form of rebellion. He

needed to pay the old man a visit. But first there was
something else he had to do. It was time for Mordicai to
become the Engineer.

***

Mordicai completed his journey to the Citadel in the cover of

darkness, parking the Zecho transporter about a mile out
above the middle of Lake Parthia, and diving out to swim to
shore as it sank.
As fun as this mode of transport had been, he couldn’t get

out of his head the thought that it had been used to move the
corpses of young outliers, probably even Narlo. He wasn’t
sorry to see the back of it; besides, he had a far better
alternative hopefully still waiting for him in the Prydonian
workshop at the Academy.

Dripping wet, Mordicai stepped through the imposing

security door into the dome as it performed a biometric scan.
To his relief, he still had his resident privileges. He walked
past the security office hoping not to be seen, but to his
irritation the shutters opened, confirming he’d been watched.
The security guard, there to sort out any anomalies or process

guest visitors, knew Mordicai well. Despite the thousands of

residents, very few made regular trips out of the Citadel.
“Bit late to be returning from a fishing trip, Mord? Look at
the state of you!”
“A run-in with a particularly feisty gabble shark. Pulled me

right under, she did. Made quite a splash. Couldn’t save the
rod, sadly,” said Mordicai, grateful that the guard have
provided him with a story. “Surprised to see you still here and
not with the military.”
“Someone has to do it, eh? Between you and me, I think the
War Council are making a grave mistake leaving the surface

barely guarded to focus on an imaginary war from the future.

They should never have handed home security over to a
novice like Kendo.”
“The War has begun even if it hasn’t yet reached the Citadel.
Our off-world allies are being decimated – and the north looks

to have lost already, can you blame them? Anyway, don’t

underestimate Kendo.”
“The Daleks aren’t the only threat. We should be looking
closer to home. What about the scum outliers?”
Mordicai bit his tongue.
“Haven’t you heard? We’ll soon be walking hand-in-hand to

defeat the Daleks. It’s the only way. You better watch out –
one of them might be taking your job soon.”
“Over my dead body,” replied the guard as Mordicai walked
away.
“More than likely,” Mordicai whispered to himself.

***

The workshop was like a second home to Mordicai. Once lined

with several TARDISes, it was now almost completely empty.
The only one left now was the training model, hired out to
students to practice their basic flight skills. It was a dumbed-

down version of the real thing, with only a few fully

functioning components, and the rest virtual equivalents. Its
dimensions were fixed and finite, though still bigger on the
inside. It could materialise and dematerialise within an
exceedingly limited range, confined to the constellation of

Kasterborous, and it was unable to be sent forward or

backwards in time.
Mordicai could fit it with a few added features using spare
parts meant for the real McCoy, but it would take months to
replace all of the fake parts. The biggest problem was that it
lacked any sentient capacity. It couldn’t be symbiotically

linked to specific Time Lords, but Mordicai rather liked that

thought. He could be more in control of this one than any
other. Bitter experience had told him that many a reported
‘fault’ was down to a disagreement between the TARDIS and
her Time Lord owners. Mordicai had lost count of the number
of times he’d told a Time Lord that (s)he needed to see a

counsellor and not an engineer.

There was one largely cosmetic feature he needed to upgrade
before stealing her. With the modified chameleon circuit
fitted, ready to be deliberately broken after it had taken the
form of a 1950s British Police Box, he set the coordinates for
home. Not the best place to run away to, but he needed to

pick up his Denolian replicator and it would be a useful test

run before he turned up at Tor Fasa’s meeting room.

***

Predictably the TARDIS landed in the lift, just as the Doctor’s

had done. Mordicai was reminded of his unusual attire on
that day, and decided that, like the Doctor, a little bit of
eccentric clothing would complete his transformation into the
Engineer. Pyjamas, boots and an engineer’s coat would be a
perfect way of lighting up a room and turning all eyes onto

him, a trait the Doctor was infamous for.

Opening the lift door with the sonic was easier than he
expected. Mordicai was beginning to feel an affinity with the
gadget. His lack of openness to its unconventional uses had
made him short-sightedly take it apart the day Fasa had given
it to him. But back then he wasn’t ready to be the Engineer.

With the Doctor in a bad place, and seemingly resigned to

war, he was doing this to save his hero as much as Savalia
and Gallifrey. There was something in the warrior Doctor’s
eyes that told him he was being assigned to continue that
legacy of non-violent protest. The fact that the sonic was only
now working for him was the kind of poetic truth that Savalia

used to speak of… a way of seeing the world that had barely
understood until now. So many things were being reconciled
in his hyperactive mind, it was as if he was finally becoming
the person he was meant to be. If only Savalia could see him
now – he might just have earned her approval.

This rush of optimism, security and confidence was soon

broken when he arrived at his flat. It had been turned over.
His chaotic room was a hoarder’s palace, but he knew where
everything was. In fact, if anything, the intruders in moving
stuff around had left it neater than they found it. The Zechos
– perhaps the Time Lords, too – were on to him.

On the plus side, whoever had done this was clearly

ignorant about the wonders of his inventions. But then again,
who wasn’t? The Denolian replicator he’d adapted to produce
endless supplies of toilet paper when fed with stolen academy
tomes was undamaged.
 He allowed himself one last nostalgic look at his sorry

excuse for a home. At least he was free now of the fear of

Savalia one day discovering the mess he lived in. He pushed
any thoughts of Savalia to the back of his mind. He needed to
steel himself and ensure that he was as ready as he could be
to confront Fasa and show him the full horrors of the Death
Zone training program.
The Theatre of Love and War

Fresh from his second adventure in the Death Zone, this time

to a place of hope under the guidance of Tor Fasa, Mordicai

was ready to begin his adventures as the Engineer. The

hospital had significantly assuaged his concerns about the

legacy of Rassilon. Should Gallifrey succumb to Dalek

occupation, then there was a way out that didn’t involve a
suicidal leap into the pit. Unprepared to wait for Fasa’s
negotiations with Kendo, Mordicai set himself up as a man for

the people, specifically the people of the wastelands. Dotheia

and Red Forge may have been plundered, but there were

plenty of other villages and towns that hadn’t yet been co-
opted into the War of the Time Lords. Using Savalia’s house

as a base, he worked on designing a non-lethal weapon that

could be mass-produced with his replicator. The idea was to

create an alternative army who would either become the

exemplar for the Zecho trained official Gallifreyan military, or

their successor when they had destroyed themselves.
 Beylon and Haiso were cast as somewhat unwilling guinea

pigs as over the next few weeks Mordicai tested each new

invention. Although they were for the most part intricate and
well-conceived designs, they were impractical, overly

complicated and unpredictable. The Sense-Bombarder, for

instance, only worked at close range, and though specifically

designed to drive a Dalek insane, trying to use one in battle

would be a suicide mission. The Daleks would always strike

first. Variations on perception filter technologies could make

the enemy miss their target or think that they were

surrounded by their own, but they were easily countered as

Beylon and Haiso found ways of circumventing the illusions.

If they could easily overcome them, then it would be child’s

play for a Dalek.

The biggest issue, as Haiso irritatingly pointed out, was that

none of Mordicai’s alternative weapons could ever be a final

solution. At best they would disrupt the enemy, but not

enough to stop them from coming back for more. Mordicai’s

non-lethal weapons could in theory prolong the war

indefinitely.
 “We need to create a weapon that would make a Dalek run

away for good,” said Haiso.

“A Dalek never flees, not unless it’s coming back with

reinforcements,” said Beylon.

Mordicai suddenly burst into fits of laughter.

“What’s so funny?” Beylon asked.

“The vortex. I haven’t laughed this much since I saw her in

the temporal schism,” he replied. “The answer – it’s been with

us all this time. There is one thing, one person the Daleks,

like everything in time and space, would run from. The

Doctor. She was running away, after all, and she’s laughing at

me for my blindness in not realising the truth sooner.”

“What’s he talking about, Haiso? I can’t make any sense of

it.”

“I don’t know,” Haiso replied, enthused by Mordicai’s

dramatic change of mood. “But I believe him!”

Mordicai took apart the sonic screwdriver piece by piece and

began making notes.

“Mordicai,” said Beylon. “It’s wrong to raise the girl’s hopes.

The Doctor is no more, you said so yourself.”

 “The Doctor isn’t a single Time Lord. She… he, they and now

we are a way of seeing the world. An anomaly, a stumbling

block in a universe ordered by power and dominion. That’s

what makes the Daleks so afraid of him – they can’t predict

his moves because he refuses to conform.”

“That’s all very well, Mordicai, but how is this any different
from what you’ve already been trying to create with your

alternative weapons?”
“An army always marches to a single tune, everything fits

together in a certain order – weapons, ranks, directives. But

what if we were just a collection of non-conformists? An army
of Doctors? The Daleks would be unable to categorise us or

treat us as a single enemy to overcome. If one Doctor could

make an army of Daleks run, then what would they do if they

were faced with thousands upon thousands of us?”

“You have lost your mind, Mordicai.”
“Poetry only works if the rules can be broken. It’s the spaces

in between that make the magic…”

Mordicai danced and laughed like never before, with a

mania that even for Haiso had turned dark and disturbing.
“…the runners and the laughers must work together.”
 “Mordicai, you need to calm down now,” said Beylon sternly.
Mordicai’s eyes looked possessed even after he had turned

deadly serious.
“We don’t just make the Daleks and the vortex run away
from us, we make them face each other and laugh. That’s how

this War will end. All it would take is the laugher of a single
Dalek.”

“The universe would indeed laugh at such a ridiculous

notion,” said Beylon. “So how do we do it? Tell the Emperor a

few jokes? Read to them some of your poetry?”

“For starters we stop trying to design the perfect weapon,
and make a few more of these instead,” said Mordicai, flicking

into the air the now reassembled sonic screwdriver.

“Go, Mordy, go,” shouted Haiso, throwing up the velorium-

plated cylinder in solidarity.

“Don’t you ever call me that again,” shouted Mordicai,

grabbing the cylinder and staring at Haiso with accusing eyes.

“Nobody gets to call me that, do you understand me? Not
now. Not ever.”

Mordicai stormed off to his TARDIS, locking himself inside.

The ferocity of the verbal attack left Haiso shaking.
 Beylon offered a comforting arm.
“It’s not you,” he said gently. “Dearest Savalia used to call

him that all the time. When he’s calmed down, he’ll regret
having been so hard on you. It’s not easy living in fear that

you’ll never see your loved ones again. I should know.”

“I wish I could help him.”
“You already have… so much.”

“He doesn’t notice me for who I am. I’m a substitute. A

figure of hope.”

“You gave him a reason to fight. And me too, come to think

of it. No, you’re not Savalia and you’re not Narlo, but your life
matters as much as theirs. So if you being here gives him the

faith to believe that others can be saved, too, does that make
you more or less important, hmmm?”

***

Mordicai had bottled up his feelings for Savalia for far too
long. At first her fate was his motivation, but lately it had

been clouding his judgement and keeping him awake at night.

He was trying to be the Doctor and Savalia too, and quite
apart from the fact that neither came easily to him, the two
personalities were hardly compatible. Who was he kidding –

the Engineer? He couldn’t even fix himself. Perhaps he was

crazy, or perhaps his shifts in logic and intuition had

accidentally uncovered the truth. Either way, his calling had

become a curse. Attacking Haiso like that? It was the perfect
example of his insecurity.
He hammered the velorium-plated cylinder against the

console, sending the lid flying and the recorder chip rolling

onto the floor.

After Mordicai had exhausted his rage, he fell to the floor

weeping.

Composing himself, he spotted the recorder chip and

inserted it into the TARDIS coms unit.

The voice of Savalia was mumbled, her words indecipherable

at first, but amplifying the signal with the sonic screwdriver,

Mordicai was able to her them as clear as if she in the room

with him.
“Mordy. Bessie is broken and I never got to listen to your

message so it’ll probably take a miracle for you to hear mine.

Listen to me – the master of words, getting all tongue-tied

already. But I can’t leave for the war without saying

something. You know me – always having to get the last word

in. That thing I said about your poetry? It was harsh and I get

why you didn’t write the next line. I really do. And I’ll be

honest, for days I waited in hope that Bess would return,

until I realised that I don’t need words, not a single one. I feel
your love for me every single minute of every single hour of

every single day. Even a Time War can’t take that away from

me. I’ll never forget what we had together. You know why?
Because you are still here. Still here inside me. Wherever this

war takes me, I’ll carry you in my heart. In fact, I’m having to

learn to think a lot more like you: every little detail matters

when it comes to fighting a war. Gallifrey is no place for a

dreamer anymore, but you’re here inside me, doing what you

do best – fixing me, making me stronger, more aware, more

ready to face the dangers to come. Savi.”

Mordicai struggled to process the message. He couldn’t work

out if the irony that Savalia was trying to model herself on

him, and he on her, was a good thing or not.

His mind went back to his last meeting with Savalia. He’d

taken her words at face value, assuming she was rejecting

him. This message changed everything. For the first time, he
wondered if her actions that night were to protect him rather

than her.

A frantic banging on the TARDIS door robbed him of the

chance to contemplate any further, or replay and analyse the

message piece by piece. He would have no doubt invested

every word with equal significance and fallen into a self-

pitying impotence.
Uncomfortably, he had to instead trust his initial

impressions. There were mixed feelings, but the overriding

sense was one of completion and relief. Savalia was giving

him permission to paradoxically be both himself and embrace

her imagination. The space between how he saw himself and

how she saw him was where he needed to be. It was scary,
unsettling and perversely exciting.

***

At first Beylon had thought it was the Zechos coming back for

one final recruitment drive, so the banging on the TARDIS

door was originally intended to get Haiso to safety. But as the

figures came closer, he realised it was several dozen outliers

walking across the mountain pass. Some of them headed

down towards the village, but most continued to travel deeper

into wasteland territory without any clear sense of

coordination or leadership. Several collapsed and fell down

the mountainside, or on the path to Dotheia.

Haiso ran to greet them, ushering them to the central village

fountain to drink or clean up, while Beylon continued to

knock relentlessly.
“Come on, Mordicai. This isn’t the time for your self-

indulgent moping,” he shouted.

Mordicai opened the door an inch or two and peered out.

“What does a man have to do to get some space around

here?” he said in good humour.

Beylon dragged him out and pointed to the steady stream of

outliers.
“What are they are doing?” said Mordicai.

“Wrong question,” replied Beylon. “What can they be doing?

That’s what a good leader always has to ask. You wanted an

army of individuals. Well, here they are!”

 Mordicai and Beylon started to make their way down
towards Haiso, who was talking to some of the strangers at

the fountain.

“What do you think – deserters?” Beylon asked.

“It could be a trap. Trust no–”

Haiso was suddenly running back up the hill, screaming in

rage.

When she saw Mordicai with Beylon she aimed her anger at
him, and started thumping him in the chest.

“You’ll never be one of us!” she screamed.

Mordicai tried in vain to hold her arms back. As her anger

slowly gave way to despair, the punches turned into pathetic

slaps, until eventually she relented.

“I guess I deserved that,” said Mordicai. “I’m sorry.”

Haiso’s eyes nearly popped out of their sockets, she was that
amazed by Mordicai’s egocentric assumption.

“Do you think I would be this upset about your love-fuelled

tirade, Mordy?” she added pointedly. “This time your people

have gone too far, of all the evil…”

Beylon walked down to the fountain, as if in a trance-like

state.
 “Beylon? What is it?” asked Mordicai, confused by the

elder’s odd behaviour.

The old man had singled out one soldier – a slightly-framed

young man with a nervous disposition.

“Where did you get this from?” he demanded, pulling a

locket from his neck.

“I can’t remember,” said the man looking confused and

disorientated.

“You can’t remember?” said Beylon, grabbing his oversized

cloak and shaking him.

“Beylon, stop it,” said Mordicai, pulling him back. “Can’t you

see he’s not well?”

“Look,” shouted Beylon flicking open the locket to reveal a

portrait of his granddaughter. “That locket belonged to my

daughter, so where is she?”

“She’s come back home,” said Haiso. “Like the rest of them.”

“Nonsense – these people are all complete strangers,”

protested Beylon.

“Time Lord science. Don’t you see?” Haiso replied.

The sickening truth suddenly dawned on Mordicai. As he

looked closer around the party, the post-regeneration
symptoms were obvious.
“How did you work it out?” he asked Haiso.

“They know exactly where they belong, but not why. They

are nameless. And their clothes… you didn’t see it because

you’ve been brainwashed by years of Time Lord propaganda.

Besides, you didn’t want to believe they would stoop so low.

Look at you, pretending to be the Doctor. A surrogate Time

Lord fulfilling the wishes and expectations of your parents.”

“We have to end this now. Haiso is right, the Time Lords

have gone too far.”

“Mordicai, is my daughter dead?” said Beylon, for whom the

penny still hadn’t dropped.

“She might as well be,” said Mordicai looking at the young

man who was now staring at his reflection, muttering to

himself “Who am I? And why have I come here?”

“You’ve got to help him,” said Haiso, but Mordicai’s thoughts

had turned back towards Savalia.

He walked around the crowd, searching for any clues that
one of them might be her. After a while he glanced back at

Haiso. It was no surprise that she was talking to Beylon.

Mordicai watched as Beylon’s expressions oscillated between
disbelief, anger and concern. He turned away as Haiso led
Beylon to sit beside the elder’s lost daughter. He decided that

he really didn’t want to know if Savalia was with them,

because if she was then she’d be as good as dead, too.

“How am I supposed to fix this?” Mordicai said aloud to his

imaginary Doctor, clutching the sonic screwdriver so tightly
that his fingers bled. Once again, his mind wandered back to

his first, and effectively only, encounter with his hero. And
then the answer came to him. The temporal schism – the
Doctor had speculated that it was a place where the initiates

saw themselves for who they were – past, present and future
coalescing to bring wholeness… or a mental breakdown.
Instead of marching into the battlefield to show the Time

Lords how to win the war, he would lead his new army to the
Citadel. He’d wanted an army of Doctors, but the wastelands
were being inundated with patients instead. Doctors or

patients, thought Mordicai – was there really any difference?

Armed with a new batch of sonic screwdrivers, they would
enter the dome and bring the sick before the schism. There

the lucky ones would remember who they were and what the
Time Lords had done to them. It would lead to nothing short
of an outright rebellion, but the Time Lords, Kendo and Tor

Fasa included, had lost their right to rule Gallifrey.

***

Over the next few weeks, while Mordicai was busy printing

the sonic screwdrivers and travelling to the other villages to

share the same message of hope, Haiso and Beylon took the
lead in reintegrating the victims of the Time Lord emergency

military regeneration program into village life. Most of them

were too far gone to be of any use, but by and large they were
compliant and happy to trust Mordicai’s plan. A few did,

however, regain sufficient memories to understand who they

were, but they tended to be hazy or in the third person, and
so they remained almost as out of touch with themselves as

the more severely damaged. The general agreement was that

salvation would be found at the Untempered Schism just as
Mordicai had predicted.

Mordicai’s biggest stumbling block proved to be the TARDIS.

He’d landed her slap bang in the middle of the village square
at Red Forge, unprepared for the level of panic and anger the
blue box would generate. His TARDIS triggered the restoration
of recent memories, and the Doctor’s betrayal, inevitably
heightened because of his legendary status, weighed heavy on

the outliers. The demythologised Doctor was a figure of hate,

and Mordicai was alone in his desire to redeem his hero.
Fortunately, Savalia’s mother was still there and spoke up for

him, bringing the Red Forgers back on side. But breaking the
chameleon circuit had been a big mistake; and from then on,
Mordicai made sure that the TARDIS was always hidden as he

passed from village to village.

He’d tried to avoid facing Nairo in a one-on-one situation,

but she was determined to stop him in his tracks before he

left for the next village. She arranged for one of the elders to
escort him to her temporary residence. He was quite taken

aback by her level of influence.

Nairo’s home for the last few months, if you could call it
that, lay deep underground, accessible via a disused well.

Although the left-behind Red Forgers had taken in the

Dotheians en masse, Nairo was clearly receiving special
treatment. Mordicai assumed her royal treatment was on

account of her unique affliction. The oversized bucket of an

entrance might have been demeaning, but a passageway
beneath the well led to an expansive cave filled with ornate

furniture and a vast and well-stocked pantry.

“Mordicai. My Savalia would have been so proud of what
you’re doing.”

Mordicai bit his tongue, not wanting to let on to the poor

woman just how far her daughter had fallen.
“Maybe…”

“But she was right to be wary about the Doctor. You don’t
need your TARDIS to look like his. What’s that all about? If
you’re going to do this, don’t do it in his name. Do it because

of who you are.”

Nairo had barely acknowledged Mordicai’s relationship with

Savalia before. Not that she was ever openly hostile. Savalia
used to tease him about how her mother was forever
counselling her to go and find a nice young outlier to settle

down with. Savalia blamed it on the illness and told him not
to worry about it, but he knew she was trying to cover up for
her mother’s shame.

Nairo had left the Citadel in disgrace, but rather than blame
it on the malpractice and hubris of Time Lord science, she
took full personal responsibility for her condition. Mordicai

had been deeply suspicious of Nairo, believing that not only

was she ashamed to have been a Time Lord, she was also
afraid that Savalia would return to her roots. She was

probably trying to bring Savalia up as an outlier to ensure

that she never make the same mistake.
“Because of who I am? I’m not even good enough for the

Time Lords.”
“All that matters is you were good enough for Savalia.”
Mordicai could barely keep eye contact, but looking away he

noticed that Nairo had been preparing a rucksack of

essentials.
“No. No. Absolutely no. Nairo, you must stay here, you’re not

in a…”
Nairo turned her back to Mordicai, walked over to a chest of

drawers and continued to pack her bag.

“When we first arrived in the Wastelands, how do you think
we were greeted?”

“With overwhelming generosity and hospitality, of course,

how else?”
 “They feared me, Mordicai. I was either a devil or a god,

depending on how scared they were at the time. It took years

to gain their acceptance as a person.”

“And the Red Forgers haven’t quite caught up, by the looks
of it,” said Mordicai dryly. “A god, maybe, but a devil? It’s
hard to credit. I mean, I’ve seen outliers share their tables

with Percusians, for goodness’s sake.”

“Haven’t you ever stopped to ask yourself why?”
“It was all down to you? You softened their hearts?”

“Hmm. I was hardly welcoming to you, now, was I? No, I

can’t take any credit. The outliers just learnt that it felt good
to care for strangers. Someone had to be first. That’s all I was.

The first. And before you accuse me of idealising the people…

no, it was another way for them to say, ‘we are not like the
Time Lords’.”

Suddenly, Nairo marched up to Mordicai, fighting every

diseased cell in her body to stand before him, assertive and
purposeful. “It’s absolutely vital that I join your march. I’m

the living proof that Time Lord science will never end well.
That it will hurt even them. The time for keeping secrets has

long since passed. I should have exposed their malpractice

years ago. But more than that, I can access their radios and
appeal to the Percusians for assistance.”
“They can’t do any worse than the Zechos, I guess,” said

Mordicai, slightly unnerved by the implication that outliers

and Time Lords working together on equal terms would still
be insufficient. “But Fasa’s beaten you to it.”

“Fasa?”
Nairo laughed.

“The Peace Council,” added Mordicai.

“Fasa has a nasty habit of making things worse and still
coming out of it whiter than white. I should know.”

The tone in her voice.

That look of absolute terror.
Had Fasa once been involved in the experimental

regenerations? Was he in some way responsible for Nairo’s

condition? Or even this latest aberration on the battlefield?
Mordicai could hardly deal with that right now. He’d already

lost faith in Kendo, Savalia and the Doctor.

Not Fasa, too.
Please, not Fasa, too.
 ***

A month passed, and the time came for the outliers to make
their move. Around two thousand of them had congregated in
Savalia’s favourite ‘me-time’ place: the derelict open-air

theatre-in-the-round on the Road to Perdition. From here they

would begin their march to the Citadel to stand before the
Untempered Schism.

Nairo’s return to Dotheia was bittersweet. It was good to be

reunited with Beylon, the village’s last guardian, but seeing so

many of her former neighbours suffering from extreme post-

regenerative sickness made the horrors she’d already
witnessed in the returning Red Forgers more tangible. She felt

ashamed of being part of a society that created such

sickening genetic experiments. At first it troubled her that
Savalia wasn’t there, but she decided it was better her

daughter died in battle than face this nightmare.

Haiso searched for her brother amongst the Red Forge
contingent, but unless he was one of the more extreme

sickness cases, he was either dead or still out there fighting.

 Mordicai found her crying in the corner, away from the

assembled crowd.
“I’ve lost everyone,” she said.
Mordicai had no idea how to comfort her. But he did have a

job for her and perhaps the distraction would help.

“Savalia’s mother is going to find the journey arduous. She’ll
need help. Will you push her wheelchair? I want you and her

to be at the head of the march.”

“Why doesn’t she hitch a ride with you in the TARDIS?”
“She won’t set foot in it.”

“She hates her people that much?”

“She loves the outliers that much. Wants to be one with you.

I have to go now. Get ready for my big entrance. One final pep
talk before we set off. Go to her, Haiso.”

***

Having instructed the outliers in how to operate their printed

sonic screwdrivers, which amounted to little more than how

to switch them on and off and raise and lower the sonic
emissions, Beylon and the appointed leaders from the other
villages walked around the edge of the circular stage,
silencing the crowd. It was time.

***

Mordicai was sat in the pit of the theatre, running his fingers

across some lines of poetry that Savalia had etched into the
wall. On their first date, she’d taken him to her secret place
and taught him the art of poetry. Above him, he could hear

Beylon announce him and the crowd cheering and chanting

his name.
He’d achieved so much over the last few weeks, buoyed by a

combination of Haiso’s faith in him, his initiation by the

Doctor as the Engineer, and most telling of all, his love for
Savalia. He had one last thing to do before leading his army

against Time Lords and Daleks alike.

Taking off his Omega Engineers badge, he began to write on

the wall with the pin. The last stanza in the chain poem,
words that had come to him so unexpectedly on the day he
met Haiso in the Death Zone. Working backwards he

completed the whole poem, having memorised every line.

 For the first time that he could remember, he smiled without
bursting into laughter. Deep in his thoughts, he’d blocked out
the noises of the crowd above, but as he regained focus he

realised that the cheers of support had turned into screams of

outrage and terror.

Mordicai climbed the pit and peered over the edge. The
TARDIS, still in the guise of the police box, had materialised
stage-centre. Beylon was trying to persuade the other leaders

not to be afraid, but as they argued amongst themselves, the

crowd were dispersing.
Mordicai ran onto the stage and grabbed the tannoy in a

desperate attempt to salvage the situation.

“Children of Gallifrey. Do not be afraid. This is what the
Time Lords want. It’s a trick to stop us from taking power.”

Mordicai’s appeals may have caused the other leaders to

take notice, but it was having little effect on the masses.
“What did you bring your TARDIS here for? Of all the

stupid…” said Haiso.

“I thought I told you to let go of the Doctor,” added Nairo.

“It’s not mine,” replied Mordicai, glaring at the Police Box.

“Well, come on, what are you waiting for? Show yourself. It’s
time to find out whose side you’re really on.”
The doors of the TARDIS flung upon, bathing a section of

the theatre in brilliant yellow light. To Mordicai’s horror,

within the radius of the light time slowed down to a halt,
making those caught in its glare appear to have been frozen

on the spot.
“What are you doing, Doctor?” cried Mordicai, fearing the

worst.
The TARDIS began to spin on its axis, covering and freezing
the whole area with its light.

The doors shut and the people collapsed.

***

At the critical intersection between the beginning and the end

of the War, a ferocious battle was taking place to stop the

enemy passing from the future to the present. Savalia’s unit

had been leading the assault, until the regeneration crisis
completely scuppered their progress. Quite what was so

special about them that they could bypass most of the

training programme wasn’t entirely clear, but Commander
Bez was insistent that the orders had come from the War

Council itself. Without any logical explanation as to why, they

were being hailed as the army’s elite troop. Clearly the Zechos
weren’t impressed.

Savalia had been about to leave for the Citadel to confront

Kendo about the regeneration ‘gift’, when the Zechos had
arrived to question her.
“We are looking for a war criminal wanted on suspicion of

murder.”
“That’s ridiculous. Who would do such a thing?”
“Your lover. Mordicai the TARDIS engineer. He is a traitor to
your people.”
Savalia just laughed at the thought of it.
“Well, that’s ridiculous. A Gallifreyan and an outlier?

Gallifrey is no place for such fairy tales.”

The Zecho handed her the notes from Mordicai’s flat.
“Not according to him,” he said. “Do you have any idea
where Mordicai might be? Because if not, we will use you to
flush him out.”

“Well, you’ve obviously been to his flat. Why didn’t you wait
there for him?”
 “Even he wouldn’t be so stupid as to go home.”
“Look. If I could help you I would, but I’m pretty sure you’ve
got this all wrong. I hope you find him so that he can clear his
name. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve a war to fight, in case

you’d forgotten.”
“Take her,” ordered the Zecho to his colleagues.
Commander Bez intervened.
“What is the meaning of this? You have no authority to
interrogate one of my officers. I’d agreed to informal
questioning, no more. Release her at once.”

“She has information on a traitor. We need to find out who

he’s been working for.”
“You heard her. She knows nothing, now be on your way.”
Bez passed the Zecho a sealed order stamped by the
President herself.
“What is that?” asked Savalia, as the Zecho’s expression

completely changed on reading it.

“I see,” he said, studying Savalia in detail. “So you’re the
chosen one.”
“Chosen one – what’s he talking about Commander?”
 “What do you think? Your status Savalia, as leader of this

special unit of course. Now go lizard breath, before I have you

all arrested.”
The Zechos bowed and left.
“If you’re still intent on talking to Kendo, you better clear
your head of any thoughts about lover boy. War has no room
for love. A soldier must be completely focused on the task at

hand.”
“Yes Commander,” said Savalia, clutching the notes from
Mordicai. “Just give me a moment alone to gather my
thoughts, if I may.”
“Well, we won’t wait for you, so make it quick.”

Alone in the Doctor’s old room, Savalia unrolled the chain

poem she’d been carrying inside her armour and tried to
complete it with one of Mordicai’s notes.
She smiled and shook her head, every single one of them
fitted the circular pattern perfectly, despite the poor and
stilted wording.

“So you got my message, even if you still haven’t got the
hang of the poetry. I thought you’d given up on us. But what
have you done now, Mordicai, you silly, silly man? Got the
war, but not the fight?”

***

An eerie silence filled the theatre as the man in the Bandolier

stepped out of his TARDIS and examined the bodies of those
on the stage. Crouching down beside Mordicai, he whispered
into his ear.

“It is finished. No more. Enough now. Enough. Let it go.”

The war-torn fighter, much older than the man who
Mordicai had met in the Death Zone, returned to his TARDIS.

***

Those closest to the TARDIS came round first, just in time to

see the Doctor’s ship complete its dematerialisation.
“What just happened?” said Haiso.
“I remember who I am,” said one of the leaders.
“Me, too,” said another.
 “He should be dead,” said Mordicai. “By all the laws of
science, he shouldn’t have been able to survive being so close
to the heart of the TARDIS.”
One by one, the outliers regained consciousness.
Mordicai stood up and watched their faces become animated

as their identities returned to them. Their strange, almost

zombified appearances were giving way to something far more
natural.
“Every TARDIS is linked to the Eye of Harmony. The Doctor
just blessed us with one of her tears,” said Mordicai.
Beylon’s regenerated daughter ran onto the stage and

hugged him. At first he felt awkward, unsure whether to

welcome or fight it.
“It’s still her,” said Haiso.
Beylon pulled the man’s arms aside and stared into his
eyes. He felt the connection and smiled.

“We will get through this, love,” he said, as in tears the two
men embraced.
Haiso was overjoyed as all around her scenes of reunions
were taking place. She paid particular attention to the party
that was taking place in the people of Red Forge. She needed

to join them to see if her brother or parents were with them.

But when she saw Mordicai walking back into the pit,
clearly agitated, she left Nairo with Beylon followed him down.
“What’s wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted? We fixed them.
If you hadn’t drawn them all together…” Spotting the carved
poetry, she stopped herself. “You’re afraid she is here and

that you will no longer be attracted to her... or you’re afraid

she hasn’t returned?”
Mordicai shook his head.
“This isn’t about me anymore. Don’t you see? He’s done this
to stop us from going to the Citadel to stand before the
Untempered Schism. But why?”

“To protect us, why else?”

“No. This is to protect them. Well, I won’t have it. We press
on, we don’t give up.”
Mordicai walked to the corner of the pit and pulled off the
large sheet that had been covering his TARDIS.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to make out the Doctor has been on our side all
along.”
 Entering the TARDIS, he turned back to Haiso and grinned.
“It’s time to show the Time Lords how to win this war. So if
you’ll excuse me, I’ve a speech to make.”

***

Mordicai was rather proud he’d managed to materialise the

TARDIS in the exact spot the Doctor had landed his.
Most of the crowd were still heading off, planning to return

to their villages. Amplifying the tannoy signal with his sonic

screwdriver, he was able to get through to them all, even the
ones who were out of sight.
“Children of Gallifrey. The Time Lords cannot be trusted to
fight this war on our behalf, and we will no longer be their
puppets. So we have two choices: we run and hide, hoping

that somehow the Daleks and Time Lords will destroy each
other and we will be spared, or we show them a better way.
The hero from your ancient legends has repented, giving you
back your identities and memories. And now, his TARDIS is
mine. Let us march into the Citadel, armed with your
weapons of peace and bring down the War Council. Gallifrey
belongs to us!”
One or two shouted back, until eventually all two thousand
were joining in the refrain and returning to the theatre.
“Gallifrey belongs to us! Gallifrey belongs to us!” they
shouted, raising their sonic screwdrivers.

***

For five days, the outliers marched towards the Citadel.

Mordicai piloted the training TARDIS in basic flight mode,

flying low level just ahead of the party. He left the doors open
and continued to gee up the troops using the augmented
tannoy. For a man who found the right words so difficult to
come by, he was in remarkable form.

***

The plan had been working perfectly. Stealing the idea from
the Zechos’ Death Zone orientation tent, Mordicai had led his
army of sonic-wielding outliers to bombard the Citadel guards
with discordant sounds. The outliers shouted in triumph as
the guards’ shields shattered and they started to retreat.

With the entrance clear, Mordicai commanded his troops to

follow him to the Panopticon, the seat of Time Lord power.
They were in touching distance of the dome when eerily, with
an almighty creek, the sky trench turned 180 degrees and
began shooting at them.
When the dust had cleared, Mordicai could see a young man

dressed in the distinctive white robes of peace, waving

frantically from the bottom of a crater that had formed just in
front of him from the impact of the sky trench attack. The
man was singing an anti-war song. Mordicai knew the words
all too well from his days with Tor Fasa.

“It can’t be,” he said. Straining his eyes he could just make
out the reopened scar.
“Fasa?”
He had no idea if Tor Fasa had heard him, because at this
precise moment the sky fell dark and the Gravity Buster sent
the sky trench crashing down into the crater. Mordicai passed

out as debris from the falling sky trench hit him head on.
 ***

When Mordicai woke up, he was dangling precariously over

the edge of the crater, but as he looked down he realised it

was still getting deeper, as if a hole was being drilled straight

through the middle of the planet. The crater was expanding,
too, and he shuffled away just in time as its sides collapsed.
He looked around frantically for his troops. Many of them
were dead or dying, Beylon among them, while others were
fleeing in panic. Thinking the worst was over, he called out for

the remaining survivors to regroup.

“We don’t give up,” he said.
“We don’t give up,” repeated a familiar voice from the
direction of a fallen tree. It was Haiso. An upturned
wheelchair lay beside her. Empty. There was no sign of Nairo.

She must have fallen into the pit thought Mordicai, killed by
the very people she’d come here to contact in the naïve belief
they would offer assistance.
Mordicai stood the chair upright again, ready to use it to
take the girl back to his TARDIS. But after scrambling
through the foliage to reach her, it was soon apparent that
Haiso’s injuries were fatal. Trapped under the trunk of the

tree, there was no way he could pull her free.

“Go and find her,” said Haiso weakly. “You can’t fix me, not
anymore, but Savalia… and Gallifrey, they need you.”
Mordicai had no time to mourn. The Gravity Buster was just
the start of the onslaught. Percusian ships began to rain

down fire on the already weakened Citadel, smashing the

dome to pieces.
“Get out of here, now,” he shouted to the few loyal outliers
who remained, whilst at the same time looking for Nairo.
“We’re too late.”
“But where are we supposed to go?”

“There’s a building hidden in the Forest of Wounds in the

Death Zone. It’s said to contain a portal to another world –
Tor Fasa called it the Rock of Compassion. Take as many
survivors as you can with you while I try and verify the
information.”

Mordicai sat slumped in the wheelchair as he watched them

hurry away. Suddenly overcome with rage, he pulled the
Omega Junior Engineers badge from off his ripped pyjama
top. He was about to launch the pin into the crater, but
remembering that Savalia had designed the fabric patterned
back-rest of her Mother’s wheelchair, he stopped himself.
While kissing the embroidered built-in cushion, he pinned the

badge onto it and pushed the wheelchair into the crater.

“Together at last”, he said to himself bitterly.
 PART VI

Living Outside the War

The Fall of the Citadel

Fasa woke up to the sound of his own singing. Long after he

had slipped into unconsciousness, the song of peace was still

echoing around the rocky chambers in a voice unnaturally

distorted, twisted and extended by the heaviness of the air. By

rights he should have been dead. Surviving that close to the

impact site of the Gravity Buster meant that his continued
existence was seasoned with a miraculous quality. But as he
stood in the midst of a sea of dead people, trying in vain to

cover the rancid smell of rotting flesh, he could only interpret

the miracle as a cruel, sick joke. His hearts were still beating

not thanks to an act of divine intervention or the randomness

of fate, but because injustice always had a nasty habit of

winning. He was a monster, not a miracle. Optimism and

hubris were a lethal cocktail, character traits that ought to

never belong together. He shouldn’t be alive not because the

odds of survival were so low, but because he didn’t deserve to

cheat death.
 Or maybe he did. Maybe this was his punishment, to see the

devastation his scheming had caused before dying the slowest

death of all: death by broken hearts. The peace song sounded

ridiculous now.

“Shut up. Shut up,” he shouted.

“That’s no way to talk to the dying.”

Fasa shook his head. If it wasn’t bad enough that he’d been

hearing that wretched, pointless peace song being repeated

over and over again, now his disembodied voice was talking
back at him.

“Well, are you coming to help me or not?”

The shock of being spoken to brought Fasa back to his

senses. Given the likely state of the injured party, he now

wished that it was indeed his own time-ghosted future voice

that had been calling him. He strained his eyes doubly hard

in an effort to see through orange-tinged dust and the blurry

film of his concussion. The tightness of his frown triggered off

the bleeding from his freshly minted scar again. Another

reminder of the contradictions within him.

When Fasa reached the wounded rebel, although she was

impossible to recognise physically, he knew exactly who she

was.

Another one of his mistakes. This time from long ago.

Another reminder that he was as much a monster as the

Kaled mutants and their new allies.

In fact, he was as much a monster as the rest of his race. He

was a Time Lord, no better and no worse than those who were
supporting the War Council, or those who had rebelled to

form the cult of Rassilon.

Time Lords were by definition evil, and he was as fallen as

the rest of them.

***

Nairo’s supply of medication from Kendo had run out shortly

before the journey to the Citadel. Although it didn’t prevent

the traumas of her unstable regenerations, the analgesic

benefits of ARS 71 had kept her remaining heart beating. The

wheelchair wasn’t a physical necessity – it wasn’t as if she

couldn’t walk. It was to stop her from expending energy, thus

holding back the next regeneration. She had been chained

inside the primitive chair for her own protection, travelling as

if she was paralysed from the neck down. Even under

restraint, the slightest movements of her facial muscles were

excruciatingly painful. She figured she could cope with it just

long enough to get into the Panopticon to deliver her message

to the Percusians. Up until the moment the Gravity Buster

hit, she had coped with the pain through natural remedies,
distracting conversations with Haiso and her enforced

immobility. The stress of the assault on the Citadel had

weakened her considerably; but now the erratic heartbeat,

already working overtime to compensate for its shrivelled up,

dead partner, was like a ticking time bomb on the final
countdown.

She’d glimpsed the Percusian ship seconds before her

wheelchair was flung violently out of Haiso’s hands. Her

disease, though debilitating, was such that she was able to

survive the fall thanks to multiple regenerations all the way to
the bottom. The first she’d brought on herself by swinging her

head from side to side. As the regeneration energy shot

through her body, with superhuman strength she had ripped

off the chains and shot out of the wheelchair, free-falling into
the belly of the crater. Following the impact, her body was
now oscillating between half a dozen different, incomplete
incarnations: six faces battling against each other for

domination and permanency. The injuries from the fall

couldn’t kill her in this heightened regenerative state, but her
cancerous healing process, unless put in check by extreme

mental force, would trigger a fatal heart attack. The only way
to calm down her warring neurons was to select a side and

psychically murder or send into a self-induced coma the other

five almost-faces.

She wanted to return to Haiso, but there was a good chance

the poor girl was already dead; and if not, it was hardly an act
of kindness to approach her whilst in the middle of a stage

four regeneration attack. It was now more important than

ever that she made it into the Citadel. It didn’t matter whether

or not Mordicai had beaten her to it. The chances were that in
the confusion (and bearing in mind the guards outside the

Citadel had been practically wiped out) she would get to a

communications port. She had to talk some sense into the
Percusian High Command, get them to call off their attack.

The Percusians were the last people she’d expected to find

working for the enemy. When the War had begun she had
convinced Fasa that the initial Percusian airstrike was meant
as a warning, but this assault against the capital had thrown

into doubt everything she knew about the seemingly harmless

race.

When Fasa approached, at first his identity didn’t register

with Nairo. She would have known immediately had she
spotted the scar, but its distinctive shape was obscured by

the blood that now covered the entire left-hand side of his
face.

“Kill me. Kill every face bar this one that you now see,” she
said with steely determination before changing again. “Don’t
be shy. Strangle me to death, not once but five times.”

Fasa knew that he had no choice. If he was to save Nairo’s

life, he would have to kill her incomplete regenerations with

his bare hands. Easier said than done, especially when one of
the faces was that of a young child.

She sensed his hesitation and grabbed his hands forcing

them around her neck.
“Do it. Do it.”

“Nairo. It’s me, Fasa. What you are asking…”

 “Then you know what must be done. Please, the future of
Gallifrey is at stake. I think I can help.”

“I’ll get you to a zero room, find fresh drugs. Just hold on…
please.”

“You’ve regenerated. I make that the last one. What

happened to your scar… it’s like it knows Gallifrey is falling.”
“Don’t worry about me. Let’s get you better first.”
Nairo fell forward, holding her chest in agony.

“There’s no time, Fasa. You have no choice.”

Fasa closed his eyes and tightened his grip around her neck

as best he could.
“Come on, Fasa, you can do better that. There must be

someone you would hate enough to kill. Think of them, not

me.”
The only person he could think of was himself right now.

***

In the moments before the fall of the Citadel, Savalia had

been pacing up and down the cell she’d been

unceremoniously thrown into by Kendo’s henchman. If

anything, her thoughts were even darker than Fasa’s. Leaving

her mother behind to join the war effort had been a wrench,
even though she had longed for such freedom. Being a carer

had practically defined Savalia’s life since she was a time tot;

so on top of the natural guilt and worry she felt over Nairo’s

safety, she had experienced nothing short of an identity crisis

upon leaving Dotheia. She had needed to learn how to find

value and meaning beyond the narrow confines of domesticity

and daily routines. Writing poetry and dreaming dreams with

Mordicai had been useful escapes from the mundanity of it

all, helpful channels for filtering out her resentments; but as

a soldier, the poetry and the love she once cultivated with

carefree abandon lacked their necessary counterparts. She

had discovered new things about herself and lost others in

the process. A fierce independence and unemotional

pragmatism took hold, leaving little room for the imagination.

The war had changed her in all sorts of ways she despised,

but this fundamental shift in outlook was by far the worst. No

longer moaning about her lot in life, she had grown to hate
herself instead. Savalia the soldier was perversely fulfilling the

same role as Savalia the poet: life itself had become the
escape room. Busying herself with training and military
planning kept in check the reflective side to her nature that

had once inspired the poet within.

Whereas a crisis would once have been the catalyst for a

new bout of creativity, since the Death Zone training the

almost daily high-octane situations were now feeding her

repressed destructive tendencies. It was handy that – in the

heat of the battle – a song wasn’t half as effective as a

multidimensional tirade. Savalia reacted angrily to the

revelation that Kendo had been pulling the strings in securing

her various promotions. She was a bloody good soldier and, in

her estimation, deserved to be fast-tracked up the ranks on

merit alone. She didn’t need or want Kendo’s help. She’d

already resolved to turn down the next promotion that came

her way, for fear that she’d be removed from the frontline.

Once she’d persuaded Kendo to call off the regeneration

project, the plan was to get straight back to the war to where

she now belonged. That was her drug now.

Discovering that Kendo had hardly been acting to protect

her didn’t make Savalia feel any better. The anger rose within

her as the full horrors of the super soldier program sunk in. If
anyone should be the test subject, it should have been Kendo

herself – after all, she already had a thing for drugs and
needles.

There was little inside the sparse cell for Savalia to attack. A

bed with its mattress and pillow stapled to the floor and that

was it. She attempted to rip up the pillow, but every time the
tiniest of tears had formed, the self-repairing fabric resealed.

Even if she’d wanted to, Savalia couldn’t use the pillow to

smother or hang herself, which right now was a tempting

proposition. She was trapped; and eventually Kendo would

get her way, consent or no consent.

The pillow reminded her of the many times she’d thought

about ending her mother’s life. She was only six when her
Mother first sowed the idea into her head, and effectively gave

her permission to take control.

“If it all gets too much, for either one of us, you must be
brave, Savalia. Promise me that if resentment sets in, you will

end my life one night when I’m sleeping. I may break before

you... but I’d still have to ask you to do it for me. No one

would know and anybody who suspects the truth will

understand. I don’t want to be a burden on you.”
 “You’ll never be that, Mother. I’m going to look after you
forever.”

Savalia never forgot the look her mother gave her – the

doubt in her eyes and the patronising smile that said, “One
day you’ll grow up. One day you’ll understand it’s the right

thing to do.” Her heart had broken at the thought that her

mother was simply waiting for her to be ready. The experience

made her all the more committed to making her mother’s life
worth living, and every time resentment set in she would try

harder to make sure that she never saw that look in her

mother’s eyes again.

Her biggest fear about being away from Mother was that

Beylon or another sympathetic soul would grant her that

wish. She had imagined a scenario where she returned

triumphantly to Dotheia having played a leading role in

preventing an all-out Time War, only to find there was no one

to share her joy with. It was now looking extremely unlikely

that she would ever be coming home under any

circumstances.

The first sign that something was wrong was the lights going

off. Savalia heard a distant rumbling, drawing steadily closer

and closer until the ground beneath her began to shake.

“Hey, anybody?” she shouted through the cell door. “What’s

happening?”
The door remained stubbornly locked as Savalia banged

frantically against it, a fact that at first came as a relief since

she had begun to suspect she had already been injected with
the serum and that this display of supernatural power was

emanating from her own psyche.

“So it’s not me. Then what the–”

Suddenly she was thrown off her feet. The bed was split in
two as the floor cracked all around her.

She tried to ram the door open with the broken bed, but still

it didn’t budge.
Right now, it would have been handy to have been the super

soldier if only for a few minutes.

The floor completely gave way and, clinging to the bed, she

was thrown into a tunnel below.

She ran towards a source of light as the ceiling collapsed

behind her until her escape route was completely blocked.

As dust and mortar rained down behind and before her, she
spotted an opening above her. She managed to wriggle her
way through it. It was a little easier to breathe now, and she
found a way to the surface by climbing across a collapsed

roof. Stood on top of the roof, the sight that greeted her was

almost apocalyptic. Many of the Citadel’s structures had

either collapsed or were engulfed in flames. A fallen sky

trench was perched precariously on top of the Panopticon,

but it was one of few buildings that were still standing

defiantly. The cloister bells themselves, however, had crashed

to the surface, and clanged as if in pain every time a piece of

debris hit them. Glass from the shattered dome was falling in

slow motion, peculiarly out of sync with the ensuing chaos.

She could just about make out several Percusian ships

landing in the gaps between the craters around the Citadel’s

broken perimeter. The chancellery guard were running to the

outskirts, guns at the ready, whilst in the centre civilians

were running in the opposite direction towards to take refuge

in the Panopticon. But already Savalia could see more

casualties than survivors.
The Time War and its horde of travesties hadn’t reached the

south, thankfully, making this a less complicated war; but it

wouldn’t be long before the temporal stability shields dotted
around Gallifrey failed en masse. What she had witnessed
north of Arcadia could soon be the reality here.

She had a stark choice – join the fight or run for safety.
She was still considering her options when the blue police

box spun inches over her head, and crash landed into the
side of the Panopticon.
“I should have known he’d be here,” she said. Mind made

up, she clambered down the roof in search of new orders.

***

Kendo was one of the first to make it to the Panopticon. The

High Council of Time Lords and the more senior members of

the War Council had already abandoned ship, fleeing for

safety inside the Matrix, while their physical bodies remained
hidden away in the treasure room beneath the archives. Hex

was overseeing their protection, directing the small band of

scientists who were constantly checking the senators’ vital
signals.

“You have been relieved of your duties, Kendo, by

presidential order. Gallifrey will remain under military rule
until the threat has been contained,” he said.

“Oh, no, you don’t. There’s no way I’m running away into
the Matrix.”
“Who said anything about you running away? You are under

arrest. Your hands are sullied and the Matrix must remain
pure. This has Tor Fasa’s fingerprints all over it. Your

friendship with the old fool has compromised you. In short,

you have failed, Councillor.”
The glee in Hex’s voice, even with the Citadel falling around

them, angered Kendo. He wasn’t the first to question her

place on the War Council – she knew that expression only too
well. Some of the most experienced Councillors had been

waiting for it all to blow up in her face. Hex’s persona was

cool and unflustered, as if he could fix Gallifrey with a click of
a finger.

“No, no – wait… let me help your troops regain control. We

are ready to unleash the super soldier program. The
Percusians and their tin pot taskmasters won’t stand a

chance.”
“Like the regeneration ‘gift’? Because that turned out so
well, didn’t it? Come on, Kendo, let it go.”
 “What else do we have? I see there’s no sign of your Zecho
friends… Come on, Hex, people are dying here. It’s worth a
try, surely?”

Hex grunted.
“It was a business opportunity for them, nothing more. They
were never contracted to fight on the frontline, and your

regeneration trick totally freaked them out. We can handle the

training without them now.”
“So much for being the only creatures not to run from the

Daleks.”
“The Zechos may have exaggerated their credentials

somewhat. You’d have got on well with them.”

“Now that our defences are down, the Daleks could arrive
from the north any moment. This is just the start of it. One

soldier. That’s all I’m asking. It’s worth a try, surely?”

Hex’s holocom signalled an incoming message.
Perfect timing, he thought, this ought to show her.

“It would appear that help has arrived. The armies of the
north have joined us. Commander Bez will crush this pathetic
takeover attempt in next to no time.”
 Bez? Running amok around the fallen Citadel? Kendo
shuddered to think what damage the trigger-happy

commander might inflict.

“Good luck with that one,” she whispered, submissively
holding out her hands to be cuffed.

The holocom kicked into life after Hex had thumped it a

couple of times, and Bez appeared, grinning at her new
audience.

“Commander Bez,” said Kendo before one of Hex’s guards

tightened the cuffs and prepared to muzzle his prisoner.
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t want to miss this for the world,” said

Hex. “Let them talk.”

“Councillor?” said Bez, her voice crackling down the line and

her image fading in and out of view.

“Former Councillor,” corrected Hex.
“Why did you send Savalia to me?” asked Kendo. “She

clearly wasn’t ready. I told you to–”

“Yea, I know what you said. But it was her idea, not mine. I
told her to run away but she insisted on seeing you.”

“Why?”
 “To bring you to your senses. The regeneration program has

completely decimated our units. Continuing down that line

will lead to nothing but ruin.”
Hex had assumed that Bez’s army had already taken up

arms to fight alongside the chancellery guard; he had no idea

her numbers had been so drastically reduced.
“So exactly how many of you are there?” said Hex, irritated

by the fact that Bez had kept the figures quiet until now.
“Couple of dozen. But we’re good. We’re very good, and my
boys and girls are going in now.”

“You were supposed to use the formula sparingly. Reserve it

for your most trusted fighters,” said Kendo, still seething
about the revelations from Savalia. “Don’t blame me if you

went a bit stir-crazy with it. And it wasn’t an excuse to take

extra risks with your troops. It shouldn’t have changed your

strategy one bit.”

“You can’t weasel your way out of this one. It didn’t work.
Wouldn’t have mattered which of us took it, it was a disaster.

Nobody was rejuvenated. They all changed, pretty much for

the worse in every case. Where is Savalia? I need her back at
once. Hex, sort it.”
 Hex switched off the holocom, not bothering to reply. The

obnoxious kid knew exactly how to push his buttons, and her
irreverence and unpredictability made her a nightmare to

work with.
“Well?” he said, quite prepared to move on to torture if
Kendo refused to hand over her cousin. He’d learnt from bitter

experience that it wasn’t worth annoying Bez. A Bez tantrum

was the last thing he needed right now, so what Bez asks for,
Bez gets… within reason.

In truth, Kendo had no idea if her cousin was still alive.

She’d watched on in horror as the annex to the court house,
which contained the holding cells, became one of the first

buildings to fall.
“Release me and I’ll bring her to you,” she said with little
conviction.

Hex burst out laughing.

“So much for your super soldier. You’ve lost her, haven’t
you?” he mocked.

Hex approached Kendo and removed a phial from her belt.

“So this is it, I presume? The magic formula?”
 He shook the phial, and began to play catch with it, revelling
in Kendo’s hopeless attempts at appearing unfazed.
“Why her? Why a soldier from the wastelands? If you are

that convinced this will help, how about you become the
subject? It might be the only way to make up for your abject
failure.”

“It’s been specifically tailored for my cousin,” said Kendo

calmly. “Created from her DNA. It might work, especially as

we are blood relatives, but the chances of success are much

lower. It could send me insane, and somehow I don’t think
that would be in your interests, Lord Hex.”

Hex raised his eyebrows, trying to work out whether or not

she was bluffing.
“Send your men to get her themselves, then, if you’re mad

enough to think I would make an escape bid while the Citadel

is under siege. We left her in one of the court house cells.”
Hex pulled up a holographic live feed of the planet, zooming

in on the area immediately surrounding them – including the

court house which was now a pile of rubble decorated by
severed body parts. He watched Kendo closely for a reaction,

but she sat there on her knees, looking completely impassive.

 As soon as the camera drone had completed a full sweep
around the building, Hex looked at Kendo. Ashen faced. A

tear fighting for release. This was no bluff.

Bez was going to have a fit. Not an uncommon occurrence,
but one that right now could completely wreck his attempts to

take back control of the Citadel.

“You going to be the one to tell her the good news or me?” he
said.

“I’m supposed to be your prisoner. The honour is all yours,”

said Kendo bitterly. She stretched out her cuffed hands and,

using her teeth, pulled up her left sleeve. “Now, about that
proposal of yours…”

***

It had taken him forty traumatic minutes, but Fasa had

somehow found the willpower and the depth of self-loathing to

extinguish five of Nairo’s incomplete regenerations. As each
one passed she felt a sudden increase in physical and mental

strength; until, with only one remaining, her headache

became tolerable and her heart rate had settled down to a

non-critical level.
When the first one had passed, Fasa feared if it would have
been a pointless exercise, half-expecting this to trigger

another regeneration. Fortunately, the incompleteness of the

regeneration was enough to confuse each shadow body into
acting as if it hadn’t died.

“I didn’t think you’d be able to go through with it,” said

Nairo, gingerly standing up. “Thank you.”
The fogginess of her mind had cleared enough for her to

clock that Fasa’s new face wasn’t quite so new after all.
“A blast from the past. So much for your crusade against

bespoke or joke regenerations, as you once called them. I

thought after my accident you’d arranged for the unit to be
shut down. Is there really no end to your hypocrisy?”

“I was never against them on principle. They went too far,

that’s all. Their work needed stricter regulations.”
“So you got them shut down, sending them underground.

Like that was going to help.”

Tenderly, Nairo tried to clean up Fasa’s face with water from
her hipflask.
 “Is that why the scar of the eternal opened up again?”
Fasa pushed Nairo’s hand away.
“Leave it be,” he said.

“Why so touchy? You’ve never had a problem talking about

it before.”
“Because it’s as fake as the rest of me. That’s why.”

“Well, it looks pretty convincing to me,” said Nairo, missing

the point as she wiped Fasa’s blood from her hands.
“Do I really have to spell it out to you? There is no such

thing as the scar of the eternals. Only a Time Lord could fall
for such pompous nonsense. It’s not a badge of honour or a
mark of privilege, it’s a reminder to me of our race’s capacity

for evil. It’s supposed to keep me humble, grounded and

mindful of how easy it would be to cross the line, given the
powers we possess.”

“And did you…?”

Fasa frowned.

Unsure of the question or more likely unwilling to answer,

thought Nairo.
“Did you cross the line? ... Again?”
 Nairo gestured towards the Percusian ships as they made
their descent, taking careful note of Fasa’s reaction. The
distraught expression betrayed him; he may as well have

written with his own blood the word ‘guilty’ across his
forehead.

“You believed in them as much as I did. Looks like we both

misjudged our neighbours,” sighed Nairo.
“What was Mordicai playing at, making you a part of this?

What would you daughter say if she found out?”

“Cut the boy some slack. He’s been quite the hero, actually.
I do hope he’s ok. I volunteered… insisted. There are few who

know the Percusians as well as I do, and the way I saw it they
would have made far better allies than the lizard people.
There still might be some hope. For all we know this could be

a breakaway faction. If I can get into the Panopticon and

contact Percusia…”
“I can tell you exactly who is responsible for this outrageous

breach of intergalactic protocol. Sorry to disappoint you,

Nairo, but this goes right to the top. I’ll get you to safety

inside the Panopticon, but if anyone is going to talk to the

Percusians it should be me. Right here and right now.”
 ***

A post-disaster investigation team would eventually come to

attribute the cause of the dome’s collapse to the sonic

resonance of the rebels’ musical assault. The Gravity Busters

had been strategically dropped around the perimeter of the

dome. The perceived power of the glass shield was such that
Commissioner Mandre feared that a direct assault might
backfire with some kind of hitherto unknown advanced

defence system. Having consulted with his scientists, Mandre

had calculated that the only way the Citadel could be
destroyed was by instigating an earthquake. His team had

predicted that the structures inside the dome would collapse

even if the shell remained intact.
After the quake, Mandre would set about infiltrating the

Citadel from below. Even if, as seemed likely, Fasa’s tunnel

had collapsed, the Percusians could easily drill their way
inside the dome using their specialised and highly effective

mining equipment. By congratulating himself for his role in

the fall of the Citadel, the commander failed to account for the
fact that the dome was a complete oval, broken only by the

single point of access and the disused transport tunnel. The

only way in which the Gravity Busters alone would have been
powerful enough to destroy the Citadel was if they could

reach the core of the planet.

It was remarkable then that music should be the dome’s
Achilles heel. Inadvertently, Mordicai’s non-violent assault
had opened the door to the Percusians, weakening the glass

so that the vibrations caused by descent of the ships could

finish the job. As they prepared to storm the Citadel from all
angles, Commissioner Mandre took a moment to revel in the
unexpected ease of the operation, completely oblivious to
Mordicai’s critical involvement.
His soldiers were less than enthused when Mandre tried to

share his moment of triumph, especially when they realised

that many of the bodies strewn around the perimeter were
wastelanders.
“Do not weep for them,” said Mandre. “Our new masters
view displays of emotional attachment as crimes, punishable

by death. Yes, innocent people have died, but look for the
bigger picture. Today, we finally rise out of the shadows of the
Time Lords. They underestimated us, and now look at them.”
“They even brought their children with them. What were
they thinking?” said Milo, spotting Haiso’s body.

“Probably following a directive to bulk up the Time Lord

army. Wouldn’t surprise me if the War Council knew we were
coming, what with the breach of the Omega Arsenal and
Fasa’s escape. The old man has clearly failed in his efforts to
protect our wastelander friends. If the revelations contained
in that data disc wasn’t enough, this ought to be a sign to you

that we did the right thing.”

Milo removed a sonic screwdriver from Haiso’s grasp.
“I’ve seen this before. It’s not a weapon … of course – that
engineer friend of Fasa’s – the one with the TARDIS… There
was no love lost there for the Time Lords.”
“Let the questions go; the answers make no difference,”

ordered Mandre. “We continue this mission without

hesitation. We take the planet and all that remains of her to
be used as the ultimate bargaining chip. The Daleks are
welcome to it, so long as they meet our demands. No longer
will we be the forgotten. From the also-rans of the universe to

a seat at the head table – this is our time.”

Mandre’s words were greeted with a cheer and a slow hand
clap, but not one of his soldiers was joining it.
“Wise words. Totally deluded, of course, but oh so incredibly
wise.”
The unfamiliar voice echoed around the field, alerting

Mandre’s army who struggled to identify the source.

“Why did you betray me? I thought better of your people.”
“Fasa?” said Mandre wondering why he hadn’t recognised
the Time Lord’s voice until the penny dropped. “You’ve
regenerated. Where are–”

“At the bottom of one of your craters. That’s a hell of a way

to terraform. I thought a race of miners would have heard of a
digger?”
“You and I both know that my people haven’t come for that.
How is it we can hear each other?”
“Symbiosis. Gallifrey is part of who I am. The very stones on

which you stand have ears.”

“Nonsense. A rock’s value depends entirely on how far it can
be thrown. I’d have thought you’d have learnt that when you
tried to manipulate us with the velorium?”
Mandre gestured to his men to track down Fasa.

***

At the bottom of the crater, Fasa was communicating with

Mandre through the sense-enhancing helmet he’d been given
by Caelion. Using a trick he’d learnt from his old friend the
Doctor, he was able to repeatedly reverse the polarity,

allowing him to not only pick up Mandre’s words but also

project his own to the Percusian’s location.
“Before you storm the Panopticon, Mandre, you need to
know exactly what you’re dealing with.”
“Your threats don’t wash with me, Fasa. We have already

destroyed your dome. Do you really think there are weapons

inside your city that can stop us? It is time for your people to
relinquish their ownership of Gallifrey.”
“If you’re thinking of double-crossing your new masters and
taking this planet as your own, then think again, Mandre.
You won’t stand a chance, not against them. This isn’t just

about Gallifrey. You are condemning to death any civilisation

that has ever lived or ever will live. Not just here, but across
the universe. This isn’t the way of peace.”
“The way of peace? What do you know about that? The
peace your people wish to live by depends on silencing the
stranger, on covering up your crimes, on cutting yourselves

off from all but your own. Even those who once belonged to
you.”
Fasa instinctively glanced at Nairo. It was hard to argue
with the logic.
“We will rebuild Gallifrey,” continued Mandre. “As a place for
all, not a civilisation built upon divisions. Percusians have no

need of glass domes and a Time Lord is nothing without one.”

“You won’t be saying that when your new masters turn
against you. You are puppets to them, Mandre, and you’ve
not even bothered to hide your strings. They will cut you
down at the first opportunity.”

“There is goodness in every race. Even those you hate; yes,

even them. It’s time your people learnt that lesson.”
“You and I want the same thing, Mandre. That’s why I can’t
fathom it… why would you slaughter my friends? Why not
work together as we had planned? Was there something on

that data disc after all?”

“Let me try,” whispered Nairo, frustrated that Fasa the great
negotiator had made absolutely no headway. “He’ll be more
inclined to listen to a wastelander.”
“You are as much a Time Lord as I am, but be my guest. I
fear the commissioner is too far gone. He’s completely under

the Daleks’ control.”

“We are at the bottom of the crater, just beside the
entrance,” said Nairo. “Oh, and it’s Nairo, by the way, look me
up. Your people and I have history. Come and find us and
let’s talk face to face.”
To Fasa’s horror, Nairo smashed the headset to pieces.

“Are you insane?” he said.

Nairo looked angry at first, but her mood suddenly gave way
to ironic laughter.
“Am I insane?” she said, pulling a few faces as if she was
still a collection of incomplete regenerations. “I’m as mad as

you and your crackpot scientists made me, you silly old man!
I need to talk to this Mandre. You are right, none of this
makes sense. The Percusians don’t have a ruthless bone in
them.”
“Well, yes, it’s madness unless they are under some kind of
psychic influence. I mean, what use to them is a planet the

size of Gallifrey? We are at least 1,000 times bigger than

Percusia.”
“Perhaps they plan to turn our world into an intergalactic
refuge.”
“So the primary target of the Daleks is turned into an

asylum and a hiding place? What crazy reasoning is that?”

said Fasa dismissively. “I’m not waiting for Mandre. I’m going
through the wall. I need to study the Altrix and the Matrix
databanks for clues as to the whereabouts of the Rock of
Compassion.”
“That old myth? I’m beginning to think you’re the insane

one.”
“It’s true. I saw the portal in the Death Zone, but what with
all the time displacements it would take centuries to reach.
I’ve seen the future, Nairo. I just didn’t believe it was our
reality. But you know what – only one soldier made it there

alive. Caelion. One of your own. So either we are all about to

die here, or we find another way. Let’s face it, Nairo – Gallifrey
is no more.”
“By trusting a relic from the Age of Rassilon? Even if the
Rock does exist, what makes you think it’s some kind of
paradise? Created by the same people who built the Death
Zone? It doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

“It’s all we’ve got,” said Fasa. “We have to evacuate.”

“What makes you think anybody will listen to you? You are
as likely to die at the hands of the Time Lords as you are the
Percusians.”
“I’ll confess my crimes and beg for forgiveness. What else

can I do? Come with me, Nairo. You can’t trust Mandre.”
Into the Panop con

To an outsider it would have looked as if the pilot of Gallifrey’s

last remaining TARDIS had lost complete control of the ship.

The battered box span violently through the Citadel,

smashing into the sides of buildings as it headed for the

Panopticon. But Mordicai’s carelessness was quite deliberate.

He was quite prepared to destroy everything in his path. In
fact, he even made a few unnecessary swerves to add a few
extra collisions en route. It might have only been a training

TARDIS, but one aspect of its design that hadn’t been

compromised was its virtually impenetrable frame. Mordicai

resolved to get to the Panopticon as speedily and as noisily as

possible.

Fortunately, the pursuit of peace is rarely predicated on a

lack of hostility, and Mordicai had no qualms about his

uncontained rage. Right now Tor Fasa, the self-proclaimed

pacifist, was the prime object of that ire. If the old man was in
the Citadel, Mordicai feared that he might not be able to stop

himself from killing him. Trusting the Percusians was either

the height of foolishness or part of a bigger game. Yes, they

had all dreamt of the day when the walls that divided Gallifrey

came crashing down, but not under these circumstances.

Mordicai suspected that watching Haiso die and losing

Savalia’s mother and Beylon had clouded his judgement. The

thought of seeing yet more innocent outliers dying around

him was too much, and he’d rashly chosen to continue alone.

For all he knew, he had condemned the others to certain

death by believing Fasa’s story about the portal to the Rock of

Compassion. At least he could pretend they were better off. If

he had dared to think about it, Mordicai would have realised

that his anger was as much against himself as those he felt

wronged by. Everyone he had placed his faith in had let him

down, but it was his fault for trusting them in the first place.

He wanted to get to the Panopticon, to make one last

desperate appeal to the High Council, and yet he wasn’t too

bothered if he killed himself en route; such were the

contradictions inside him.

The TARDIS came to ground against the north wall of the

Panopticon, perched precariously on a ledge some fifteen feet

up. Mordicai finally took a moment to take stock. What am I

doing here he thought. His message of non-violent resistance

seemed completely redundant under these new

circumstances. It might have worked on his own taken-off-

guard people, but an invading alien species? There was little

chance of getting his message across to them, even if by some

miracle the War Council dropped their weapons and stood by

him. Resistance now equated to surrender.

He was sorely tempted to take flight again, open the heart of

the TARDIS and crash the ship directly into a Percusian

cruiser. If Gallifrey was doomed, then nobody deserved to

outlive the catastrophe. If the entire universe itself collapsed

it would be an act of mercy. Maybe it was right that the future

of life should be made the prerogative of other universes, a

matter of chance or probability. But then he thought again

about Beylon, Nairo and the others. Justice was no longer

possible for them, but he could at least find out the truth

behind the Rock of Compassion.

If Fasa hadn’t made it up, then the Rock was the best
chance they had of surviving, and all those frightened

Citidwellers he’d seen running to safety in the Panopticon

could be evacuated there. Someone on the Council ought to

know the truth; and if not at least they could consult the

Matrix, or even Fasa’s Altrix. He couldn’t get that image of

Haiso dying out of his head. It was the only trigger for his

anger that had the potential to be creative. There was a part

of him that didn’t want to die because the girl had placed her

trust in him. Life should be left for the next generation if at all
possible, not another universe. He realised now why the

Doctor used to travel with companions. Without them, he’d

have lost the will to fight.

Mordicai turned on the scanner. Below the TARDIS a huge

crowd had assembled and were waving frantically. Some were
climbing the wall, others were throwing rocks. He should have

used the more conventional means of getting a TARDIS from

A to B, for its appearance had worked the people up into a

frenzy. A few were still entering the Panopticon, but most

were now joining the crowd outside. Clearly, they were
expecting the Doctor. They were acting as if their saviour had

come to whisk them away in the safety of his TARDIS.

The training TARDIS’s internal dimensions were fixed. There

was space for the console room and quarters for a six-person
crew, but that was about it. He ought to tell them the truth.
 “He’s opening the TARDIS doors!” shouted a boy from half
way up the wall. “He’s going to let us all in!”

Mordicai froze as he stood over the edge and looked down at

the expectant crowd.
Behind them the Percusians were advancing, shooting

innocent fleeing civilians in the back.

“What are you waiting for? Bring down your TARDIS!”

“I’m… I’m sorry,” said Mordicai feebly.

One of the children was almost in reach, his hand stretched

out for Mordicai to pull him up.

“Get inside the Panopticon,” he shouted. “I’ll meet you
there.”

***

As the TARDIS dematerialised, the boy slipped from the wall,

his fall broken by the crowd, which had now doubled back
and were literally falling over each other to get to the
entrance. With those at the back unaware of the new

instructions, it was complete pandemonium.

Savalia had managed to force her way to the front.
 It was almost impossible to shock her; it was something of a
running joke with Mordicai who, early on in their courting,

went through a phase of trying to elicit a reaction by sharing

the most unusual or gruesome ‘facts’. But finally he had gone

and done it. The man who had been swinging rather
precariously on the TARDIS door – not the great warrior she
had been expecting to see, but that silly, deluded boyfriend of

hers – had knocked her for six.

She was convinced she had put him off from trying to be the

hero when she’d timelocked him out of the north base, but
clearly not. It was the most ridiculous time for a
reconciliation, but with passions heightened all around her,

there was something oddly romantic about it. Objectively

speaking he was a mess, but to Savalia he’d never looked so

appealing.
She had tried shouting up to him, but he hadn’t heard her.

Her urge had been to declare her undying love for him or to
repeat aloud the best line he’d come up with for their poem,
but instead all that came out was a half-judging, half-

impressed, “What in Gallifrey’s name do you think you’re

doing, you mad fool?” Maybe it was for the best he hadn’t
heard or even noticed her in the crowd. At least that way she
could maintain her unshockable façade.

The look of absolute terror on Mordicai’s face before he had

disappeared back inside the TARDIS made it clear that the

enemy was in sight.

If she had a weapon, she could have taken charge and
brought a semblance of order. Instead, she wriggled her way
through the crowd, encouraging the others to follow

Mordicai’s advice.

She finally broke free of the masses to see the Percusians

heading for the entrance. Those at the back, the ones who’d
been closest to the TARDIS, wouldn’t stand a chance. A time

shield was being lowered around the Panopticon, and soon its

entrance would be completely sealed.

Savalia walked straight towards the Percusians and away

from the crowd, her arms raised in surrender.

“Stop!” she shouted. “There’s no point killing them.”

“And why would we listen to you?” said the leading

Percusian. Amused by Savalia’s sheer effrontery, he held up

an arm to signal his fighters to hold off.

 “Because it’s a trap. The High Council aren’t here. I can take

you to them. I’m a wastelander. I’m on your side.”

“This is nonsense. Kill her now.”

“Wait,” said Savalia walking right up to one of the armed

men.

“I know you. Remember me? You used to love my mother’s

Yoleberry Tart.”

“It’s Nairo’s girl,” said the soldier, hesitating.

The leader, bored of the exchange, called his people forward.

“Destroy them all and get inside,” he ordered.

Savalia smiled, it might have only been a few seconds, but

the diversion was long enough to have saved hundreds of

lives.
As all but the last of the crowd entered the Panopticon, a

semi-translucent wall sealed itself around the building,

freezing those still outside in a single moment in time,

including the little boy who had almost made it into the

TARDIS.

As the Percusians fired their Dalek weapons into the crowd,

the laser beams disappeared as soon as they touched the

wall.
 “What trickery is this?” said the assault team leader.
“Time Lord science at its best,” replied Savalia proudly.

“Now, are you going to listen to me or what?”

“Well played, soldier!”

Startled, Savalia looked up to see Bez jet packing herself

down from an adjacent building, followed by the remains of

her unit. She gunned down the leader and threw a weapon at

Savalia.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” said Bez, grinning

manically as she began to take out the remaining Percusians.

“Get shooting, super soldier!”

***

Mandre, already furious that his men had failed to locate

Fasa and the woman, was almost incandescent with rage after

hearing the latest development.

“What do you mean we failed to breach the Panopticon?

Show me.”

Commissioner Mandre viewed the recording as five hundred

of his men were brutally gunned down by a unit of no more

than twenty or so, led by a mouthy child and a sombre

women who was shooting with her eyes closed, completely

deadpan in contrast to the hyperactive child.

“Where are the enemy soldiers now?” he demanded.

“They walked right through the time barrier, sir.

Unfortunately, we don’t have the tech to follow them in.”

“No matter. They are trapped inside with no means of

escape. We will just have to play a waiting game. We can flush

out the High Council by threatening to gravity bomb them.

Gallifrey is already ours.”

“Shall we alert our masters?”

“We’ve done our job, they no longer have mastery over us,”

said Mandre. “This planet belongs to us now, not them.”

“You do know they’ll be here soon, invitation or not,” said

Milo.

“Let’s just hope that we can take the Panopticon before they
arrive.”

***

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” shouted Bez.
 Hex jumped, dropping the needle as he turned to face Bez
and her unit.

“You did it?” he said in bewilderment.

“You should never judge by appearances Hex. Of course I

did it. Now what in Gallifrey’s name are you doing to the

councillor?”

“Ex-councillor,” corrected Hex, picking up the needle.

“Apparently this formula will create the perfect killing

machine. We were about to test it out. Desperate times call for

desperate measures.”

Kendo was strapped to a bed propped vertically against a

wall and surrounded by several armed guards. Clearly Hex

had been making sure that he had sufficient safeguards in

place in case Kendo was planning to turn that unnatural

strength against him.

“We don’t need that crazy shit. There’s been enough of that,

Hex. My fighters are good enough as we are.”

“I can’t say I’m disappointed,” said Hex in relief.

“No, wait,” protested Kendo. Too late, Hex had stomped on

the needle.
 “Your cousin saved the day again. Without the need for all

your nonsense,” said Bez.

“You found her?” said Kendo.

“She’s already a super soldier in my eyes. You don’t need

superpowers or extra lives, do you, girl?”

But there was no sign of Savalia.

“She’ll be here somewhere. Probably looking for that

boyfriend of hers,” said Bez, a little indignant that she’d been

made to look a bit foolish. “Now, what’s the plan, General?

The way I see it, unless you’ve got any TARDISes hiding in
here, we’ve got ourselves well and truly trapped. Want me to

train up the other civilians?”

“Take our ex-councillor to the cells. Unfortunately, we may

need to keep her alive as a bargaining tool,” said Hex in an

effort to assert some authority. “We will discuss plan B when

you return.”

“The court house has been destroyed,” said Bez.

“Yes, I know that, child. Underneath the throne room, in the

disused chamber of Rassilon. The Black Dungeons have been

reopened. You’ll find the rooms there are more than

adequate.”
 “You’ll do well to remember I’m not a child,” replied Bez,
clearly sulking at her uninspiring orders.

“You’ll do well to stop acting like one, then.”

***

“You can’t trust Hex, you know,” said Kendo as Bez escorted

her into the presidential chamber. “He’s only interested in

saving his own skin. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s planning

to join the council members in the Matrix. Getting us out of

the way so that he can make his escape.”

“He’s not my favourite person, but one thing I do know is

that he’s a stickler for the rules,” replied Bez. “What were you

thinking, councillor? You should have seen the state of my

men.”
“Tor Fasa’s skin cells failed to achieve the desired effect.”

“You don’t say.”

“But if it had worked and your best soldiers had been
rejuvenated, we wouldn’t have been in this mess. I don’t

regret it. Bez. You don’t have to follow orders. Let me see
Savalia. Please. I want to make this right and I think I know
how.”

Bez looked nervously at the hand-drawn circle on her arm to

indicate the precise position Hex needed to inject the serum.

Kendo spotted her unease.

“No. Not that. Savalia’s family have a history with the
Percusians. If I’m going to negotiate with them, I’ll need every

bit of help I can get.”

“Negotiate!” laughed Bez. “Now you’re sounding like that
Fasa fool.”

***

That Fasa fool was frantically searching through the ruins of

the Prydonian museum. His job had been made considerably
easier following the unexpected and sudden withdrawal of the

Percusians. He’d been all intent on leading a mass evacuation

to the Rock of Compassion, but seeing the ruins of the
building that once housed his offices reminded him of the last

time he and Mandre had been together in the Capitol. Maybe

he wasn’t quite as ready to accept that he’d been so wrong
about them after all, or maybe he was just desperate to find

something that would make sense of this madness. In any

case, if escaping to the Rock proved to be an impossible task,
he would need a plan B.

Nairo was offering little by way of encouragement.

“We need to get inside the Panopticon. There’s nothing left

here, Fasa. You said so yourself.”

“You’re probably right, but there’s something I have to
collect from my office first. I’d completely dismissed it at the

time, but it might explain why Mandre turned against us.”

“He’s turned against his own kind, too. Unheard of for such
an honourable race. You’re wasting your time. Whatever

you’re after is probably completely buried underneath the

roof,” replied Nairo, who was sitting precariously over a
section of rubble in her damaged wheelchair which, to her

astonishment, Fasa had fortuitously stumbled upon as they’d

headed out of the crater. Unsure as to the meaning of
Mordicai’s badge having been pinned to it, she was now

wearing it in the vain hope she might one day give it back to
either the engineer or her daughter.
 “By my reckoning it has to be in this vicinity,” said Fasa,
undeterred. Using a discarded Zechonian gun, he continued
to blast through the wreckage, edging his way dimensionally

reinforced filing cabinet, unscathed like the black box of an

aircraft. “It’s here!” he shouted, recovering the data disc that
Mandre had brought from Percusia. Annoyingly, the shield of

the cabinet had not prevented his PDA’s battery from running
dry. “Whatever is on this disc made Mandre change the
goalposts and break our agreement. We just need to get inside

and upload it. The information might be of use.”

For a man who was always so careful not to be seen with his

hands dirty, despite all his dodgy dealings, there was

something quite amusing about seeing him covered in dust,
his robes of office torn and blackened.

“Getting instead the Panopticon will be easier said than

done. Looks like it’s been timelocked,” observed Nairo,
shielding her eyes from the blue glare of the forcewall in the

distance.
Once they had reached the site, it became immediately
apparent just why the Percusians had retreated.
 “With all this devastation around, there has to be a breach
in the shield somewhere,” said Fasa, trying not to look at the

bodies.

***

Sure enough, at the back of the Panopticon there was a slight

gap of around four square feet, parallel to the very point in

which Mordicai had crashed the TARDIS and left a gaping

hole into the building.
“The shield is projected from the walls,” explained Fasa. “As

long as we can get through that hole without touching a side,

we’ll be in.”

“And if we miss?”
“We’ll be partly frozen. Not a great way to die.”
“So unless we can magically jump through it, all we have to

do is build some kind of ladder.”

Fasa looked round, but all he could find that was movable
were the Percusian bodies.

“Oh, no,” said Nairo resolutely. “You can’t walk over the
bodies of the dead. Anyway, you’ll never be able to pile them
up high enough without them toppling down.”

“We can half-freeze the corpses by pushing them partway

through. That will provide stability. I can build a criss-crossed
ladder, tie a rope around the top body and lever you up after

me. What else have we got, Nairo?”

But his words fell on deaf ears. Nairo had recognised an old
friend lying among the dead, a gaping hole still steaming in

his chest. She got up from the wheelchair to sit beside him.
“Nairo – if you think I’m going to start strangling more of
your faces... Please, no unnecessary exertions until we can

get you some medication.”

“Monsters,” she whispered gravely, covering the Percusian’s
head with a fold of his cloak. “Our people are monsters.”

“All the more reason to get inside. Who knows what they are
planning next?”

Nairo looked up to the hole in the shield, while Fasa started

to move the bodies.
“It’s bound to trigger more ghost-generations,” she said.

“Getting the medication might not be as easy as you think.

You go ahead without me.”
 “Not an option, Nairo. I need you in there with me,” replied

Fasa. “I’ll do whatever has to be done to keep you alive.”

***

Mordicai stood in awe as he entered the operational heart of

the Matrix, an unusual and deeply unsettling experience for

such an iconoclast. In normal circumstances no TARDIS
would have been able to land in a designated sacred place,

not without triggering its self-destruction mechanism.

Fortunately, this was no ordinary day, and this was no
ordinary TARDIS… much to his shame. Leaving those

civilians stranded sickened him to the core. The look of fearful

hope in their eyes was palpable even on the scanner, but the
fear element had given way to utter joy as soon as they had

seen him. They would have known about the Doctor of War
and perhaps believed that the rugged face had been replaced
by one kinder, one more in keeping with the Doctor of old. It

made what he had had to do so much harder. He’d originally

chosen not to use the vortex to reach the Panopticon, partly

out of fear that the place would be booby trapped, but also
out of a weird sense of respect for tradition. Perhaps it was
the thought of Gallifrey dying, but something had made him
uncharacteristically attuned to such feelings.

If he had taken the risk in the first place, then most of the
crowd would have made it inside before the shield came
down. He’d watched on the scanner as they were trapped in

that single moment of time. Those still outside the perimeter

of the shield had panicked before finding barely suitable

hiding places among the various nearby ruins. Whether

frozen in plain sight or scurrying around in the debris, talk
about sitting targets.

At the centre of the room a transparent column, of similar

design to early time rotor models, was filled with mesmerising
kaleidoscopic rays of coloured lights – bigger and deeper on

the inside. Around it were various terminals and empty

chairs. This was the office of the Matrix Watchers and
Writers. He was expecting to find them still there, carrying on

regardless despite the chaos outside. They represented the

most extreme form of Time Lord voyeurism and non-
intervention. Their role was to prevent the need for

compromise on the foundational principle of the race,

effectively putting the Time Lord CIA out of business. Their
primary method was to find excuses for keeping out of even

the worst of situations. Their catchphrase, “The answer is in

the Matrix,” was a cover for fatalism and a naïve belief in
predestination. In the rare case of a crisis arising that might

threaten Gallifrey itself, then they would come up with

elaborate ways of twisting events and manipulating
individuals so that the CIA could work surreptitiously and

take no credit or responsibility.

The Matrix rotor was almost entirely for show, of course.

When he was a boy he believed the stories about Time Lords

physically entering the Matrix, but he knew better now. It was
simply a glorified database and these ‘heroes’ were nothing

more than librarians and data inputters.

He approached one of the vacated terminals. It hummed into
life as soon as he had taken his seat. No need for password

access here; he had already crossed the impossible divide.

He tried various configurations and possible keywords for
the Rock of Compassion, but there was nothing in the official

records. As far as the Matrix was concerned, it didn’t exist as

a physical entity. But when he tried to access information
about the hospital in the Forest of Wounds, again the Matrix

threw up a blank. He’d been there, not inside but close

enough to believe Fasa’s story. The Rock might be a mythical
place, but the hospital had to be real. In case the whole

Matrix had been wiped or locked, he typed in “The Doctor.”

Suddenly, the column descended into the central console
and the room was plunged into near darkness. He jumped

back as, along with all the others, the terminal he’d been
accessing was automatically sealed by a thick black
substance, as if ink was spurting out from inside the monitor

and keyboard. After a few seconds the gelatinous substance

solidified, forming a shell around the terminal. He cursed

himself for not having tried a more neutral search term. A

rhythmic clunking noise reverberated around the room, and
he realised that he had triggered the mechanism that was

supposed to sound the now fallen cloister bells.

He was about to leave the room when he noticed to his
horror that the same black substance was leaking from his

nostrils. He tried to run, but his feet were sticking the floor.
The black ink was now leaking out of every orifice in his body
and even the pores of his skin. The floor, the walls, the ceiling
were also being affected. The room and everything inside it
was being turned into one solid mass. The name of the Doctor
was shutting the Matrix down.

***

In the chamber of Rassilon, Hex’s scientists had been thrown

into panic. The members of the High Council were lying on
beds, their minds connected directly to the Matrix. Life signs

had now reached critical levels, and all brain activity had
ceased.
“It’s as if the Matrix has been switched off,” explained the

chief scientist into the holocom.

“And you can’t bring them back?” replied Hex.
“They can only be awakened inside the Matrix. Disconnect

now and they…”

“What is it?”

The bodies of President Romana and her senators were

being infected by the ink-like substance as it began to leak
out of the Matrix itself.
 “They are bonding with the Matrix in its failsafe mode.
Literally turning into stone. Someone must have breached the
operational heart. It’s a form of suspended animation. When

the Matrix switches on again, so will they.”

“Safest place for them if you ask me,” said Hex.

***

Savalia had been anxiously searching for Mordicai through

the Panopticon corridors. It made no sense that he should be
here in secret, especially since he had a TARDIS that could

presumably get to safety the beleaguered masses who were

huddled in the atrium. Had he tricked them all and journeyed
to somewhere else? Perhaps he was working with his hero,

turned warrior after all. Her left leg was bleeding profusely
from a wound she had sustained in the battle with the
Percusians. The makeshift tourniquet was dripping wet and

she needed treatment urgently. If he was still here, Mordicai

would have to wait.

The presidential chamber was being used for the injured,

with the least infirmed receiving treatment in the balcony
areas.
“You’re a wastelander. You shouldn’t be here,” said the

nurse, decidedly reluctant to help.

“I’ve been fighting to keep you people alive and you won’t
help me?”

“Wondered where you’d got to.” It was Bez, her arm in a

sling, still sporting that manic grin, lapping up the chaos like

it was one big adventure. With her one good hand, she
grabbed the nurse by her hair and dragged her to the edge of
the balcony. “I’ll have you know this is Captain Savalia. One

of my best soldiers. So you’ll be fixing that wound of hers,

won’t you, love? I mean you wouldn’t want to accidentally fall
to your death now, would you?”

The terrified nurse shook her head, with a little bit of help
from Bez.
“Thanks,” said Savalia as the nurse patched her up.

“What are commanders for, eh?” said Bez. “You been

snooping around for that boyfriend of yours? Come on,
Savalia. There’s a time and a place.”

“He had a TARDIS. I didn’t imagine it, ask the others.”

 “The Time War is right on top of us now. There isn’t

anywhere in time and space safe for a TARDIS. You can’t

trust him, though, Savalia. Hex has debriefed me. The boy
tried to stage a coup. Brought masses of wastelanders to the

Citadel only for them to get caught in the crossfire. Your

people’s blood is on his hands.”
“And my cousin?”
“She’s been locked up, Hex’s orders. Can’t stand the man,

but at least he wasn’t having any of her super soldier

nonsense.”
“Then I’ve nobody,” said Savalia, leaning over the balcony to
look at the frightened Gallifreyans below.
Bez feigned an indignant ‘what about me’ look, but on
seeing a tear in Savalia’s eye, thought better about making a

point of it.
She stood beside Savalia, trying rather comically to leap up
to see over the balcony with her.
Savalia helped her up so that she was perched on the ledge
beside her, looking down at the Panopticon.

“We’ve got them. I know they don’t look like much right now.
But with a little bit of my magic, we can turn the softies into
the greatest army Gallifrey has ever known.”
Savalia didn’t rate Bez’s chances. The people were broken,
lost and afraid. No wonder the wastelanders had been used as
army recruits. The cosseted and insular Citidwellers would

barely survive a day in the wild, war or no war.

“War isn’t in their genes. They can’t fight because most of
them have no idea what it’s like to suffer, and I mean really
suffer. This has come as a complete shock to them. They can’t
process the loss of their homes, livelihoods and friends.
Things like this aren’t supposed to happen here.”

“It’s not all plain sailing for them. They have their sick like
anyone. That guy over there, for instance, just brought his
friend in on a wheelchair.”
“I don’t believe it…”
This day was determined to prove that Savalia wasn’t
unshockable after all. She tried to convince herself she had

got it wrong – after all, it was crazy beyond words – but the
embroidered pattern on the soft back of the chair was
unmistakable even from a distance. She had spent months
working on it, and in the process of coming up with the poem
and sewing it on in a garish array of red, blue, pink and green
thread, she’d decided that her talents lay in writing rather

than arts and crafts. She didn’t recognise the slightly built
lady in the chair, but either this was her ever-face-changing
mother or somebody had acquired the chair from Dotheia.
“I’m sorry, Commander,” she said, leaving Bez dangling as
she ran for the stairs.
Bez cursed herself. She had become way too fond of the

wastelander. The girl was taking liberties now.

***

Tor Fasa bustled his way through an unruly crowd of civilians

and nurses, all jockeying for position as they queued outside

what to all intents and purposes was a pop-up drug
dispensing kiosk. So far he’d evaded capture, aided no doubt
by the bandage around his tell-tale scar and the black market
perception hood that was supposed to stop Time Lords from
recognising the identities of the newly regenerated.

One of the nurses valiantly offering triage approached him

sympathetically and, without asking, made an attempt to peel
back the bandage.
 “You need this dressing to be changed?” she asked.
Fasa pushed her away. “I’m not here for me. I need ARS
medication for my… wife. Without it, she will die.”

The nurse was irritatingly persistent.

“Oh, you’re a carer. What a sweetie. But it’s important to
look after yourself, too, you know. Let me change that blood-
soaked bandage for you while you wait.”
“I’m fine,” said Fasa curtly. “Go and treat somebody who
needs it.”

The nurse shrugged before eventually taking the hint. He’d

wanted to reveal his identity to her, preferring to gamble on a
direct approach over one of stealth, but the great reveal would
have to wait until after he had given Nairo the medication.
Only then could he hand himself in; too soon, and Nairo

would be left behind to fend for herself. Her wasteland clothes

would consign her to the non-priority lane, and time was
most definitely of the essence here. Even now, with the whole
planet in utter turmoil, Gallifrey’s divisions were being
reinforced.

***
Kendo was anxiously biding her time waiting for Bez to return
with Savalia. The Commander had given no indication that
she was prepared to defy Hex and help her, but the hope that
she had got through to Bez was all that Kendo had left to hold

on to. She had been dumped in a vast, cavernous space in the

bowels of the Panopticon, a far cry from all the cosmetic
trappings of wealth, pomp and ceremony. When Hex has
mentioned a cell, she’d assumed it would be a tiny affair, not
a maze of endless crumbling columns. The place was cold,
lifeless and pitch black. A dark dimension where the

sickening smell of death was the only clue that she herself
wasn’t dead, too. The space was a sign, perhaps, that the
whole institution of the Time Lords was built on falsehood.
The name “Rassilon” had been added to all kinds of useless
artefacts and buildings, but perhaps this one was the most

fitting. The Catacombs of Rassilon, no doubt the final resting

place for many a failed or aborted experiment. If she had been
transformed into a super soldier and it had all gone terribly
wrong, this is where she’d have been left to rot if captured.
One floor down from the Matrix rooms, it was as if the very
foundations of Gallifrey’s real and virtual spaces were built on

top of her ancestors’ mistakes. No wonder Fasa had

encouraged Nairo to leave Gallifrey. There would surely have
been a space reserved down here for her.
Bez had left Kendo with a rigged mini holocom that could
only connect to her, in case of emergencies. Kendo had tried
calling repeatedly to nag Bez further about Savalia, but the

girl had cut her off every time until she’d stopped answering
altogether, sending instead a somewhat threatening voicemail
about what would happen if she mentioned her cousin’s name
again. Something involving rearranged body parts, a plunger
and a vacuum cleaner. So when the call came in, she was
understandably hesitant to pick up. But then again it could

be her ticket of our there.

Bez wasted no time in getting to the point.
“Savalia.”
“Who?” Kendo replied, assuming it was some kind of
sadistic test.

“I thought about what you said, and I’ve found her.”

“But there’s been a complication?”
 “She’s just ditched me for some invalid in a wheelchair.
Another wastelander, by the looks of it. Does she think I
wouldn’t shoot a cripple? No, wait a second… they obviously
know each other. That is just gross.”

“They kissed? It’s got to be Mordicai.”

“No, not like that. Physical contact is gross, full stop. It was
one of those family hug type things. I don’t do family.”

***

Bez, still perched on the balcony, raised her weapon; and,

consumed by vindictive jealousy, took aim at Nairo.

***

Kendo could hear the lasers being charged up.

“Don’t shoot, Bez! Whatever you do, don’t shoot. Bring them
both to me. And if you see Savalia’s boyfriend anywhere, you
might as well get him down here, too. He’ll be wearing an
Omega Junior Engineers badge.”

“A what now?”
 “Don’t ask. And thank you.”
It was Kendo’s turn to do the cutting off. It was a cowardly
way of asserting some authority, but she was worried about
accidentally giving the unpredictable Bez a reason to change
her mind.

***

The emotional reunion was taking its toll on Nairo as she

struggled to contain yet another regeneration.
“Mother, you’ve not been taking your medication.”

“Don’t worry, Savalia. Tor Fasa is seeing to it now,” she

whispered.
“Fasa? This is the last place he should be, right now. There’s
a warrant out for–”
Savalia was stopped in her tracks as a laser bolt hit one of
the front wheels of the chair, almost tipping it over. She

looked up in time to see Bez leaping over the edge of the

balcony. The commander flew around the auditorium with
abandon, screaming 'Weeeee!” as if she really were just a
child. Her jet pack spluttered a few times until she landed
just inches away from them.

“What did you do that for?” said Savalia.

“Because I could. Rotten luck Savalia, so your boyfriend’s
come back from the dead as woman and a cripple,” said Bez
knowingly, having clocked the Omega Junior Engineers
badge.
I’m quite capable of standing up, thank you,” answered

Nairo, her face beginning to change again as she tried to

prove the point.
“This is your mother, Savalia? So this is what our people did
to her.”
“Yes, and it seems like they still haven’t learnt.”

“You need to come with me, both of you – and that foolish
boyfriend of yours,” said Bez, gesturing to the approaching
Fasa.
“That’s not my boyfriend. I’ve still not–”
“Don’t bother denying it, Savalia,” said Fasa, instantly
taking stock of the situation. “It’s not good when your future

mother-in-law wants to wear your gear,” he added, unclipping

the badge and pinning it to his coat. “Come on girls, it’s best
we just do what the Commander says, don’t you think?”

***

Hex and the head of the chancellery guard were stood outside
the solidified Matrix hub flanked by several soldiers.
“Well, whoever it was is trapped inside until we reboot the
system. That’s some security system.”
“Shall I call the chief scientist up?”

Hex thought about it for a minute.

“No. We leave things exactly as they are until the threat has
been extinguished. The High Council have never been safer.
As long as we still have the Matrix, Gallifrey stands. Chances
are the enemy will be sending others in to finish the job.

There may even be other enemy agents already inside the

Panopticon. I want two on guard here and two more stationed
with the scientists. Get the rest of your men to check the force
wall for possible breaches.”
“We can only keep up our defences for so long. What if they
hit us with another Gravity Buster? It’s not like we have a
battle TARDIS to fight back with.”

“I’ve no intention of hiding away here like sitting ducks. Our

engineers will convert the fallen sky trenches into ballistic
weapons, and Commander Bez will train the rest of the
civilians in combat. Then fight back can begin in earnest.”
In truth, the only engineers at his disposal were barely fit for

the task, with his best men and women having been killed
instantly whilst still working on the sky trenches; and Bez’s
unorthodox methods were likely to be hit-and-miss compared
to the systematic approach of the Zechos. Hex knew he was
clutching at straws, but he had no intention of letting
Gallifrey fall without a fight.

***

“You do realise this would have been a lot easier if you hadn’t
blown one of the wheels,” complained Savalia as she pushed

Nairo through the winding corridors of the East Wing.

Bez grunted before blasting the other wheel. “There, that
better for you? Now come on.”
“Where are you taking us?”
 “A family reunion.”
“Kendo. No, I’m not…”
“Relax, I think even she’s given up on the super soldier thing

now.”
Fasa knew exactly where they were going when Bez located
the hidden lift to the catacombs.
He turned to run. “It’s a trap!”
Bez grinned as she pointed her gun at his head.

“Care to share your thinking?”

Fasa hesitated; this was definitely not the person to reveal
his identity to… he needed to go higher up.
“I trust her, Mordy,” said Savalia quickly. “She’s on our side.
Sorry, Commander, he’s always been a bit jittery around lifts,
even since he got stuck in lift nine of Omega Towers.”

“Whatever. The elevator will take you to Kendo. Then it’s up

to you. So if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got an army to build.”
Fasa bit his tongue at Bez’s fighting talk. Such comments
were usually red rag to a bull.
Inside the lift Nairo tried to calm him down, feeling stronger

and clearer headed after taking the medication.

 “Mordicai would have felt exactly the same, Fasa. You
trained him well. He came here to offer a different way. It
looks like he paid the highest price to bring peace.”
Savalia snorted, put out by her mother’s adoration for
Mordicai and clear disapproval of her own actions in the war.

“Shame you never gave him much of a chance before, eh,

Mum? I don’t believe he’s dead. He had a TARDIS, so if he’s
not here then maybe it’s because he’s not quite the martyr
you think he is.”
“It’s only a training TARDIS, Savalia. He can’t travel in time

and his flight options are limited to this constellation,” said

Fasa. “Sadly, I have to agree with your Mother.”
“What did you mean about this being a trap?”
“You are about to find out why your mother fled the Citadel
all those years ago. If you are wrong about your commander,
then this is the end for us.”

***

Mordicai stirred. He was sure he’d opened his eyes, but it was
still pitch black. He had to touch his pupils to make sure he
was indeed awake. They felt squidgy but painless.

Reassuringly, he began to feel pins and needles starting from

his toes and fingertips. Whatever hellish nightmare he had
just endured, he was still alive in body and soul.
Slowly the memories returned of a fashion, disconnected as
they were from cause and effect. He tried to piece together the
freeze-framed images and account for the accompanying

feelings.
He had been infected by some strange, alien goo and was on
the verge of being completely encased in the quick-setting
substance. He’d tried to move to the exit, but the door had
disappeared behind the mysterious substance. It was closing

in on him fast and soon there would be no air left to breathe.

That’s when he must have noticed that the only object in the
room to have been completely unaffected was the TARDIS.
The goo was being instantly converted into a gas as soon as it
made contact with her. It was a struggle to drag himself
towards the ship; already his body was weighing him down as

if his feet, knees and hands were fusing with the floor. Every
time he coughed because of the fumes, more of the black stuff
was being projected out. His last memory before passing out
was of stretching out his hand towards the TARDIS… almost
in touching distance.
That’s where he was now, though he had no idea how he

had arrived here. Maybe he had managed to touch her frame,

creating a new fusion to counter the alien substance. Unless
he could be two things at once, it would have pulled him
inside. Turning the sonic screwdriver into a torchlight, he
examined the console. No trace of the strange goo, and aside
from the lack of power there appeared to be no damage. He

tried to crank open the door manually, but it would not

budge. If his recollections were correct, then in all probability
the TARDIS was completely encased in stone.
Overwhelmed by the irony of his plight, all he could do was
laugh. He’d come to the Citadel to find a way to reach the so-

called Rock of Compassion, and now here he was stuck inside

one. Perhaps he had found the legendary place by accident.
Total protection from the horrors outside – what greater
mercy could there be right now?

***
Kendo was sitting on her hastily-constructed raft, inspecting
more waste materials. Besides the bodies, the place was
littered with broken gadgets, either floating about or buried at
the bottom of the sludge. The original function of most of
them escaped her. This place would be like a gold mine for

Savalia’s meddlesome boyfriend, she thought to herself. A

veritable playground for tinkerers.
“They’re all yours,” said Bez over the holocom.
“Wait,” answered Kendo. “We’re going to need a terminal to
make contact with Percusia. You can’t just leave us down
here.”

“I’m sure your engineer friend will be able to fix something

up,” Bez replied dismissively. “You wanted my help? Well, this
is the best I can give you without Hex finding out.”
“No, I’m grateful. I truly am, but come on, I–”
“Good luck, ex-Councillor.”

“Bez...? Commander Bez…”

***
Fasa stepped onto the central walkway. It was worse than
even he had imagined.

“Welcome to the Catacombs of Rassilon,” he said mockingly.

“The museum of Gallifrey’s finest achievements. Question is,
are we visitors or the latest exhibits?”
“Is it stable enough to wheel the chair onto?” asked Savalia
nervously.

“You’ll be ok, as long as we stick to this platform.”

In the steamy cesspit ahead, they could just about make out
a bedraggled figure punting a raft towards them.
“And here she comes. The Super-Councillor,” said Fasa
sarcastically.
Kendo jumped onto the walkway.

“Savalia. Nairo. Am I glad to see you.”

Savalia was astonished by her cousin’s assumption that this
would be a happy family reunion.
Nairo wheeled her chair towards Kendo.
“Don’t get too close,” warned Savalia. “She might be carrying
needles.”

Kendo held her arms up.

 “It was wrong of me, Savalia. I went too far, you think I don’t
know that now? But in my defence, I was trying to save this
planet from destruction.”
She looked quizzically at Tor Fasa.

“So you finally got your Time Lord status, Mordicai?” she
said.
“Sorry to disappoint,” replied Tor Fasa, removing his hood
and bandage.
“What’s he doing here?” she said accusingly to Savalia,

before reaching for her holocom.

Savalia kicked it out of her hand.
“Why are you trying to protect him? Don’t you realise what
he’s done?”
Suddenly Kendo went for Fasa, pushing him with her into
the cesspit.

“This is all your doing,” she screamed trying to push his

head under the sludge.
Savalia leapt in, pulling Kendo’s hair as she tried to force
her off him.
“Stop it, all of you! This isn’t the time for recriminations,”
shouted Nairo, standing up with an air of calm authority.
“You are all at fault. Not one of you has played this right.
Fasa’s alliance with the Percusians was an act of reckless
faith that backfired spectacularly. Kendo’s super soldier
program was a stupid attempt to win the war and earn the
respect of the Council… again it’s had the opposite effect. And
Savalia, you’ve become a cold-blooded, indiscriminate killer -

no different from those who were sent to destroy us. We put

our mistakes behind us and do our damnedest to fix things.”
Sheepishly, the three warring friends emerged from the
muck to join Nairo.
“Thank you, Nairo,” said Kendo. “If only we all had your

wisdom.”
“It was your idea to have Bez bring us to you,” said Savalia.
“So what were you planning?”
“Before an even bigger threat descends on Gallifrey, we need
to turn the hands of the Percusians. We need to know why
they are doing this, and somehow get through to them that

it’s an act of suicide, that it won’t just be us who are wiped off
the face of the universe.”
“That’s why I came back to the Panopticon,” said Fasa. “I
have something that might explain why Mandre turned
against us.”
“And I insisted on joining him,” added Nairo. “If anyone can

get through to them, I can.”

“So, looks like we are all on the same page, after all,” said
Kendo. “That’s exactly why I summoned you back, Savalia.
Pity your boyfriend’s not here to help. I was hoping he’d be
able to assemble a communications device. We need to make
direct contact with Percusia. This might be a rebel faction and

there’s no point dealing with this Mandre.”

“Mordicai holds all the keys to us getting out of here alive,”
observed Fasa. “A TARDIS, of sorts, but better than nothing,
and the expertise to knock up a means of contacting Percusia
behind Hex’s back. I was expecting him to have already been

dumped here, to be honest.”

“What was he originally planning when he got to the Citadel,
Nairo?” asked Kendo.
“To persuade the Time Lords to rethink their war strategy by
demonstrating the effectiveness of non-lethal weapons.”
“But if he realised it was too late, why would he still come to

the Panopticon?”
 “All I know is he was telling the people he knew a place of
safety, and that if they joined him inside he’d take them there.
Could have been a bluff, but he’s not usually that clever with
words,” said Savalia.

“What could be safer than here?”

“Of course,” muttered Fasa. “It’s the Rock of Compassion.
He’ll have come here to get the coordinates. It was always my
plan B.”
“So it’s a toss-up between talking to the enemy and leading
a mass evacuation. Great plan, Fasa,” said Savalia, much to

her mother’s disapproval.

“We are working together now, remember,” said Nairo.
“The only place he could gather that kind of secret
intelligence is in the Shadow Matrix,” said Kendo.
“Shadow Matrix?” replied Nairo and Savalia in unison.
“It’s like my Altrix system, only without the words or

pictures. The realm of forbidden yet undeniable facts. Was

there any mention of the databanks when you were with
Hex?” asked Fasa.
“Only that the members of the High Council have been
translated into the Matrix until the threat subsides.”
 Fasa smiled. Finally, some good news to cling to.

“If he’s gone straight to its operational heart, then Mordicai

will have almost certainly been apprehended.”
“You say that as if it’s a good thing,” said Savalia.
“It’s his best hope of being alive, Savalia. Entering the
Shadow Matrix would be an act of suicide. If it was so easy to

access, then I wouldn’t have needed to build the Altrix.”

Fasa fished the holocom back out the cesspit.
“What are you doing?” said Kendo as he typed away.
“We have to tell Bez that she’s left you with the wrong man.
I’m proposing a trade. My life in exchange for Mordicai.”
Fasa took Kendo aside and handed her the data disc.

“You need to decode this before you start negotiating. It may

well hold vital information you can use to our advantage.”
Kendo reached out to take the disc.
“Not so fast. I need something from you first. And don’t
pretend you don’t still have it.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Duplicitous to the end. You can’t help yourself, can you?”

“I was… I was going to offer it to Nairo. Don’t you see – this
is the cure to her sickness.”
 “Turn yourself into the super Time Lord more like.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you think you deserve it. Come on, Kendo, hand it

over, it’s really not worth it. Not now. Not ever. I have every
faith in Mordicai. If I can get him to you, give the boy a
chance.”
Reluctantly Kendo exchanged a needle and a spare phial of
the super soldier formula for the data disc.

Fasa’s wound started to bleed again as he read aloud Bez’s

reply from the holocom.
“It’s a deal. Leave the criminal at the top of the lift. I want
him first, then I’ll find your engineer.”
“If we live to tell the tale, you will be remembered for your
brave sacrifice,” said Kendo, assuming that Fasa’s reopened

wound was a sign of his inner turmoil as he prepared to hand

himself over.
“Bravery, like peace, is overrated,” said Fasa, words that
Kendo never expected to hear from him.
Fasa, coldly dismissing her martyr worship, turned his back
on Kendo and re-joined Nairo and Savalia. Kendo hurried

after him, worried that he might disclose her secret.

 “What was that all about?” asked Savalia suspiciously.
“I’m sorry that I let you down,” replied Fasa, ignoring the
question. “Mordicai is by far the better man. Thank you for
showing me what might have been. You gave me hope that
the Time Lords were not beyond salvation… hope that a

united Gallifrey was more than the pipe dream of an idealistic

academic. If you save our world today, remember why and
what for. Gallifrey must never return to how it was before this
all started.”
“Let me wait with you,” said a relieved Kendo, still anxious

to unsully her name.

“There really is no need, I’d prefer to face this alone. Use the
time to make peace with your family.”
“I will put things right,” insisted Kendo. “You have my
word.”
“Likewise,” said Fasa. “Nothing that is done for honour is

ever wasted, no matter how mistaken. It pains me to say it,

but you will have your vindication.”
The Ul mate Weapon

Hex had assembled his newly established inner circle of

advisors in the War Room. They were all looking suitably

sombre around the committee table – all except Bez, who was
sitting crossed-legged on top of it, annoying the others by

making tunes out of a collection of glasses with various levels

of water in them.
At the centre of the table, a three-dimensional computer-
generated map of Gallifrey and its skies was being used to

track the movements of the Percusian ships.

“Why aren’t they attacking?” said Hex as the ships, twelve in

total, hovered menacingly above the Panopticon.

“Waiting for their masters’ orders?” suggested one of the

advisors.

“The tin pots probably want to fire the final salvos

themselves,” added another.

The picture from the north was less ambiguous. Another

Gravity Buster had wiped out the time blockade and the end
of the Time War was seeping into the south, with time and

space exchanging places as it rolled forward.

“What’s the progress on the sky trench adaptations?” barked

Hex to his chief engineer.

“We’ve about 50% of them equipped with artron lasers,

ready to be launched on your command. 25% are still being

adapted and the rest have been permanently destroyed or

abandoned.”

“Yippee! Let the fireworks begin,” said Bez. “Blow the

Percusian scum out of the skies.”

“We do no such thing,” said Hex. “Not until they play their

hand. In the meantime, deploy the trench cannons to slow

down the spread of the Time War from the north. Commander

Bez, you need to ready your new army. You wanted fireworks,

you better make sure we’ve got the people to light them.”

“All this pontification is wasting time. The Percusians are

war virgins. My depleted northern troop made mincemeat of

their crack force, so the rest will be a breeze. They’re hiding

away up there waiting for backup because they know we’d

take out every last one of them. We should strike them now.”
 “Shut the girl up, Hex,” said one of the more senior

statesmen.

“Commander Bez is right in her sentiments, if not her

strategy,” said Hex, much to the surprise of his advisors.

“They may have brought devastation to the Citadel, but only

because they’ve used our own weapons against us. They are
completely out of their depth, shocked by the extent of the

devastation and frightened by what else we might be holding

down here. So why don’t we show them?”

The team looked nonplussed.

“Do I have to spell it out to you? We open up the Omega

Arsenal… let nothing be off-limits.”

Even Bez was nervous now; this was a whole new level of

craziness. Nonetheless, she tried hard to appear unfazed.

Kendo’s negotiation plan no longer sounded like a harmless

backup. It had moved from being a ‘just in case’ to a

preferential option.

“I like your thinking,” she lied convincingly, not wishing to

lose her seat at the table.

“We’re not stopping at a few ships. We’re going to obliterate

Percusia and wipe its sorry people from the history books. It
will send a message to the tin pots – that we are not to be

messed with.”

“The President would not approve an act of genocide,” said

the chief scientist.

“Gallifrey is under military rule. The President no longer has

a say. Even if she could still speak.”

***

If anybody could effectively manage the personality altering

powers of the super soldier formula, it ought to have been
him. Every pacifist bone in his body would fight against its

destructive tendencies and subjugate the beast into a

controlled force for good. At least that was Tor Fasa’s

justification for tricking Kendo into thinking he was simply

confiscating the potion.
Having taken the lift up to the ground floor level, he tried to

materialise the door by inputting a variety of combinations

into the keypad just in case Bez had been careless or

exceptionally thoughtful. To no surprise whatsoever, he was

unable to break the code. Without an explosive device to hand
or an inhuman amount of force, they were all trapped down
there.

There was no chance he would allow an exchange of his life

for Mordicai’s to take place, not because he wasn’t willing to
die for the cause, but because he had zero faith that Kendo

and the others could make it count. Hex and Bez would be a
frightening double-act; a cold, calculating strategist and a

gun-toting wild child had to be a match made in hell. There

was no doubt in his mind that the pair of them wouldn’t think

twice about releasing the rest of the Omega Arsenal, taking

advantage of the president’s enforced leave of absence. He
was quite prepared to unleash his own form of hell upon the

duo and their supporters. He would free Mordicai in a last-

ditch bid for peace, but if negotiations failed and the data disc

proved useless, then before the soulless armoured mutants

had time to take up the baton from the Percusians, he would

lead the innocents to the Rock of Compassion.

The formula created an instable plane of existence, one that
gave the infected a dimensionally transcendental quality. An

uninformed observer would assume that the Super Time Lord

was blessed with shapeshifting or teleportation powers as
they travelled across the dimensions. Mixed with the perfectly
imperfect DNA of Savalia’s family line, the enhancements

would be even more extreme. A super soldier with the right

bloodline could self-combust and explode the planet from the

inside out with nothing but their thought waves: the ultimate
suicide bomber and a weapon a thousand times more deadly
that the whole of the Omega Arsenal put together. By taking it

for himself, Fasa was policing its effects, denying it the

animalistic capacity for extreme violence. But more

importantly, he was using it to get through an invisible locked

door.
There was no antidote, and exactly what impact it would

have on his life expectancy wasn’t clear, but this was his final
life cycle in any case. The transformation took place within

seconds of the injection. He could instantly see across the

dimensions, cycling through them with each voluntary blink

of an eye. There were now several methods available to him

for getting through the door. He could use the two-
dimensional plain to slide through the bottom of it; he could

make it so that he was infinitesimal by comparison, allowing

him to walk through the tiniest of molecular gaps; or he could
travel in time to any moment when the door was open. In the
end, he settled on walking straight through it as time and

space appeared to warp around him.

It took a while to reorientate himself back into a three-

dimensional plane of existence. It was the only way he could

navigate himself through the corridors of the Panopticon and
into the heart of the Matrix without getting hopelessly lost. It
seemed the most logical place to start in his search for

Mordicai. Every time he heard somebody approaching he

would switch to another dimension until eventually, much

longer than he had anticipated, he found the junction that to

the left led to the Matrix control room. As Fasa predicted, Hex

had positioned guards outside. Switching dimensions, he

approached the room completely unseen. Sliding through the

door, however, was proving to be an insurmountable

challenge. Even when he existed on a molecular scale, the

room was in a solid, non-moving state. Travelling back in time

through his mind did not help, either. Everything outside the
room changed accordingly, but even when he journeyed back

to before the Panopticon had been built, the square room

remained intact, an impassive, immutable, impossible solid

black obelisk.
He was about to revert to the three-dimensional world and

pay the soldiers a surprise visit, when he noticed that the

when viewed through four dimensions, the obelisk was no

longer silent. It was quiet and muffled, but Fasa could

distinctively hear on a permanent loop Mordicai’s infamous

laugh. Any sound that existed in the room before its lockdown

would no longer be audible; it would be as if it had never

happened. The laughter then not only confirmed that

Mordicai had indeed been here, but that somehow he was still

inside.

***

It wasn’t just Tor Fasa who could hear Mordicai’s laugh. Like
a virus inside the Matrix’s safe mode, the laugh echoed and

spread through every layer of the virtual yet frozen world. It

could be heard by President Romana and all the others who

had been trapped in the locked-down database. The black

casings that surrounded their physical bodies began to crack

imperceptibly as the bodies inside responded to the
stimulation. The Matrix was rebooting. It would take

centuries to complete, but Mordicai’s laughter was powering it

back up.

***

The tiniest of cracks were also beginning to emerge around

the stone-encased Matrix control room, impossible to detect

with the naked eye but accessible to Fasa who, in one of his

altered states, could walk through microscopic worlds. He

already suspected that the anomaly at the heart of the Matrix

was the training TARDIS, and sure enough his mysterious

and disconcerting journey came to an abrupt end when he

bled through its doors. Reassuming his three-dimensional

plane of existence, Fasa saw that Mordicai had passed out in

the console room. The lack of air would have killed him

eventually. Now that Fasa was part of the Matrix virus, his
ability to cross dimensions was such that the Matrix reboot

was speeding up at a considerable rate. Within minutes the

system would be restored, and the stone defences will have

melted away.
He knelt over Mordicai and rested his head in his lap.

“Hold on just that little bit longer, my boy. We’ll soon have

you breathing naturally again,” he said before sharing the air

from his lungs with his brave yet foolhardy apprentice.

***

Back in the Catacombs of Rassilon, the family reunion was

hardly going well. Savalia continued with the recriminations,

despite Nairo’s protests.

“Why did you do it, Kendo? After everything you saw my

mother go through?”

“I did try to help you, Savalia… fast-tracking you through

the DZ programme, getting you those promotions. It’s not

easy trying to change things from the inside. Look at Fasa: all

those year chipping away, and for what? I’ve made no more of

a mess of things than he did.”

 “Fasa has been hiding behind a cloak of respectability for
centuries, yet even he knew that it was time to stand up and

be counted,” Savalia retorted. “You were fresh off the block,

there were no preconceptions about you in the Council. You

had nothing to lose by choosing to be more assertive. His

biggest mistake wasn’t trying to do a deal with the

Percusians; it was getting you a seat on the council.”

“Girls, this really isn’t helping. Why don’t you do a spot of

fishing together, bring back anything Mordicai might be able

to use,” suggested Nairo.

“Your mother is right, Savalia. You’re only rerunning this

argument because you’re nervous about seeing Mordicai

again. Distract yourself by doing something useful instead.”

Savalia glared at Kendo. How dare she bring him up just so

that she could steer the conversation away from the awkward
questions about her?

“Mother, I hope you’ve counted your fresh medical supplies.

I mean, with your precious niece’s track record, you can’t be

too careful.”

Nairo was beginning to think her advice was misjudged. The

pair of them… on a single raft… they could quite feasibly

drown each other in the deeper waters. Fortunately, she was

saved by the elevator arriving.

“He’s here already?” said Savalia, involuntarily trying to tidy

her hair. “Oh, it’s only you.”

“Commander,” said Bez, hurrying towards them on the

walkway. “It’s only you, Commander. You may have handed

over your weapons, but even a civilian should address me by

my title. Who on Gallifrey were you expecting, anyway? Where

is this hotshot engineer of yours, because from where I’m

standing it looks like you’ve done absolutely nothing.”

“No, no, no,” said Kendo, realising what Tor Fasa had done.

“He’s sold us out again.”

“What are you talking about?” said Savalia.

“Look, I don’t know what the deal is with you lot, but you

better sort it out, and quickly. The power has gone to Hex’s

head. He’s planning to blow Percusia out of the sky. The guy’s

a liability. I mean, if it were me I’d happily take out the ones

already here. But genocide? It’s a step too far, even for me.”

Nairo stepped up from her wheelchair and placed a motherly

arm around Bez, who found her natural instinct to recoil

strangely muted.
 “Commander, things went too far the day the Time Lords
chose to fight dirty. But deep down, I think you know that.

You pretend it’s all a game to make the kill that much easier.

Think about it for just one second and it hurts. Oh, how it

hurts.”
Savalia saw a side to her commander she had never

imagined possible, a hint of vulnerability through eyes that

for once matched her young appearance. Mother’s comforting

touch reminded Savalia of the gentle reassurance she used to

receive from her whenever she was struggling with the

responsibilities of being a young carer. Everything had

changed when the war had started, or at least that’s what she

had thought. She had forgotten that feeling of being loved and

understood. But there it was, neither lost nor unneeded.

Savalia wanted to join in the show of affection, but Kendo

broke the moment.

“It’s absolutely vital that we get to a communications port,

Bez,” she said, playing their hand far quicker than she should
as far as Savalia was concerned. “Mordicai would have

returned by now if he’d found anything he could use down

here.”
 Bez wiped away the trapped tears from her eyes and
immediately reassumed her flippant and care-free default

persona.
“Why are you wasting your time talking to me? Keep looking.

Hex will be ready to strike sooner than you think. In fact, I’d
give him an hour at the most.”
Bez marched back to the lift and turned to them, one final

time. “At least you’ve found each other. It’s a happy ending of
sorts. I wouldn’t want to spoil it.”
Savalia couldn’t but notice how alone she looked.

***

The TARDIS lights were back on when Mordicai came round

to see the stranger busy examining the console.
“I take it I’m under arrest?”

“Relax, Mordicai. It’s me.”

Tor Fasa turned around and ran a finger across his scar.
“Fasa?”

“Thank goodness you didn’t pass the temporal schism test.

What in Gallifrey’s name have you done to her?”
 Mordicai gingerly got back to his feet.

“Just a few modifications here and there.”

“Here and there? What is this supposed to be?” replied Fasa,
attempting to unscrew a kitchen tap.

“Travelling in the vortex is thirsty business, Fasa. What are

you doing here?”

“It’s a flight training TARDIS. You can’t even travel in time.

I’ve come to help. I take it you’re here to find out the
whereabouts of the Rock?”

“We can’t win this war, and there’s no chance of stopping it

now. So yes, seeing as it would take over a century to cross
the time torn fields and reach the portal–”

“You thought you’d take the direct route. With a TARDIS

that can’t even leave this system.”
“I’ve been working on that. Adapting her.”

“Oh, it’s not a criticism. I admire your bravery. In fact you

just about deserve to have this back,” said Fasa throwing the
Omega Junior Engineers badge at Mordicai.

“What? How did you…”

“Long story. Look, the President and her council have been
placed in hiding inside the Matrix. You triggered the
failsafe…”
“All I did was input the Doctor’s name.”
“…but now that the Matrix is back online, you’ve been

exposed. We have to work quickly and get out of here.”

Mordicai realised that Fasa had removed one of the Matrix
computers and connected it to the TARDIS console.

“It won’t work like that,” said Mordicai.

He adjusted some settings using the sonic screwdriver.
“You finally mastered how to use it, then?” said Fasa,

surprised.
“Reverse the polarity of the…”

“You’re even sounding like him now,” laughed Fasa.

“There, that should do it,” said Mordicai triumphantly as the
terminal roared into life.

“Got any psyc-dump leads?”

Mordicai looked puzzled.
“Out back, of course, but…”

“Surely you didn’t expect to find the answers on a computer

monitor? This information is classified. You will only find it by
entering the Shadow Matrix.”
 “Why me? It would make more sense if you went in and I
kept guard.”

“You still see me as that meek and doddery old man? Trust
me, Mordicai, I can give you more than enough protection.”

***

Fasa’s duplicity had brought the three women together.

Savalia had not exactly buried the hatchet with Kendo,

especially after finding out she was still holding on to the
super soldier formula, but their shared concerns over his next

move had at least taken the heat off Kendo.

Nairo was the least concerned of the trio, having journeyed

with him into the Panopticon.

“If he was selling us out he’d have taken his data disc with
him. My guess is he’s planning to bring Mordicai to us

himself. All we can do is sit tight.”

“He was talking to me as if we’d never see him again. It was
very convincing,” said Kendo. “I can’t believe he took the

formula.”
 “It wasn’t a bad call to curry favour with the Percusians. I’d

have done the same,” replied Nairo. “When I met him outside
the city, he was a broken man, wrecked by the guilt at what
he’d done. This was his last desperate bid for freedom. There

was always a chance it would be too much for him.”

“So what’s he doing now? Going on the rampage to stop
Hex? Why not take us with him?” said Savalia. “What exactly

is this formula supposed to do?”

“It’s never been used in the wild before, so it’s mostly
theoretical, but experiments on prisoners showed that it

releases and enhances latent powers. With the right DNA it

could bring immortality, but even in the least compatible it
could unleash the ability to move between dimensions, to

manipulate time to a degree, to read minds and retain

knowledge. Imagine an individual Time Lord becoming part

TARDIS, part Matrix, and you wouldn’t be far off. I doubt it

would turn Fasa onto a path of violence.”
The lights above the lift entrance flickered into life,

signalling its descent.

Savalia waited this time. No point in building up her hopes.
 When the door failed to open, Nairo wheeled herself over to

it.
Kendo sensed her anxiety and held her cousins hand, their

view of the contents of the lift masked by Nairo.

“That Commander of yours. She’s only gone and come up
with the goods!” shouted Nairo swivelling her chair around to

reveal with glee a fully functioning holocom. “I knew I was

getting through to her.”

***

Mordicai wasn’t sure whether the form of the Shadow Matrix

was his own conceptualisation, a construct created by Fasa,

or an essential feature of the program’s design layout. But
‘shadow’ was indeed an apt description. He had no idea how

to ask a physical space for directions, but all around him

were unimaginable horrors. Abnormalities and breaches that
were best kept off-limits. Monsters galore roamed the dark

and rocky terrain, but there were also thoughts running

around like disconnected shadows whose hearts were empty

and pointless. It was an apt description for being confronted

not so much by sheer evil but by meaninglessness, by things
that had no rhyme or reason, and no means of being righted
or made sense of. The longer he stayed here, the more those

aspects of his own history that he had run away from

haunted him, too. The world beyond his experience was
gradually being transformed into one inside his own head.

Haiso’s death in one corner, his parent’s disownment in

another, and the Doctor being anything but the Doctor in yet

another. But right bang in the centre of it all was his fear of
Savalia’s rejection, as if it was consuming all the others.

***

In the TARDIS, Fasa was feeding off Mordicai’s experiences,

directing his viewing but trying in vain to stop him from

fixating on Savalia. He realised this was another facet of the
anti-spyware program at work. The Shadow Matrix, even

when breached, was not giving up its secrets lightly. But Fasa
could steal the core by imprinting Mordicai’s experiences into
his supercharged mind. Once the shadow had been

completely overtaken by Mordicai’s Savalia, Fasa broke the

connection. Back in the relative safety of the catacombs, he
would be able to decode the information.

“Sorry I had to put you through it, but it’s all here now.
Right here inside my head,” he said, preparing the TARDIS for
dematerialisation.

“And…” said Mordicai.

“And you and Savalia have a lot of talking to do,” replied
Fasa, grinning through the rising and falling time rotor.

Mordicai was furious at this invasion of privacy, but even

more annoyed that he had let it happen by becoming so

distracted.
“I messed it up, didn’t I? Just like I did with her.”
Fasa smiled, pleased to know that the apprentice hadn’t

outgrown his mentor after all.

“On the contrary, your emotions for the girl made it that
much easier. No need to feel embarrassed. Just sort it out,

the pair of you.”

And with that he opened the TARDIS door.

***
Moments before the TARDIS arrived Savalia, Kendo and Nairo

were huddled around the holocom as Nairo attempted to

make contact with Percusia. Worryingly, there were no life
signals at all emanating from the moon’s galactic position.

“It doesn’t make sense – they can’t all be part of the

assault,” said Kendo.
“Are you sure this thing is working properly?”

“Yes, Auntie. Something is very wrong here.”

There was an obvious answer, thought Savalia.
“Their tin pot overlords?”

“Quite possibly. But there are no life signals whatsoever. It’s

as if the moon is dead.”

“Or it’s been blown out of existence,” suggested Nairo

pointedly.
“Surely we’d have heard something by now if Hex had

already hit back,” Savalia replied. “This place is probably

interfering with the signal in some way. We need to get out of
this hellhole.”

With impeccable timing, the TARDIS materialised behind

them.
 “What makes you so sure I’m even going to see her again?”
said Mordicai, remonstrating with Fasa as the pair stepped
out of the TARDIS. “Can your new powers see into the

future?”
“No, but I can see what’s right in front of me,” replied Fasa,
nodding towards the three women.

Mordicai and Savalia stared awkwardly at each other,

neither wanting to make the first move, but any chance of a
reconciliation would have to wait until Kendo had finished

having it out with Fasa.

“What in Gallifrey’s name have you been playing out? Please
tell me you didn’t take it.”

Fasa fell to his knees clutching his temples in agony. The

blood was spurting from his wound again. Suddenly, he
stopped thrashing around. He raised his head up to an

unnatural position, opened his mouth wider than seemed

possible and entered a trancelike state. Particles of light were

projected from his mouth and began to form words and

symbols across the stone, moss covered ceiling. Every time he
jerked his head, the shapes would coalesce and rearrange
themselves into a different pattern. Some of the words and
pictures were recognisable, others made no sense.
Nairo and Savalia rushed to sit either side of him as he

swayed from side to side. Between them, they reapplied a

scarf around his forehead to stem the blood flow. Nervous

that at any point he might inadvertently fall backwards onto

the stone floor or forwards into the gunge, they each held an
arm.

“It must be a side effect of the formula,” said Savalia.

“Actually, I think this is supposed to happen,” replied
Mordicai. “His mind has absorbed the Shadow Matrix. I think

he’s sorting through the data, searching for the coordinates to

the Rock of Compassion.”
“Even if it does turn out to be an actual place, do you really

think this TARDIS can get us there?” said Savalia.

“It’s either that or we stay trapped down here to await our
new masters,” said Nairo. “If we can’t contact Percusia, this is

all we’ve got left.”

Kendo was horrified that they were actually contemplating

such a drastic measure.

 “So you are just going to give up, abandon ship and let
Gallifrey fall?”

“You have a better idea, cousin?” asked Savalia.

“With this TARDIS and Fasa’s newly found powers, we can
take control back from Hex.”

Mordicai laughed. It all sounded so very desperate from the

fallen senator.

“You have no authority over us, Kendo, not anymore. We

wait and find out what knowledge Fasa can glean from the
Matrix. And only I decide where this TARDIS goes next.”

Savalia was taken aback by Mordicai’s assertiveness.

“Get you, bigshot,” she said.
“Mock me all you like, Savalia, I’m doing my best here…

soldier,” he replied pointedly.

“No, I’m impressed, I truly am. And I owe you an apology.”
It was clear to Mordicai that she found such words

supremely difficult to say.

“For that time-lock stunt of yours?”
“No, Mordicai, that was for your own good.”

Savalia pulled out from her arm pocket the chain poem and
the handful of paper scraps containing Mordicai’s attempts to
write the last lines.

“I’m sorry that I thought you’d broken the chain.”

“How did you get hold of these?” said Mordicai, gathering up
the scraps, with a mixture of embarrassment and horror.

“We had a none-too-friendly visit from the Zechos. They had

a detachment out looking for you. Count yourself lucky that
they scarpered. When they told me what you’d done in the
Death Zone, I couldn’t believe it. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’ve

grown up into quite the action hero.”

An awkward silence fell between them.
“When are you going to drop the act, Sav? I found Bess,”
said Mordicai. “It took a while, but eventually I got to hear
your message. I memorised every word–”
“Kendo. Give mother a hand and take my place for a bit, will

you?” said Savalia, stepping away for Fasa. “Mordicai and I

have unfinished business, and this is strictly between the two
of us.”
“Nairo?” said Mordicai, finally clocking who the third woman
was and feeling a little silly for missing the wheelchair in the

mist just a few yards behind them. “I can’t believe you’re

alive. I saw your abandoned chair outside and feared the
worst.”
“You mean to tell me that you left my mother for dead? As if
bringing her here wasn’t bad enough. Get inside,” said Savalia

curtly before storming into the TARDIS.

Mordicai followed meekly behind her. He could have sworn
that even the mist quivered as she marched off.
That was more like the man she knew, thought Savalia,
smiling to herself.

***

“The Matrix has been reactivated, my Lord, but there’s no

sign of the infiltrator. The President and the members of the
High Council may be in danger. We ought to bring them
back.”

“They must remain inside the Matrix until the Percusians

have been extinguished and the bigger threat contained. The
intruder has in all likelihood been destroyed, but if he is still
in the Matrix then we have to hope they have the guile to
overpower him. If not, you’ll get enough warning signs before
you need to pull them out. Are the bodies showing any signs

of distress?”
“No, but…”
“Then we stick to the plan. Understood?”
The chief scientist knew that the power had gone to Hex’s
head.
“Are you sure the President agreed to this manoeuvre in the

first place?”
“What are you suggesting, Myled, that I’ve committed
treason by detaining the council against its will?”
“You have to see it from my perspective. It seems so out of
character for our president to have…”

“Go on, say it… to have… abandoned her people? If anyone

is committing treason here, it is you.”
Bez walked in, looking flustered; a helpful distraction as
Myled shuffled off to do the bidding of a madman, unable to
defy his master’s orders just in case.
“I don’t trust these scientists,” said Hex. “Spare a couple of

your soldiers to keep watch over them. It’s time to fast track
our plans. I’m beginning to share your impatience,
Commander Bez. The sooner this is over with, the better.”
 “You want us to attack the Percusians? I’m not sure we’re
anywhere near ready.”
“You’ve changed your tune. Cold feet, Bez? Not something I

ever expected from you. At the setting of the second sun, we

lower the time shield and open the missile tower. Percusia
has been programed as the target for the Obliterator that lies
beneath the Panopticon. We will give Mandre a warning: that
if he does not hand himself and his forces over, then his world
and its people will be erased from existence. Your new army

need to be readied to defend themselves if he attempts to fight

back.”
“There’s a bomb in the Catacombs of Rassilon?”
“The final solution,” nodded Hex. “Percusia will be erased
from history. At the very least a new timeline will be created

where Gallifrey remains untouched. But if we are lucky it will

give us time to regroup, rebuild and strike back against the
tin pot dictators.”
“Was the scientist right, Hex? Are you keeping the High
Council against their will?”
“Does it matter? When the time is right and the President is

reinstated, they will thank me for this. I will be hailed as the

Saviour of Gallifrey.”

***

Savalia could not believe what she was seeing. The Police Box

exterior had led her to assume that Mordicai had completely

modelled his stolen TARDIS on that of his hero’s.
The console room had an altogether different source of
inspiration. One much closer to home.
“Do you like it?” said Mordicai sheepishly.
“Why?” said Savalia in wonder.

“I guess I missed you.”

The stone console has been configured to look like the
bellows of the open-air theatre that was the pair’s secret
meeting place in Dotheia. The controls were in Savalia’s
favourite colours, clashing somewhat with the roundels that

were painted black and yellow to match the colours of Bessie.

“You’ve turned this ship into a shrine… to me,” said Savalia.
“Why? Did you think I was dead?”
“I wanted to be like the Doctor and fix things, but well… you
know how he turned out. I was about to give up until I
realised that it wasn’t the Doctor who was my biggest

inspiration. It was you, Sav. I wanted to be like you.”

Savalia took a closer look at the console and realised that
he’d engraved it with her sections of their chain poem, and
with all her favourite sayings. There were even a few poorly
realised renditions of her artwork.
“You wouldn’t want to anymore,” said Savalia. “The war has

changed me, and not in a good way.”

“You’re still the same girl I fell in love with,” said Mordicai.
Savalia spotted the knife in an alcove under the console and
grabbed it.
“What are you doing?”
“This poem doesn’t work without your bits,” she said. “I’m

finishing it off for you. This should be about us. Not me.”

***

The images projected from Tor Fasa’s mind were beginning to

fade. He seemed to have become far less distressed. The

frowns had been replaced by a serene fixed smile, and the
violent jerks had given way to a gentle, almost hypnotic
rocking.
“Fasa, are you okay?” said Kendo.
“Don’t push him,” cautioned Nairo. “I think he’s slowly

coming round. And when he does, go easy on him, eh?”

Fasa returned to their plane of consciousness as if nothing
untoward had taken place. “She has every right to be angry
with me, Nairo. I had to do it, Kendo. To see all of the Matrix’s
secrets, this was the only way.”

“You played us both,” said Nairo.

“So did it work? Do you have the coordinates?” asked
Kendo.
“The reason no one has ever discovered the Rock and why
its very existence has been called into doubt is because it
exists in another, sideways dimension, one that even the Time

War cannot destroy. The ultimate hiding place to keep the

Death Zone games secret. Its victims effectively exiled from
this universe. We may as well have killed them all.”
“But if it’s still populated after all these years…”
“I have no idea if it’s even still there, only that it was

discovered by accident during the first great time winds.

Rassilon’s Omega engineers created the portal by trapping a
beat of the Time Wind in an inside-out TARDIS. For a while
they planned to colonise the other universe, but its resources
were sparse and it was deemed an unnecessary extravagance,
especially since it was only one way. The portal was left
unused for several years until they decided to redeploy the

Rock as a penal colony. That’s when it all goes go dark. Even

the shadow of the Matrix doesn’t have a place for it anymore.”
“So the portal is the only way in?”
“Now that’s where it gets interesting. It was the hardest part
to decode, but eventually I broke through. Someone claimed

to have travelled back by artificially recreating the conditions

of the time wind.”
“What happened to him?”
“He was dismissed as a fool and locked up in a mental
health institution–”
“Another red herring, then.”

“–where he invented a form of poetry as a secret code for

how to replicate his experiment. The Gallifreyan chain poem.”
“That was Wordsmith the Greater. A highly respected
musician of the court.”
 “According to the official history, yes,” said Fasa. “The Time
Lords wouldn’t want to associate their high art with a

wastelander, now, would they?”

“Oh, this is ridiculous, Fasa,” said Kendo.
“No, there are loads of examples of chain poetry in the caves
of Moria. They all predate Wordsmith. The Wastelanders have
never believed our history books,” said Nairo.
“But why would he do that? It’s as if he knew that one day

we might need to get there.”

“Maybe he did,” said Fasa.
Mordicai and Savalia emerged from the TARDIS holding
hands.
“We’re ready,” said Savalia.

“Let’s do this,” added Mordicai. “Whatever this is.”

“Glad to see you two have settled your differences,” Nairo
observed.
“It’s the first ray of hope in a long time,” agreed Tor Fasa.
As Kendo filled them in about Tor Fasa’s findings, they both
began to laugh.

“What’s so funny, lovebirds?” said Kendo. “That fool’s a bad

influence on you, Savalia. You’re better than this.”
 “So let me get this straight,” said Savalia, composing herself.
“What we need is a spacecraft that can be navigated with
poetry?”
“That’s putting it rather crudely,” replied Fasa. “But

essentially, yes. The Rock of Compassion cannot be accessed

by traditional methods. It requires the energy of a time wind,
and if the poet’s calculations are right, a flight path that
mirrors the beats and patterns of the Gallifreyan chain poem
will do it. But it has to be in its purest, strictest form; any
creative deviation and the wind will not be strong enough.”

Savalia looked at Mordicai and the pair started to laugh

again.
“So,” she said. “We need a spacecraft, a pilot and someone
who can think up unimaginative poetry off the cuff. I know
just the person.”

Much to Mordicai’s embarrassment she proceeded to read

out some of his efforts.
“They took me days to write, Savalia. There’s no way I could
come up with more just like that.”
“But I could. No trouble. You’re my inspiration, just correct
me if I get too inventive.”
 “How about it, Fasa?” asked Mordicai.

“The pair of you would need to do a trial run, to establish

whether or not it works. In the meantime, someone needs to
get Commander Bez on board if you are going to come back
for the others. My powers are better off served here.”
“With your help and Bez’s I could be reinstated and put an

end to Hex’s madness,” said Kendo.

“That settles it, then,” said Fasa.
They all looked at Nairo.
“Leave me here. Whichever team I join, I’d only slow you
down or get in the way. Come back for me when you are
ready.”

“No way am I leaving you again, Mother,” said Savalia,

wheeling her into the TARDIS.
Mordicai shook hands with Fasa.
The old man with the younger face smiled.
“What are you waiting for, Mordicai? I’m counting on you to

find me that retirement home.”

“You’re seriously still thinking about retiring after everything
that’s happened?”
 “Why not? The Doctor was right. You are the one to continue
my legacy. He knew what he was doing, Engineer. The Altrix
is yours, and what’s more you’ll have the entirety of the

Shadow Matrix uploaded onto it. As soon as that is done, my

work is complete.”

***

Bez was addressing the masses of civilians in the central hall

of the Panopticon. Preparing them to stand up and fight when
the shields were lowered. She was struggling to pacify the
frightened crowd.
“We can’t stay here like birds trapped in a cage. This is our
time to fight back and we need you all. In the bowels of the

Panopticon lies the ultimate weapon. We have no reason to be

afraid. The Omega Arsenal has been temporarily
recommissioned. My soldiers are passing round handheld
laser cannons from the legendary 391 Sontaran battle fleet,
Zechonian glitter guns each with the power to wipe out up to

5,000 Cybermen or 10 Daleks, and illegal time freezers

created by the renegade Master when he formed an alliance
with the Ice Warriors. Pick you weapon and join your
respective training regiment.”
She left her three deputies to coordinate the training and
hurried back to the catacombs to warn Kendo.
If she had been seconds earlier, she would have seen the

TARDIS dematerialising.
“Bez. This is becoming quite a habit,” said Kendo.
“Where are the others?”
Fasa stepped out of the mist, his hood lowered.
Bez immediately clocked the tell-tale scar and raised her

gun.
Fasa walked unflinchingly towards her.
“Commander Bez, there are no time for explanations. We
need to stop Hex. Are you with us?”
“It’s okay Bez, I trust him. And even if I didn’t, we need his
help. What’s Hex’s game plan?”

“I came to get you out of here,” said Bez. “There’s an

Obliterator buried below us and it’s set to be launched within
the hour.”
“I need to assume command of the Panopticon and get a
message through to the President in the Matrix. I believe she
is being kept there illegally by the military,” said Kendo. “Can

you take us to Hex?”

***

Hex was in the defence control room surrounded by his

closest advisors, ready to lower the shield and initialise the

Obliterator.
“Commissioner Mandre. This is Hextible Helio, Acting
President of Gallifrey. This is your final warning. Stand down
and hand yourself over and you will be spared a death
sentence.”

The receiver crackled until Mandre’s voice could be

recognised over the interference.
“…so you see, Mr. President. We are not frightened by your
baseless threats.”
“Then we will wipe your people from the history books. One
strike and your planet is erased from existence.

“Be my guest. I didn’t like the moon, in any case. Gallifrey is

more than enough for my people’s needs.”
 “I don’t think you fully understand. It will be as if you were
never born. You can’t possibly survive this.”
“Want to bet?” said Mandre before the radio signal cut off.

Hex’s cheeks went characteristically red with rage. He

ground his teeth before turning to his first officer.
“Do it,” he ordered.
“That ordered is countermanded.”
To Hex and his officers’ astonishment, Kendo was standing
in the doorway.

“You have no authority here ex-Councillor. Arrest her at

once,” ordered Hex.
“You’ll have to get past me first,” said Bez crawling between
Kendo’s legs to stand in front of her, grinning.
“Kill them both.”

The soldiers raised their guns, but the weapons had been
transformed into a rubbery substance.
One of the guns changed form like putty being moulded.
Slowly it grew into a human sized cocoon, out of which
stepped Tor Fasa.
“What is this abomination, Kendo, Bez?” said Hex.
 “Just getting creative in the alternative dimensions, Hex.
Maybe now you will listen to your superior.”
Hex tried to make a run for it.
“Arrest him at once,” said Kendo mimicking Hex’s voice.
The soldiers seemed only too happy to change allegiance.

“Take him to the catacombs,” said Bez. “The President will

deal with you later. What? You didn’t think my soldiers would
be as meek and compliant as the scientist, did you? Right
now the President and her council are being pulled back out
of the Matrix where you trapped them.”
“This is madness,” said Hex as he was carted off. “I could

have put an end to this. Congratulations on ensuring that

this Time War continues for centuries. Gallifrey deserved
better.”
Fasa and Kendo sat by the communications device.
“Before we talk to Mandre,” said Fasa. “You still have the

data disc, Kendo? It’s time we found out Percusia’s secret.”

***
The TARDIS span through the vortex in a series of
interlocking circles as Savalia’s poetry was fed orally into the

navigation circuits.
“Faster, Savalia, faster,” said Mordicai, holding onto the
console as the ship cooked up a time storm. “Are you okay,
Nairo?”
Nairo was clinging for dear life onto one of the protruded

roundels while her wheelchair was flung violently around the

console room.
Savalia hesitated in concern for her mother.
“Don’t stop,” said Nairo. “We can’t lose momentum.
Remember, repeat a phrase until the next one comes to you.”
“I think it’s working,” said Mordicai. “Let’s just hope that

wherever she’s taking us is an improvement.”

***

“Of course,” said Fasa triumphantly. “How did I miss it? It’s
been staring at us in the face all this time.”

“What has?” said Kendo.

 Fasa’s elated expression quickly gave way to a look of utter
despair.
“Percusia’s beast wasn’t a myth after all.”
“Then thank Gallifrey we stopped Hex from blowing up the

planet and setting it free.”

“It was us,” said Fasa gravely. “We were the beast. The cave
must have been the flip side of the Death Zone portal.
Percusia isn’t a moon in this galaxy. That’s just a cover for its
true location. The moon is probably nothing more than a

staging post for collecting useful materials from this

dimension, the real Percusia is –”
The frightening truth had already dawned on Kendo.
“The Rock of Compassion. Mordicai and Savalia are heading
straight into the enemy’s base. We have to recall the TARDIS!”
“Only the President has such authority,” Fasa replied. “Tell

her and we will all be tried as renegades.”

“If the Percusians have been coming here from the sideways
dimension then they must have another portal on the moon,”
reasoned Kendo. “We could hand ourselves over to Mandre
and join them. You’ll be no match for them.”
 “I can talk to him. Apologise. Remind him that there are
innocent wastelanders being killed. His own people, in a way.”
“So the Percusians are the descendants of the Death Zone
players?”
Fasa nodded. “Mostly wastelanders, with a few others
thrown in for good measure, stolen from across all of time and

space. A mixed gene pool, but predominantly Gallifreyan. And

among them the soldier you sent to arrest me. He’s been
leaving us clues to get there. This data disc, the poetry. Little
did he know that his adopted people would one day become
our enemy.”

***

In the final stages of their journey, the TARDIS inhabitants

had all passed out. Savalia was the first to come round, and
after checking that Mordicai and Nairo were still alive she

checked the scanner.

The Rock of Compassion looked to be a barren wasteland.
She was about to turn away in disappointment when she
spotted three figures approaching from a distance. She could
immediately tell that they were armed. Once they had come
into full view, their grey complexion and tattoos made their

identities unmistakable.
Frantically, Savalia woke Mordicai and her mother.
“We have to leave at once,” she shouted.
“We’ve only just arrived,” said Mordicai, quickly recovering
his bearings. “What’s wrong?”
“It was a trap. Fasa has sold us out to the Percusians.”

“What are you talking about?” said Nairo, newly regenerated

again.
“The TARDIS has been surrounded by Percusians,” said
Savalia. “See for yourself.”
Nairo looked at them and smiled calmly.

“Savalia. The Percusians have always been our friends

remember. We don’t know why or who started attacking us,
but I’m not leaving until I get some answers. Let me talk to
them.”
“They’ll kill you.”
“Your mother is right, Savalia. There has to be more to this

than meets the eye,” said Mordicai, opening the TARDIS

doors.
 ***

“Commissioner Mandre,” said Fasa. “I have decoded the data

disc. Why didn’t you tell me? It’s ancient history. You know
I’m no fan of my own people, but we closed the games years
ago.”
“This planet belongs to us, Time Lord. You stole it from us;
we are only taking back what is rightfully ours.”
“By allying yourself with the Daleks? You really think you

can set up home here with those monsters in control of the

Galaxy?”
“What other option did I have? Your weapons would have
brought the universe to its knees. Billions of races innocently
caught up in your power struggle to control time itself.”
“By whose authority?” interrupted Kendo.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who are you responsible to? Percusia must have a
president or the equivalent. You see, you kind of remind me of
a General I know, and he certainly hasn’t been following
directives from above.”
 “Leave my people out of this. They will understand when we

give them this new world.”

“You might want to rethink your strategy of keeping secrets.
Our friends have travelled to Percusia,” Kendo continued.
Mandre laughed.
“That’s impossible.”

“We have called off the attack, Commissioner,” said Fasa.

“General Hex has been arrested and now we are proposing a
peace treaty. One that might even save your life.”

***

Savalia’s first impressions of the Rock of Compassion as a

wasteland could not have been further from the truth. The
Percusian guards had escorted them into one of its many
domed cities for an audience with its ruling executive. The
city had a somewhat hodgepodge character to it, but though
austere, its buildings and landscapes had been decorated

lovingly and with great attention to detail. The beautifully

designed dome was brimming with people who, though
obviously malnourished, looked content and worry-free.
 Savalia and the others were served a meal while they waited
to be seen. To Nairo’s astonishment, it was one of her
signature dishes.

“I think you made an impression, Mother,” said Savalia.

“The Percusians certainly don’t look hostile,” observed
Mordicai.
“It’s as I suspected, Mordicai,” said Nairo. “Whoever
attacked Gallifrey must have been some kind of rebel faction.”

“The poem clearly failed, but how on earth have we ended

up here? Has Fasa been manipulating the TARDIS all along?”
said Savalia.
“We’re not in Kasterborous any more, Savalia. Look at the
stars,” replied her mother. “Percusia and the Rock of
Compassion… they’re one and the same.”

“But that means…”

“We’re all related.”

***

The Percusian officials were dressed no differently from the

others in the dome. This was clearly an egalitarian society run

by committee and consensus. They greeted the three
travellers like honoured guests, impressed at their guile and
bravery for crossing the Time Winds. Nairo was something of
a legend to them, even gracing the cover of a recipe book.
They were horrified to learn of Mandre’s actions, fearing that

their secrets could be exposed to a far greater evil than the

Time Lords.
“We will deal with Mandre. You are welcome to leave
through our portal. I would imagine that it is more reliable
than your method for getting here. From there we can arrange

for safe passage back to Gallifrey on the understanding that

you preserve our secret.”
“With every respect, I don’t think you realise the severity of
the situation,” said Savalia. “We came to see if it was viable to
evacuate here.”
“Mandre has sealed our status as the sworn enemy of the

Time Lords. Why would your people want to live side by side
with us?”
“Our friends were trying to stop Hex from destroying your
moon. He doesn’t speak for Gallifrey any more than Mandre
speaks for you.”
 The Percusians deliberated amongst themselves before

finally reaching a decision.

“Even together, we are no match for the creatures Mandre
has allied himself with. Your friends mean well, but this is the
opposite of what we want to achieve. You must return and
destroy the moon. We will offer no resistance. Mandre can
face the consequences of his actions by returning to the ‘tin

pots,’ as you call them, to warn them against attacking

Gallifrey. It might not stop the war, but it could slow it down
and give you time to rebuild your cities and defences.”
“It will be seen as an act of genocide. The President would
never approve. We would be outcasts from our people

forever,” said Savalia.

“Then return to us the way you came and bring your friends
back with you. The Time Lords will never find you. Your
mother can wait for you here.”
“We’ve got to do it, Mordy.”
“They’ll never know what we did to save them. We ought to

at least be remembered as heroes,” Mordicai replied.

“A true hero is one who never wants for praise,” said the
Percusian chief.
 It was one of Savalia’s favourite sayings, and Mordicai could
hardly argue with that.

***

Bez was sharing the good news in the Panopticon while her
soldiers rounded up the weapons from the Omega Arsenal.
She knew that she would be returning to her post in the north
to continue the fight, and part of her was tempted to keep

some of them. But then again, it would be less fun to win so

easily. She preferred the game to be more of a challenge, and
there was always the danger that they would once again fall

into enemy hands.

But to everyone’s surprise, including hers, the roof of the
Panopticon opened up.
“Fall back!” she shouted to the now largely unarmed crowd.
They ran to the edges of the room as the floor opened and
the Obliterator rose up triumphantly.
She contacted Fasa on the holocom.
“What’s going on? I thought Hex was in the catacombs.”
 “He won’t be for much longer,” said Savalia. “There’s been a
change of plan.”
“Savalia! Where the hell have you been, and what are you
doing now you fools?” shouted Bez.

***

Commissioner Mandre saw the rocket rising and immediately

commanded his forces to attack. As the cannons rained down

their lasers, he slinked away in his ship, determined to reach
the portal on the moon and return to Percusia before the
Obliterator struck, hoping that the Time Lords had over
exaggerated the power of their weapon.

***

“Are you sure your tinkering will work, Mordicai? Because if it

doesn’t, the Percusians will be erased from history, and
Gallifrey knows what state the Rock of Compassion will be

without them,” said Fasa after switching channels on the

holocom. “I won’t be party to genocide, no matter how
advantageous.”

***

Mordicai was in the launch area, sitting astride the

Obliterator and making various adjustments to the weapon
with the sonic screwdriver.
He was being watched avidly by a bound Hex.
“Conventional weapons won’t even make a dent on the Time
War. You have to obliterate, forget your pacifist mentor. They
are only Percusians. No great loss in the general scheme of
things.”
“I think that should do it, Fasa. Just powerful enough to
cause maximum spatial disintegration. Set the countdown.”
“You can’t leave me this close to the damn thing. I’ll be

burnt to death in the afterglow. At least move me to a safe

distance.”
Mordicai reluctantly removed the ties on Hex’s legs and
started to drag him to the lift, the safest place in the room.
 “You can stay in the lift, but you’re not leaving the

catacombs.”
“Fair enough,” said Hex.
As Mordicai pushed him forward, Hex leaned over, sending
him flying over his shoulders. With Mordicai disorientated,
Hex managed to burn off the rope ties around his hands
using the sonic screwdriver before running back to the rocket.
“It can’t be that difficult to undo,” he said frantically,
climbing the frame of the missile.
“Stop being a fool,” shouted Mordicai as the room filled with
hot steam. He ducked inside the lift as the missile was fired
into the Gallifreyan night sky with Hex still clinging on.

***

Mandre watched in horror as the missile cut through his unit,

destroying everything in its wake. He flew his ship away from
its path and spotted the burnt-out Time Lord, with his skin
welded to its side. He would never outrun it to the portal. In
an act of desperation he tried to ram into the side of it to
knock it off course, but only succeeded in attaching Hex’s
corpse to his hull.
There was nowhere for him to go as the missile passed him.
Nowhere sensible, in any case. He wasn’t one to grovel, but
what else could he do? He veered the ship onto a new course,
preparing to face the music with his unsympathetic masters.

***

Mandre stepped into the flight deck of the High Command

vessel.
“I’m afraid the news isn’t great. The Time Lords have
weapons more powerful than you could ever know. They
destroyed Percusia with a single strike. I recommend
withdrawing and cancelling our arrangement until a more
opportune time.”
It was as if he had spoken blasphemy. The tin pots recoiled
and fluttered around, agitated.
He knew exactly what was coming next.
He was about to close his eyes and take the fatal hit, when a

new idea struck him.

 “But, I do have another suggestion. They are not as united
as yourselves, a weakness to be exploited. Some follow the
president, others follow renegades like ‘he who shall not be
named’. But there’s one group of fanatics who are trying to
resurrect a figure from the past. If they succeed, I think the

planet might very well be yours for the taking. Let me go and
infiltrate them. I can pose as one of them and help to bring
Rassilon back from the dead. It will bring a civil war far
deadlier than that between the pacifists and the military or
the wastelanders and the Citidwellers.”
His masters conferred with their usual ear-splitting shrieks,
before authorising him to continue.

***

With a look of disgust, Mandre scrapped Hex’s remains from

the side of his ship, ripped off the burnt clothes and changed
into them.
Given that Time Lords could regenerate, he could make a
very convincing case for being Hex’s latest body. The Cult of
Rassilon would surely welcome a convert of such stature.
 
EPILOGUE: The Chronosmiths

Gallifrey still stands to this day.

She may have forever lost four people who were critical to its
survival, and she may well have undergone more revisionist

history, but at least the Time War did not end at its
beginning.
Mordicai, Savalia, Kendo and Tor Fasa had ensured that the
conflict would rumble on for at least another hundred years.

Countless more lives would be lost in the process. Other

civilisations would fall in the crossfire, but the continuing
conflict meant that, however misguided, the hope of a

peaceful resolution lived on.

The four friends set about rebuilding their lives on Percusia,

without forgetting the world they had left behind.

They planted a memorial garden for their fallen friends, for

Haiso and Beylon, and it was here that Nairo was laid to rest.
She survived six months after the move to Percusia, and they

were the richest, happiest days of her life.

 Mordicai maintained his TARDIS, keeping it ready in case he

was ever called into action again, but for now it was the new

secret meeting place for him and Savalia – even though they
had no such need to hide away here.

Savalia still thought about her battalion. She felt guilty that

she could no longer be fighting with them on the frontline.

Percusia was boring, to be honest. Beautifully so. Her passion

was ploughed back into her creative arts, with a little bit left

over for Mordicai. But the soldier that had grown up inside
her would never completely go away. Losing Mother was a

relief, but the loss brought on the onset of depression and

some disturbingly dark creations. Mordicai hoped that the

phase would soon pass, but never dared to challenge her.

Kendo was more secure in herself away from the

judgemental eyes and expectations of the Time Lords. Here

she could still exercise leadership, but in a manner that

brought the protection of the democratic process should any

of her less orthodox suggestions backfire. The Percusians

were hot on taking group responsibility.

Fasa struggled the most out of the four. His powers needed

to be contained, easier said than done when the slightest

thing might set them off. He could not stop thinking about his

failed plan to change the face of Gallifrey for the better. A day

rarely passed by without him trying to persuade the

Percusians to think again about their decision to withdraw

entirely from his universe. It seemed to him that this world

could become an effective model for Gallifrey. The fact that it

worked was reassuring, but he did wonder whether the

advances in technology that Mordicai was encouraging might

eventually lead them down the same path.

He did not expect his final incarnation to last long with the

strains of the superpowers, and so his priority was to

complete the Altrix as promised, ready to hand it over to

Mordicai. It wasn’t possible to dump the Shadow Matrix in its

entirety. He had to instead take regular mind journeys

through its imprinted records, reliving in the process some of

the most heinous actions of his people.

But the first story to upload was of the soldier who let him

live.
ALTRIX fact number 6721. The Time Travelling Wastelander.

102 years in the future, Gallifrey’s sole surviving soldier had

travelled 1002 years in the past after he had cut through the
weeds in the Forest of Wounds to enter the fixed point

hospital. Meeting a younger version of Tor Fasa was either

incredibly fortuitous or cruelly ironic, and it had completely

thrown Caelion with the new possibilities it presented. He had

come face to face with the man he held culpable for Gallifrey’s

fall, the traitor who had sold his people out to the Percusians
and their Dalek masters. From Fasa’s perspective, of course,

none of this had happened yet. He was still in his first

incarnation, idealistic and full of naïve optimism. Caelion now

had the opportunity to change history, either by killing Fasa

or by persuading him to travel with him through the portal to
the Rock of Compassion.

But doing so would create an alternative universe. It

wouldn’t cancel out the one he had lived through or undo a

single thing. How could he be sure that another universe

might be any different? Even if it was a better general
outcome, he would be responsible for allowing others to be

born, to suffer and to die. Perhaps in this Gallifrey his friend

Savalia’s mother would never have become ill, but then again

Savalia might have ended up being one of the deserting Time

Lords instead of a hero of war. His finite mind couldn’t
possibly contemplate the full ramifications of being
responsible for creating a new timeline. It would be of no less

a burden to him than the one he currently carried. He would

be better off accepting this meeting as a this-universe
experience, and trusting that 50 years ago it had made a

positive difference. He couldn’t stop the war or Fasa’s

betrayal, but he could imprint a memory that might one day

help to bring the man to his senses. Perhaps there was still a
chance that he wasn’t the last survivor, after all. The weeds

hadn’t been disturbed, he could tell that much even in their

regenerative state, but in any case there had to be quicker
ways to get to the Rock of Compassion than a 102 year

journey through Gallifrey’s time disturbed terrain.

And so, as he gave his farewells, he looked into the young

Fasa’s eyes and simply said. “Don’t let me be the only one.
There has to be another way.”

***

The first thing that struck Caelion about the Refugee moon
was that whoever had set it up had left it completely
unattended. It was entirely down to the new inhabitants to
take control both of societal life and personal health. About a

mile away from the Portal, a domed city offered hope on the
horizon. A winding pathway led to the dome. The route was

laden with a number of signposts, all providing information

for the new residents, from how to operate the doors to which
indigenous species were safe to eat. Upon arrival, each

resident was to report to the AI Assigner to be scanned. There

they would be given a role, a property and some basic

supplies, but after that their destiny was in their own hands.
Caelion looked at the stars for clues as to the location of the
moon. At first he couldn’t place a single constellation, but

then he realised that one particular patterns of stars was

strikingly familiar in its difference. It was Shadowborous,

looking most out of place. The stars had been mirrored, their
relative luminosity completely off and the gaps between them

stretched. The cluttered, debris-filled system was no longer

overshadowed by Kasterborous – its neighbouring
constellation was missing without trace.

The whole place had a surreal quality to it, and this

realisation only increased Caelion’s feeling of being out of
time. Other victims of the Death Zone were forming a steady
stream to the city, mostly though not exclusively humanoid.

He decided to wander off the path. For the last few years he’d
been used to being alone, and even if one day he grew to like

some of his fellow refugees, he felt he had nothing in common

with them. For they were the losers in a game, whereas he
was a survivor of war. He wasn’t in the mood for forming new
relationships just yet.

Gallifrey had become a dead planet, save for the remarkable

regenerating Forest of Wounds. The Rock, despite its

uninspiring name, was lush and fertile. The air was clean,
and the sound of birds singing and leaves rustling brought

tears to his eyes. The others would not feel this overwhelming

sense of awe, for their worlds would have been much the
same as this.

Caelion worried that his parting words to Tor Fasa hadn’t

been memorable enough, or that by the time he reached his

penultimate regeneration there was nothing left of the

idealistic young man. Even if he had got through to him, how

would Fasa be able to find an alternative means of reaching

the Rock? Remembering that this wasn’t an afterlife, but a

world set many years before his own, a new thought struck

him. Perhaps even here there was still something he could do

to affect the outcome of his war. Could he stop the Rock of

Compassion from becoming nothing but a myth? Somebody

from his time had to know the truth if there was to be another

migration. He’d be long gone by then, of course, but perhaps

his friends would one day find this place, with or without Tor

Fasa’s help. If the Rock was to be discovered and reached by

conventional means, the Time Lords would need to know how

to find it. He would plant a message, hope it breaks through

to the other dimension and then live out the rest of his life

doing his utmost to ensure that this would still be a world

worth living on when Gallifrey falls.

***

Years on and despite its promising start, the Rock of

Compassion was becoming a curse. There simply were not

enough resources to sustain advanced life. Caelion had joined

a team of researchers looking for methods to travel back

through the portal. Aided by a renegade, unnamed Time Lord,

who tipped them off about the essence of the Death Zone
portal being the trapped energy of a Time Wind, they found a

way of artificially recreating the same conditions. He

volunteered to be the first trialist for the program, planning

from the outset to warn Gallifrey of its impending doom albeit

several centuries later. He would never return, and died an

old man locked up in an institution. Even his final clue, his

prolific and unique poetry, was laughed off. He failed to sell a

single poem in his lifetime.

In the final stages of his death, the renegade Time Lord

made a claim on his body, and transported him for burial on

the uninhabited moon of Garishia. Out of the remains of his

life-force and the destroyed spacecraft the Time Lord built a

second portal to Percusia, ensuring that this one would work

in both directions. It was their gateway to survival: not only

could the moon itself be mined, but so too could the entire

constellation of Kasterborous. Centuries later the moon had

been mistaken for Percusia itself, a myth they were happy to

allow since it kept the Time Lords away. Over time the people

forgot their roots in the games, but their hostility towards the

Time Lords never diminished. The myth of the beast,

originally a symbol, was literalised. Commissioner Mandre

was placed in sole charge of the small group of Percusians

living as a colony on the moon, and until he had read the

information on the data disc that had been found buried near

the cave entrance, he was none the wiser.

***

“You got it all down, then, old man,” said Mordicai.

“God help us if he decides to write us into his Altrix,”

laughed Kendo. “We’d be here all night.”

“It’s no exaggeration to say that we owe our lives to that

soldier. We had it easy by comparison. One hundred years

walking through the war to get to the Death Zone, watching

everyone else fall around him. That’s quite a story, and one

that only he would have been able to tell.”

“We really didn’t get on at first,” said Savalia. “I thought he

wanted to get inside my pants. He certainly didn’t approve of

you, Mordy. He’s what you might call the forgotten hero.”

“Well, he may have come up with the poetry idea, but I was
the expert at applying it in the end.”
 “Yes. Yes, you were. Not so bad after all. Anyway, that
reminds me, it’s your turn, I believe. Verse 72.”

“I’m going to run out of stone at this rate,” laughed Mordicai

as the pair made their way to the TARDIS.

“How are you feeling?” Kendo asked Fasa. “Must be tough

being stuck in one dimension when you can flit between

several. Come to think of it, couldn’t you just travel to

Gallifrey without a TARDIS?”

“A flying visit?” laughed Fasa. “I think I probably could, but

somehow I don’t think I’d like what I found. Some things we

are better off not knowing.”

“I suppose this means that, regenerations aside, I’m no

longer a Time Lord.”

“I stopped calling myself that a long time ago, Kendo. We’re

far better than that now,” said Fasa, patting his PDA. “All this
knowledge in here, and up here. It makes a difference.”

“But we’re stuck out here, wasting time. You might as well

call us all wastelanders now.”

“Don’t ever let your cousin hear you speak so dismissively.

We’re not wasting time. We are reclaiming it. Making right the

wrongs of histories mistold. Take Caelion, for instance. His

legacy is here with us and it’s our duty to make sure it is

never buried again. If you have to give us a name, call us the

Chronosmiths.”
“And the Percusians? Shouldn’t we start by telling them

what they really are?”

Fasa smiled. Finally she was getting it.

“Our war has only just begun, Kendo. The truth is going to

hurt and there will be other Mandre types among them. That

TARDIS of Mordicai’s might well be called into action again.”

“Have you not seen what he’s done to it? It’s nothing like a
TARDIS anymore.”

“It’s been reclaimed,” said Fasa. “Time Lords don’t own the

copyright on Time Travel. It was borrowed science in the first

place.”

***

The roof of the console room had opened into a panoramic

view of the stars.

Mordicai and Savalia lay beside each other, as if they were

back in the open-air theatre near Dotheia.
 “Do you miss the place?” said Mordicai, looking at the mass
of white haze, the trail of the time wind that was where the

constellation of Kasterborous should have been.

“I miss my Mum,” Savalia replied, clutching and sniffing a

patch of fabric from the back of her wheelchair.

“At least her pain is over now. I never did understand why

she did it in the first place. She never struck me as the type to

be vain.”
“I can’t be certain about this, but I kind of think it was

because of me.”

“How so?”
“Getting pregnant, wanting to become the perfect mother.”

“You never did tell me what happened to your father…”

“He left. That tells you all you need to know.”

“Well, I won’t. Not ever.”

“You got your way, Mordicai. Here we are on our own

adventure beyond the stars.”

“We’ll find our way home one day. Until then…”
Savalia wasn’t at all sure she wanted to.

It was peaceful here, and she was learning to be a poet

again.
 Out here was hope.
Opportunity.

Newness of life.
Out here, nothing blocked the stars.

THE END
 Savalia, Mordicai, Kendo and Tor Fasa will return in THE

CHRONOSMITH CHRONICLES

Coming Soon from ALTRIX Books

www.altrixbooks.com

 
ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Paul Driscoll is an author, editor and publisher based in

Greater Manchester. He contributed two short stories to the

original Seasons of War anthology (The Time Lord Who Came

to Tea and Storage Wars) and has written of his love for Doctor

Who and other Cult TV shows in various publications,

including the acclaimed You and Who series (Miwk
Publishing, Watching Books, Who Dares Publishing), and
Black Archive #9 on Toby Whithouse’s The God Complex

(Obverse Books 2017).

Kara Dennison is a writer, editor, and public speaker based

in Virginia. By day, she is a news and features writer for geek

and genre sites including Crunchyroll, VRV, Viewster,

Sartorial Geek by Jordandené, and We Are Cult. Her

published works include Black Archive #21 - Heaven Sent,

multiple contributions to the City of the Saved series, and the

light novel series Owl's Flower, which she co-created with

Ginger Hoesly. More of her work can be seen at

karadennison.com.