08 - Option Lock

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DOCTOR WHO
Option Lock
An Eighth Doctor Ebook
By Justin Richards
Contents
Dark Ripples
Chapter 1 . . . . . . . . . . . Towards Oblivion
Chapter 2 . . . . .Melodrama in the Night
Chapter 3 . . . . . . . . . . .Sudden Darkness
Chapter 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . Quiet Whispers
Chapter 5 . . . . . . Approaching Darkness
Chapter 6 . . . . . . . . . . . Right to the Edge
Chapter 7 . . . . . . . The End of the World
Chapter 8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Blazing Fire
Chapter 9 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Planetfall
Chapter 10 . . . . . .Information Received
Chapter 11 . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Back to Work
Chapter 12 . . . . . . . . . . . .Not with a Bang
Chapter 13 . . . . . . . Releasing the Codes
Chapter 14 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Becoming
Dark Waters
For Alison, Julian, and the Other One - with love
Dark Ripples
The Khameirian cruiser was already beyond its tolerances when the Yogloth Slayer brought it down. They
had been playing cat and mouse across half the galaxy, twisting, turning, running. And the cruiser was the
mouse. Rounding Rigellis III, it ran out of space, time, and luck.
The self-targeting torpedo must have torn through the drive section of the cruiser like a wolf through a rabbit.
Life support would have escaped the worst of it, but the main computer and navigation systems were taken
out along with communications. Perhaps some of them died in the blast, it hardly matters. The Stone knew
them.
The systems limped on for a while, unwilling or unable to give up the fight. Some residual energy in the drive
systems, maybe. But the end was inevitable. It is said that the Khameirian will to survive is unparalleled. But
they had to make planetfall to have any hope at all. And there are no planets to be fallen to in the Rigellis
systems. They burned across the cosmos, leaving legends and prophecies in their wake. The Slayer
probably broke off after the initial hit. They're great ones for economy of effort, the Yogloths. I have seen one
of their assassins turn and leave the seedy bar where he had cornered his target before the bolt was halfway
down the guidance beam. Lucky for me.
***
They had met before. Many times. Though tonight, their leader told them, tonight would be different. But then
he always told them that. And they always believed him. But this time he was right. He may have visited
each in turn, the lamplight flickering across his face as their wives, their daughters, their consciences, looked
away sharply in embarrassment. Or perhaps he told only the first of his followers, and the message was
whispered to the others in hushed, reverent, believing tones.
Imagine the cloaked figures making their way through the dying thunderstorm. See them silhouetted against
the full moon, glimpsed in the moments when the dark clouds were driven from its glow by the same winds as
whipped their hoods around their faces. Dark figures approaching the dark ruins atop the windswept hill. The
fallen stonework as stark and black in the night as their unspoken purpose. And all the while, one star in the
cloud-hidden heavens was flashing ever closer to their destiny.
Who knows what those men thought as they stood in the dark? See them, cloaked and hooded like extras in
a third-rate opera. Imagine with me that you see them as they stand in their circle, toes to the chalk. See the
candlelight guttering on their faces and hear the wind howling through the ruined stone. But they don't hear it,
lost as they are in their stentorian chant. Arms raised to heaven, voices raised to hell.
And for what? An impossible dream, a mystery, a myth. A hope almost against hope that the new science
and the old magic can combine, meld, merge into something wonderful. But tonight the impossible fantasy of
the alchemists will become an impossible reality. The dream takes form, becomes a nightmare. Here, in this
ruined chapel on this windswept hill beneath this stormy sky.
Imagine their leader standing beneath the ravaged roof of the chapel, transfixed by a sudden shaft of
moonlight. Then the light grows, as if in answer to the chant. A vast fireball blurs across the horizon and
screams its way down towards them. They must have thought that all hell was breaking loose at their
command. I think they still believed that to the days they died. And perhaps they were right. Who knows
what power, what will-power, the Khameirian preservation systems responded to, what faint final option they
locked on to across the darkness of space? Six lonely men brought together by their crazy aspirations and
lazy philosophy. And after that night, that visitation, living out their lives curled around the loneliness of their
nightmares, the blackness of the thoughts that were no longer their own.
After the doom-crack of the cruiser furrowing its way across the field outside and cratering the landscape,
they stand still. Awed. Believing and not believing that all is as they intended, expected, and hoped. Then the
ship wrenches its last few inches of life into the side of the shattered chapel, sends masonry and stonework
crashing through the heavy air. They duck and scurry, searching out shelter in the darkness, thinking their
lives are in their own hands. The candles dip and waver before flaring in the sudden stillness. And as dawn
edges uneasily across the edge of their world, the rotten wood of the door cracks open like an egg.
Imagine you see through their eyes, through their fear, as the creature lurches into the gloom. It probably
paused on the threshold, eyes glinting as it struggled to make out the forms of things unknown. Then as their
imaginations bodied forth, it may have stumbled down the steps to the end of its life. The stuttering light lost
itself in the leathery folds of its wings, in the darkness of its skin. But the face - the pinched, wrinkled
features and the short, curled horns - probably made the most impression on the already impressionable men
gathered that night.
It's incredible that it managed to get out of the ship, let alone seek out salvation in the dark. But now at last it
can give up the ghost, letting it slip from the leathery claw that gripped so tight. It rolls across the cracked,
uneven stonework of the floor. The only sound is the rattle of it like a marble as it leaves the creature's hand
and curls its way to the leader of the ceremony. A gift to him from the gods. Or devils.
He lifts it up, allows the first hints of light to merge with the reflected candle flames on its surface. Perhaps he
can already see the pale inner glow, but if not he imagines it. And then he turns to his comrades and they
make the pact. Their first non-decision.
After that, they laugh nervously. They agree to meet again, to share their thoughts and track their progress
against an unspoken agenda. Every night they watch the darkening skies, and every day their thoughts, their
wills, their selves ebb a little further from the shore. And all the time the light inside the Philosopher's Stone
glows slightly stronger as the point of focus sharpens just a little more. Glowing towards fruition; towards life;
towards oblivion.
Chapter 1
Towards Oblivion
The air was heavy with latent thunder. A storm had been gathering for a long while, yet it refused to break.
The humidity was so intense you could taste it, and the clouds hung heavy and low in the autumn sky.
Captain William Pickering looked out of the dusty window towards the remains of the old manor house on the
hill. If he glimpsed a flash among the ruins, then perhaps it was lightning; if he heard a low rumble disturb the
afternoon, then it must be thunder. But through the bottle glass of the small panes it was difficult to be sure of
things.
***
Quite what it was, Henry Tanner could not tell. He heard the grating, metallic crescendo of sound as he
pushed his wheelbarrow along the cinder path. He caught a glimpse of what might have been a flashlight
shone from behind the remains of a wall. He paused, waiting to see if the light came again, pushing a tangle
of stray grey hair up from his weathered forehead.
But before it did, his mind cracked open and he sank to his knees in sudden unexpected agony.
***
Tne pain seared through Colonel Roskov's brain like a branding iron. One moment he was standing by the
relief map on his office wall pointing out the new defensive positions to Lieutenant Ivigan, the next he was on
his knees doubled up in agony. A tortured rip down the centre of Krejikistan marked the path of his fall. Then
suddenly the pain was gone. There was just a realisation, an understanding in its place. Ivigan grabbed
Roskov's elbow, reacting too late to prevent his fall.
'Are you all right?'
Roskov looked up surprised. For a second there had been nothing in his mind but purpose, mission. Destiny.
No context.
Ivigan helped Roskov back to his feet. 'Are you all right, sir?' he said again.
***
Pete Kellerman picked himself up, clutching at the lectern for support. 'Yes.' But he wasn't at all sure. 'Yes,
I'm fine. Thank you.' He took a sip of water, amazed at how steady his hand was, at how clear his thoughts
were, at the enormity of what he had to do. 'Let's call it a day, shall we?' he said to his students, his voice
husky with anticipation of the next phase. 'Tomorrow we'll talk about the importance of deploying a coherent
strategy across the world.'
***
Right round the world, time slipped out of phase for a handful of people. Their minds burned with sudden
brilliant purpose, reeled under the realisation of who and what they were. And at Abbots Siolfor, Norton Silver
stood beside William Pickering, looking out over his estate through distorting glass. 'There's going to be a
storm,' he said quietly.
***
The flames of the everlasting candles guttered and shook as if caught in a storm. Shadows darkened and
shifted, the spotlit swirl of the Prydonian Seal seemed to fade in and out of existence as the light flickered.
Blackness stabbed through the chamber, darkening the cobwebbed bookshelves and accumulated
bric-a-brac. Inverse lightning in a space that did not exist, a time that never happened. A concerto of
chiaroscuro. The howl of the impossible wind mixed with the slurring strains of Bach as an antiquated vinyl
record ground to a halt on its turntable. An old street lamp regained its composure and luminance, lights
glowed back into existence on the various panels of the central control console. Above the console a
deceptively ancient television monitor went through a retuning cycle of snowstorm patterns and static
crackles before settling on a single line of white text against a black background.
The wind dropped, the noise died, the light returned. Samantha Jones pushed her blonde hair back out of her
face. It was something of a novelty to have hair long enough to get blown there in the first place. She was not
sure it was worth the hassle, but she was getting to like the way it framed her face and hid her ears. The last
few weeks had been relatively relaxed. Since they had left Kursaal, the Doctor had taken them to a couple of
sunny paradise resorts, on a tour of the monuments of Marsuum, and (accidentally, he claimed) mountain
climbing in the Vasterial Wastes of Julana. During this time, Sam had tried to grow her hair (successfully)
and quit biting her nails (less so).
And now this. She noted with amusement that the Doctor seemed to have had no problem with his own long
hair. He was slumped in an armchair, feet up, reading. The drawing room incongruously joined the console
area of the TARDIS.
'So what gives?' she asked him.'Windswept in the TARDIS -not an everyday fashion hazard, I would guess.'
'I guess not.' The Doctor tossed aside his copy of The Strange Case ofDrJekyll and Mr Hyde and swung his
feet off the footstool. His eyes were intensely alive as he strode across to the console. 'Why does this always
happen when I'm reading?'
'I think the TARDIS gets bored when you're reading,' Sam told him. 'You know, perhaps she likes to be a bit
more involved in what's going on. Maybe chat a little. Social pleasantries. Stuff.' She shrugged and wandered
over to join him by the screen.
CRITICAL ARTRON ENERGY DRAIN
The words flashed across the monitor. 'What does that mean?'
The Doctor took a deep breath.'Who knows?' Then as they watched the message changed:
COMPENSATING FOR POWER LOSS
'Well, there you are.' The Doctor smiled brightly and made his way back to his armchair. 'Nothing at all to
worry about.' He scooped up his book and was immediately engrossed.
Sam was not so sure. There was a sudden calm after the storm that she found unsettling. She looked round,
and it occurred to her why it seemed so still. 'The rotor's stopped,' she said. 'We've landed.'
The Doctor turned a page. 'The power drain pulled us out of the vortex,' he said without looking up.'Or it's
something local that happened as we materialised. Doesn't matter. The power's building nicely again now as
the Eye of Harmony absorbs background energy from the world outside.' The book lowered slightly and the
Doctor's eyebrows became visible above it.'We'll be stuck here for a bit till everything's charged up again, but
that's hardly an inconvenience.' Another page turned. 'We've plenty to read.'
Sam watched him for a few moments. He seemed prepared to sit for eternity with his nose in a book. She
grimaced, hands on hips.'So where are we, then?'
'Earth.'
'Earth?'
The Doctor lowered his book with the slow movement of forced patience. 'Earth. 1998. Or thereabouts.' He
raised the book again.
'So why don't we go outside and see what's going on?'
No answer. Sam went over to the Doctor and knelt in front of his armchair. She reached out and pulled the
book down from his face. His eyes were already focused on her own as she said again.'So why don't we go
outside and see what's going on?'
For a split second his eyes were hard, his face set. Then he grinned suddenly and broadly. 'Why not?' he
said. 'I think it's going to be a lovely day.'
***
It was a lovely day. A few clouds wandered lazily cross a deep-blue sky and the trees shimmered in the
autumn heat and the light breeze. Henry Tanner stared up, aware of the slight damp of the grass beneath his
head. Calm. Peaceful. At ease.
So what was he doing lying on the ground?
Tanner struggled to his feet, his elderly joints protesting and his knees cracking as he put weight on them.
He blinked several times. A blackout of some sort? He had never had one before. He looked round, hoping for
some clue in the landscape - a rock he might have tripped on, a slippery patch of mud. There was neither.
Just a toppled wheelbarrow beside the track, the stark ruins of the old manor house on the brow of the hill,
and two people hurrying down the slope towards him. As he watched, they passed the fallen remains of a
statue, the taller figure pausing for a moment to inspect the grotesque features. Then he was off again,
hurrying down the slope after his companion.
Two people. He frowned. Tanner knew he was the only person working in the garden today. It was a
Saturday, and the rest of the staff took the weekend off. But the grounds were Tanner's life. He accepted only
grudgingly that he needed any help at all, and the weekends were precious short days of peace. Time to plan
and to refine. Time to take stock, to enjoy.
'Are you all right?'
The two figures had almost reached Tanner now. The young woman with blonde hair was slightly out of
breath, but the older man was not even breathing heavily. He looked to be in his thirties, though his eyes
seemed somehow older, deeper. Despite the warmth of the autumn afternoon, the man was wearing a long,
heavy coat over a formal shirt and paisley waistcoat. A grey-green cravat added to the formality. Yet the
off-centre tiepin, the ragged velvet cuffs of the dark coat, and the wildness of his long hair suggested a lack of
interest in his appearance.
'You looked as if you'd fallen,' the man said. His voice was soft but had a powerful edge to it. An
indeterminable trace of accent. Northern perhaps. Not local, anyhow. He reached out and dusted a blade of
grass from Tanner's shoulder. 'Are you all right?' he repeated.
Tanner nodded.'I'm fine,' he said, rolling his shoulder where the stranger had touched it.
The man smiled.'Good.'
Tanner glared at them, trying to hide his embarrassment, and made towards the wheelbarrow.
The girl got there first. 'Let me,' she said, as she uprighted the barrow. Her voice was friendly, with a hint of
the town in it.
'I can manage.' Tanner pushed the wheelbarrow slightly off the track, and turned back to the strangers.'Now
who are you? What are you doing here?'
The man considered, hands clasped in front of him. 'Well...'
'This is private property, you know,' Tanner prompted.
'We know,' the girl said. 'Don't we?' Her companion did not answer.'Don't we?'
'Yes, yes, yes. Of course we do. Absolutely.' He looked round. 'Private property. Indeed. And very nicely kept
too.' He leaned forward with a grin.'You do it all yourself?'
Tanner found himself answering without even thinking. 'The important things, most of them anyway. Of course
I need more help these days than when I was younger. I used to help my dad when he was head
groundsman, and just the two of us could cope for the most part. But with the new machinery to help. And Mr
Silver is more particular about appearances than his father was. Quite rightly so, too, in my opinion. Not that
we were ever lax, you understand. Never.'
The man nodded in complete understanding and agreement.'And the ruins would be, what, fourteenth century
perhaps? Thirteenth at a pinch?'
Tanner frowned. Suddenly he seemed to have accepted these two strangers, although he wasn't sure how or
why. 'That what you're here for, is it? The ruins?'
'Might be,' the girl said.
Tanner nodded thoughtfully. That would explain things. 'You'd best see Mr Silver if you're wanting to research
them,' he said. 'Mr Silver does a lot of researching of these things himself. Very interesting it is to him.'
'I'm sure.'
'Experts, are you? Historians?'
The man grabbed Tanner's hand and shook it with ruthless enthusiasm. 'I'm the Doctor,' he said as if this
explained everything. 'And this is my research assistant, Miss Jones.'
'Sam,' the girl added, taking her turn shaking Tanner's hand.
Tanner fumbled in his pocket and pulled out his mobile phone. He stared at it for a moment. He rarely used it,
and nearly always to answer calls from his gardeners, usually asking dumb-fool questions they should know
the answers to.
The Doctor gently took it from him, turned it over, and flipped open the cover. Then he handed it back.
'Mr Silver expecting you, is he?'
'He will be.'
The girl - Sam - smiled, tossing her head so that her hair swung away from her face. 'We're here to make an
appointment, actually.'
Behind them the ruins of the old manor house stood, dark and impassive, against the deep sky.
***
Norton Silver stood straight and still on the driveway as he waited for them to join him. As they approached,
Sam could see that he was a big man, broad and tall. He looked as though he was in his fifties, with
steel-grey hair and the first few lines of age on his tanned face. He wore a suit that was slightly darker than
his hair, and he looked like a businessman. Behind him was the modern house, as Tanner had described it,
although even to Sam's untrained eye it looked ancient.
'The ruins are definitely thirteenth century in origin,' the Doctor said quietly as they crunched up the driveway.
'This house appears to be part sixteenth century and part later, right up to that Victorian wing.' He leaned
round Sam to point, his other hand on her shoulder, warm and reassuring.
As they came within earshot, Silver called out to them. His voice was powerful and deep. A voice used to
speaking with authority. Used to getting its own way. 'My ancestors had trespassers shot.'
The Doctor and Sam exchanged worried glances.
But then Silver smiled, and strode towards them. 'Thankfully we live in more enlightened times. You must be
Miss Jones,' he said to Sam. Then he turned to the Doctor. 'I'm afraid Tanner was rather vague about your
name, as he was about your business here.'
'Oh let's not be formal.' The Doctor was grinning, his head bobbing from side to side in jovial amusement.
'This is Sam, and I'm the Doctor.' He took Silver by the arm, swung him round and led him back towards his
house. 'We're absolutely fascinated by the history of this place. Old house, big terraced gardens. Ruins.
Fascinating.' He stopped suddenly so that Silver was forced to turn round again. 'You weren't expecting us?'
Silver frowned.'Perhaps,' he said slowly.
'We wrote. Well, I think we wrote. You wrote, didn't you, Sam?'
'Yes,' Sam answered, just too quickly. 'Definitely,' she added with a half-smile.
The Doctor smiled. 'There. You see.'
Silver laughed.'Oh, that doesn't mean anything. Post's awful round here. Probably arrive next week. E-mail,
that's the thing. When it works, of course.' He called back to Tanner, who was lagging behind like a forgotten
puppy. 'Thank you, Tanner.'
Tanner nodded to Silver, acknowledging his dismissal.
Silver watched Tanner turn and start back towards the hill. 'He's nearer God's heart in a garden than anywhere
else on earth.'
'Kipling,' Sam said knowingly. Silver raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
'You're too kind,' the Doctor told him, and turned to Sam.'It's Mrs Dorothy Frances Gurney.'
'You know everything,' Sam said.
'Eighteen fifty-eight to nineteen thirty-two. She had the most wonderful begonias, you know.'
Silver shook his head and continued along the drive. Actually, I think she's right, Doctor.'
'That it's Kipling?
'That you know everything.'
The main entrance to the house was through a large panelled and studded oak door set within a tall
archway. Above it a rectangular window was split by stone mullions into tall narrow panes. Above that, the
stonework was crenellated into battlements.
'Welcome to Abbots Siolfor.'
'Very impressive,' the Doctor admitted. 'Early sixteenth century, for the most part, I think. Though the
battlements look more recent.'
'Definitely,' Sam agreed.
Silver opened the door and waved them through. 'You're right, of course. The window was added later, in
about 1620. The battlements are early Victorian.'
'There is one thing I don't know,' the Doctor admitted, pausing on the threshold. He pointed up at a carving in
the arch above the doorway. It was a figure, short and squat. Despite the weathering, Sam could see that
webbed wings sprouted from its shoulders, and short horns from its forehead. It's hand - more like a curled
claw - was held out, as if in offering. The face was a grotesque gargoyle. 'These carvings are all over the old
ruins too. I even noticed a fallen statue that might once have been in the same form.'
'It's a recurring motif,' Silver agreed. 'It seems to have been widely used in the original manor house, then
picked up and copied here. Nobody is quite sure of its significance.' He leaned closer to the Doctor suddenly,
as if struck by a thought. 'Unless you can enlighten us.'
摘要：

DOCTORWHOOptionLockAnEighthDoctorEbookByJustinRichardsContentsDarkRipplesChapter1...........TowardsOblivionChapter2.....MelodramaintheNightChapter3...........SuddenDarknessChapter4.............QuietWhispersChapter5......ApproachingDarknessChapter6...........RighttotheEdgeChapter7.......TheEndoftheWo...

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