019 - Doctor Who and the Deadly Assassin

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Doctor Who and the Deadly Assassin

Terrance Dicks

ISBN 0 426 11965 7

The Doctor is suddenly summoned to Gallifrey, the home of the Time Lords, where his

ghastly hallucination of the President's assassination seems to turn into reality. When the

Doctor is arrested for the murder, there is a hideous, dark, cowled figure gleefully watching

in the shadows.

Faced with his old enemy, the Master, Doctor Who approaches defeat in a battle of minds

in a nightmare world created by the Master's imagination. But the Master's evil intentions

go much further—he has a Doomsday Plan. It is up to the Doctor to prevent him from

destroying Gallifrey and taking over the Universe!

DOCTOR WHO scripts - awarded The Writers' Guild Award for the best British children's

original drama script.

CONTENTS

1 Vision of Death

2 The Secret Enemy

3 Death of a Time Lord

4 Trapped

5 The Horror in the Gallery

6 Into the Matrix

7 Death by Terror

8 Duel to the Death

9 The End of the Evil

10 The Doomsday Plan

11 The Final Battle

12 The End-and a Beginning

1 Vision of Death

The telescopic-sight moved slowly across the crowded hall. The glowing dot of light

in the middle of the view-finder paused, hovered, centred on an ornately-robed figure in the

middle of the central platform. A finger tightened steadily on the trigger... There was the

fierce crackle of a staser-bolt... The President jerked and crumpled to the floor...

'No,' shouted the Doctor. 'No!' He stood in the centre of the TARDIS control-room,

hands gripping the edge of the control console. So vivid had been the sudden hallucination

that it took him a moment to realise where he really was. The Doctor shook his head

dazedly, running long fingers through a tangle of curly hair. 'First the summons to the

Panopticon,' he muttered. And now this... What's happening to me?'

It had all started at the end of yet another adventure with Sarah Jane Smith, his

young companion. They were safely back in the TARDIS, about to return to Earth, when

the Doctor heard a deep, booming gong-note echoing through his mind. It was a call no

Time Lord could ever ignore—the summons to the Panopticon. Returning the TARDIS to

Earth, the Doctor said a hurried farewell to Sarah, almost bundling her from the control

room. He realised she was more than a little hurt that their long friendship was being

broken off so abruptly. But the Time Lord summons took precedence over everything else.

Once Sarah had been returned to Earth again the Doctor put the TARDIS on

course for his home planet. Now, with Gallifrey very close, this sudden vision of

assassination flashed into his mind .

As he re-checked the instruments the Doctor's mind drifted back over the past. He

remembered his youth on Gallifrey, the long years of training to fit him for the place on the

High Council that seemed his unavoidable destiny. He remembered the steadily growing

build-up of anger and frustration in his own mind at the never-ending ceremonials and

elaborately costumed rituals, the endless accumulation of second-hand knowledge that

would never be used. A final crisis had provoked rebellion. He had 'borrowed' the TARDIS

and fled through Time and Space, determined to see the Universe for himself. After many

adventures there had come capture, exile to Earth, and at last freedom again—his reward

for dealing with the terrible Omega crisis. Now he was on his way back to Gallifrey, a

planet to which he had once sworn never to return. Returning because, after all the long

years of rebellion, at heart he was still a Time Lord!

The Doctor smiled wryly at the contradictions in his own nature—and suddenly he

was in the Panopticon again, forcing his way through the packed crowd, thrusting aside the

robed figures that obstructed his path. A fleeting glimpse of astonished, shouting faces,

and he broke away from the clutch of restraining hands...

Now he was high up in one of the encircling galleries, the President's robed figure

tiny on the platform below. Powerlessly he felt his own finger tightening on the trigger.

There was the crackle of a staser-blast... The President fell...

... and so did the Doctor, rolling over as he hit the floor of the TARDIS. He struggled

to his feet, and went to the console. The centre column had stopped moving. He was back

on Gallifrey.

The approach of the TARDIS had been registered on one of the most advanced

security scanning systems in the Galaxy. Now a metallic voice was echoing through the

areas of tunnels and walkways known as the Cloisters, which connected the towers of the

Capitol. 'Sector Seven alert. Unauthorised capsule entry imminent. Chancellery Guard

stand to in Sector Seven.'

It reflects great credit on the Guard that they responded promptly and efficiently to

this call. There were very few emergencies on Gallifrey, least of all within the Capitol, that

impressive complex of Government buildings from which the Time Lord planet was

administered. Usually the Guard's only function was to add colour and dignity to

ceremonial occasions. Nevertheless, within minutes of the call they came pounding into the

still empty Cloisters, spreading out in an armed cordon.

They waited tensely, keen alert young soldiers, hand-picked from the oldest

families on Gallifrey. Service in the Chancellery Guard was a keenly sought honour. A

strange, wheezing, groaning sound shattered the silence, and a battered blue box

appeared beneath one of the arches. Was this the dangerous intruder? Hands clutching

their staser-guns in unaccustomed excitement, they waited for orders.

The Doctor studied the scanner, recognising his surroundings immediately. 'Right in

the Capitol itself! They're not going to like that.' He adjusted the vision-field to take in the

cordon of armed Guards. They looked dangerously keyed-up, capable of shooting him the

moment he popped his head out. 'Now I'm in trouble. What a welcome! Surrounded by big-

booted soldiers, the minute I get home.'

With impressive dignity, two officers made their way through the cordon, and

marched up to the TARDIS. Senior in both age and rank was Castellan Spandrell,

Commander of the Chancellery Guard, responsible for all security within the Capitol. He

was a man of medium height, unusually broad and muscular for a Time Lord, with a heavy,

impassive face that disguised a keen intelligence. Spandrell was a tough, sardonic

character, made cynical by long years in Security. He had seen too much of the underside

of Time Lord life to have any illusions about it, and his blunt no-nonsense manner had

upset many a self-important Government official. Spandrell survived because of his

integrity and his efficiency. No one else could cope with his difficult and thankless job.

Beside Spandrell stood Commander Hildred, young, eager, and desperately keen to

distinguish himself, overjoyed that the emergency had happened in his sector.

Hildred ran all round the TARDIS, like a terrier on the scent, and came back to

Spandrell. 'You know, Castellan, if I didn't know better, I'd swear this was a Type Forty time

capsule.'

Spandrell nodded. 'It is.' He looked at the TARDIS almost affectionately. He'd used

a Type Forty himself in the old days. He thumped the side of the police box with a massive

fist. 'Chameleon circuit appears to be stuck, though. Still, it's a wonder the thing's still in

one piece.'

Hildred was staring wonderingly at the TARDIS. 'But it's impossible, Commander.

There are no more Type Forties in service. They're out of commission—obsolete.'

The Doctor gave the TARDIS console a consoling pat. 'Obsolete? Twaddle. Take

no notice, old thing!'

Spandrell's face filled the scanner-screen, and his voice boomed over the audio

circuits. 'Nevertheless, Commander Hildred, this is a Type Forty TARDIS and it's landed in

an unauthorised zone just before a very important ceremony. I want the occupants

arrested.'

The Doctor sighed.

Spandrell stepped back to take a better look at the TARDIS. 'Now, as I remember,

the barrier on this model is a single-curtain trimonic. You'll need a cypher-indent key to get

in.' Hildred came to attention, clicking his heels. 'Very good, Castellan. I'll send for one

at once.'

Spandrell looked thoughtfully at him. He was reluctant to leave matters to Hildred,

who was both over-eager and inexperienced, but at this particular time there were many

other duties claiming his attention. Still, if he left full instructions... After you've arrested the

occupants, put them in safe custody, and impound the machine.' Surely that covered

everything, thought Spandrell. Even Hildred couldn't go wrong with such a simple task.

Hildred saluted. 'Very good, Castellan. Will you want to question the prisoners?'

'Eventually, Hildred, eventually. But not on Presidential Resignation day.' Spandrell

moved away.

Inside the TARDIS, the Castellan's last words were echoing in the Doctor's mind.

'Presidential Resignation Day...' The hovering rifle-shot settled on its target. The President

crumpled and fell... Hallucination—or premonition? The Doctor looked at the scanner

screen, and the encircling Guards. If he came out now he'd be thrown into a cell and

forgotten until the Ceremony was over. Somehow he had to get past those Guards, and

warn the President...

Castellan Spandrell made his way to the Archive Tower, home of the Capitol's

Records Section. The Tower was actually one enormous computer, and as he entered the

readout room, Spandrell was impressed, as always, by the air of timeless calm that filled

this part of the Capitol complex. All around him data banks quietly hummed and throbbed,

while softfooted Recorders moved unhurriedly to and fro. As Spandrell entered, Co-

ordinator Engin bustled forward to greet him. Engin was old, even for a Time Lord, not only

in the number of his regenerations but in the physical age of his present body. He had

spent all of his lives in the Records Section, beginning as a humble data Recorder, rising

slowly through the centuries to his present eminence. Engin's present body was almost

worn-out now, and he was bent and shrunken with age, his hair snowy-white, his face

wrinkled like an old apple. His next and probably final regeneration was long overdue. But

Engin constantly refused to take the time away from his duties, insisting that since he

never left the computer area anyway, his present body would serve for a year or two yet.

Despite his great age, Engin was still brisk and efficient, and his eyes were alive

with curiosity. 'This is a great honour, Castellan. How may I be of service to you?'

Spandrell replied with equal formality. 'Just a little information, Co-ordinator. If I

could have a terminal?'

Engin ushered him to a secluded booth, made a quite unnecessary check on the

terminal controls, then busied himself with the study of a data bank—not quite out of

earshot.

Spandrell touched a control in front of him. 'Data retrieval. Request information on

all Type Forty time travel capsules currently operational.'

There was a moment's silence, then the calm, emotional computer voice said,

'Negative information. Type Forty capsules are all de-registered and non-operational.'

Spandrell considered. Computers, even Time Lord computers, didn't really think.

They could usually tell you what you asked, but they never volunteered information, never

saw through to the reasons behind your question. A computer was a kind of idiot genius.

You had to make all your questions very clear, because the computer would tell you

exactly what you asked —and nothing more.

Carefully he formulated his next request. 'Report number of de-registrations.'

'Three hundred and four.'

'Report original number of registrations.'

'Three hundred and five.'

Impatiently Spandrell snapped, 'Report reason for numerical imbalance.' Under his

breath he added 'You stupid great tin box.'

'One capsule removed from register. Reference Malfeasance Tribunal order three

zero nine zero six. Subject—The Doctor.' Spandrell sat brooding for a moment, his heavy

features set and grim. Unable to restrain his curiosity any longer, Engin wandered casually

across to him. 'Can I be of any further help, Castellan Spandrell?'

'One moment, Co-ordinator.' Spandrell tapped out a code on his wrist-

communicator. Seconds later the face of Hildred appeared on the tiny screen. 'Commander

Hildred, Sector Seven.'

'Malfeasance, Hildred.'

'Castellan?'

'Crime. The occupant of your Type Forty is a convicted criminal known as "The

Doctor". Approach with extreme caution.'

Hildred lowered his own viewer and turned to the waiting Guards at his side. 'You

heard that? Set your stasers. Safety off.' The Guards adjusted the settings on their staser-

guns. From now on, they would be shooting to kill. Hildred spoke into his communicator. 'I

want armed reinforcements in Sector Seven. Immediately, please.'

The Doctor was writing a brief note on a sheet of parchment embossed with an

elaborate seal. He finished, signed with a flourish, and glanced in the scanner. A Guard

was approaching Hildred, carrying a flat leather case. As Hildred opened the lid, the Doctor

glimpsed row upon row of keys set into the black velvet lining. He smiled ruefully. On any

other planet in the Universe the TARDIS was invulnerable. But not on Gallifrey—the planet

on which it had been made.

He flung open a nearby locker, and started rummaging through it in search of

inspiration. Somewhere near the bottom, he found a dusty cardboard box, with Turkish

lettering on the lid. 'Cash and Carry, Constantinople,' translated the Doctor. An idea was

forming in his mind. 'After all,' he thought, 'it worked for old Sherlock...'

The Doctor touched a control, and the lights slowly dimmed. From the cardboard

box he took a hookah, an elaborate Turkish water-pipe with a long flexible stem. He carried

it over to the high-backed armchair that stood near the console.

After several unsuccessful attempts, Hildred found exactly the right key, and turned

it in the TARDIS lock. The door swung open. Staser-pistol in hand, Hildred moved

cautiously into the TARDIS control room, armed Guards behind him.

Peering through the gloom, Hildred saw a high-backed chair on the far side of the

control room. Its back was angled towards him, but he could just make out a relaxed figure

lounging in the chair. It had a broad-brimmed hat tipped over its eyes, an immensely long

scarf dangled from its neck and it seemed to be puffing at a complicated, long-stemmed

pipe. The air above the chair was blue with smoke.

Hildred stepped forward, staser-pistol raised. 'Don't move!' The figure didn't move,

and as Hildred came closer he saw why. The shape in the chair was no more than a pile of

cushions, the hat was propped up against the chair-back, and the long flexible pipe-stem

was held by a knot in the scarf. Deceived by the simplest of illusions, Hildred had seen

what he expected to see.

(The Doctor crouched motionless in the shadows behind the console. As Hildred

and his Guards crowded round the chair, he rose silently and edged his way towards the

door.) There was a square of white pinned to one of the cushions—a note. Hildred

snatched it up. He was about to read it when he saw a flicker of movement on the TARDIS

scanner. A tall figure was disappearing into the darkness of the Cloisters. 'There he goes!'

shouted Hildred. 'After him! ' Guards at his heels, Hildred dashed from the TARDIS.

The Doctor sprinted along the Cloisters trying desperately to recall boyhood

memories of forbidden games, of hide-and-seek. Now, if he could get into the main tower

by one of the service lifts... He turned a corner, and there was the lift-door, right in front of

him. He touched the call button and there was a faint hum of power. A moment later the lift

doors slid open—to reveal a Guard, staser-gun at the ready. The first of Hildred's

reinforcements had arrived.

The Guard raised his rifle. The Doctor stepped back, thinking this must be the

shortest and most unsuccessful escape of his career.

A staser-gun crackled, and the Guard staggered sideways and toppled out of the

lift. The Doctor turned, caught a fleeting glimpse of a cowled figure disappearing into the

darkness. 'Stop! ' he called... but the figure was gone. As the Doctor turned to look at the

body of the Guard, he heard shouts and the clatter of booted feet.

Hildred and his Guards were almost upon him—and he was standing over the dead

body of one of their fellows...

2 The Secret Enemy

The Doctor hesitated for no more than a moment. The death of the Guard made

flight more urgent than ever. No one would believe in his innocence. He'd be lucky if he

wasn't shot down on the spot.

Leaning forward, the Doctor stretched out a long arm, and pressed one of the

control buttons inside the lift...

Hildred and his men ran up just in time to see the lift doors close. After a brief

examination of the Guard's body, Hildred straightened up, his face grim. 'He's got into the

main tower. We'll have to search every floor.'

He raised his communicator. 'All Guards report to Main Tower, Sector Seven.

Armed and dangerous intruder at large! You are authorised to shoot on sight!'

The Doctor, however, wasn't in the lift. He'd sent it speeding, empty, to the top floor

of the tower. Now, hiding in the shadows around the corner, he slipped quietly away.

Co-ordinator Engin sat hunched over a read-out terminal studying the flickering of

symbols across the screen. Spandrell looked on impatiently. Information in this category

was automatically encoded, but Engin had worked so long with the computer that he could

sight-read the symbols. Spandrell was in a hurry and he found it infuriating that all his

information had to be filtered through the sometimes wandering mind of the ancient Co-

ordinator.

Engin screwed up his eyes as he peered at the symbols. 'Now, let me see... It

appears that in view of certain extenuating circumstances, the Tribunal chose to impose a

lenient sentence.'

'What?' asked Spandrell impatiently.

Literal as one of his own computers, Engin began again. 'In view of certain

extenuating circumstances...'

'No, no, Co-ordinator. I meant what sentence?'

Engin chuckled wheezily. 'I do beg your pardon. It appears the sentence was one

of... exile to Earth!'

'Earth?' Spandrell had never heard of the place.

'Sol 3—in Mutters Spiral. Interesting little planet, I understand. Been visited by

several of our graduates...'

'Is there any further information—anything relevant?'

A fresh line of symbols appeared on the screen. 'There is a rather interesting

addendum, Castellan. It seems the sentence was subsequently remitted. The Doctor was

given a complete pardon—at the intercession of the Celestial Intervention Agency.'

Spandrell looked up sharply. This gave the whole affair a new and worrying

dimension. The whole basis of Time Lord philosophy was that there must be no

interference in the affairs of the Universe. Yet from time to time such interference was

thought urgently necessary. These operations were under the control of an ultra-secret

Agency, composed of Time Lords of the highest rank, and they were always shrouded in

mystery. 'Does it say why the Agency interceded?'

'I'm afraid not. All it says here is, "Refer to Omega file"—and that's restricted. High

Council only.'

Spandrell had been on a remote province of Gallifrey at the time, but the effects of

the terrible Omega crisis had been felt even there. The attack from some unknown all-

powerful enemy, the crippling energy-drain that had almost destroyed the planet—then

suddenly it was all over, and everyone was pretending it had never happened. Only the

President and a few members of the High Council knew the full story. If the intruder had

been mixed up in an affair of such magnitude, he was no ordinary criminal.

Perhaps the Doctor's early life would provide some clue, thought Spandrell. 'Can

you get me his biographical extract?'

'Certainly. It'll take a moment or two to withdraw it from the files.'

Engin went to a panel in the wall nearby, and began adjusting controls. As

Spandrell waited impatiently, he saw Hildred moving hesitantly towards him. He could tell

by the expression of the young Commander's face that the news wasn't good.

Hildred was a conscientious young officer and he felt it his duty to report his failure

in person. He came to a halt before Spandrell and saluted. 'Castellan, I have to report that

in the matter of the intruder in Sector Seven...'

'Well? Where is he?'

Hildred gulped. 'He evaded us, Castellan. He shot one of my Guards.'

Spandrell closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. 'I see. Such efficiency.'

'We have him trapped in the main Communications Tower, Castellan...'

'Well done, Hildred! ' said Spandrell bitingly. 'You receive adequate early warning

that an antiquated capsule is about to arrive in your section—in the very heart of the

Capitol. You are then informed that the occupant is a known criminal... whereupon you

allow him to escape and conceal himself in a building a mere fifty-three stories high. A

clever stratagem, Hildred. I take it you're trying to confuse him?'

Hildred winced under the blast of sarcasm. 'My apologies, Castellan. The

responsibility is mine. He won't escape capture again.'

Spandrell sighed. 'Let us hope not. In view of your record so far, you'd better not

make rash promises.'

Hildred was holding out a square of parchment. 'I found this inside the capsule,

Castellan.'

Spandrell took the note and read it aloud. '"To the Castellan of the Chancellery

Guard: I have good reason to believe that the life of His Excellency the President is in

danger. Do not ignore this warning—The Doctor." ' He held the note up to the light. 'I see

he's signed it over the Prydonian seal.'

There was a whoosh of compressed air and a muted chime. Engin opened a

circular metal hatch in the wall and took out a silvery tube with a red cap. 'Indeed? Well, he

has every right to do so. It appears that your intruder is—or was—a member of that noble

Chapter.'

'How can you tell?'

Engin tapped the red cap. 'All biographies are colour coded according to Chapter.'

Spandrell took the cylinder and stared at it thought-fully. 'Are they now? I had no

idea...' Engin gave a wheezy chuckle. 'No? I suppose your duties usually involve you with

more plebeian classes, eh, Castellan?'

Spandrell smiled ruefully. There was more than a little truth in the old Co-ordinator's

jibe. The Time Lords were themselves a kind of aristocracy. Relatively few inhabitants of

Gallifrey were of Time Lord rank. And this elite group was itself sub-divided into a number

of societies or Chapters, Prydonians, Arcalians, Patrexes, and so forth. The members of

each Chapter were bound together by a complex web of family and political alliances, and

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DoctorWhoandtheDeadlyAssassinTerranceDicksISBN0426119657TheDoctorissuddenlysummonedtoGallifrey,thehomeoftheTimeLords,wherehisghastlyhallucinationofthePresident'sassassinationseemstoturnintoreality.WhentheDoctorisarrestedforthemurder,thereisahideous,dark,cowledfiguregleefullywatchingintheshadows.Face...

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