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The New Adventures

The Dying Days

Written by Lance Parkin

6 May 1997: The Dying Days of the Twentieth Century

On the Mare Sirenum, British astronauts are walking on the surface of Mars for the first time in over twenty years.

The National Space Museum in London is the venue for a spectacular event where the great and the good

celebrate a unique British achievement.

In Adisham, Kent, the most dangerous man in Britain has escaped from custody while being transported by

helicopter. In Whitehall, the new Home Secretary is convinced that there is a plot brewing to overthrow the

government. In west London, MI5 agents shut down a publishing company that got too close to the top secret

organisation known as UNIT. And, on a state visit to Washington, the Prime Minster prepares to make a crucial

speech, totally unaware that dark forces are working against him.

As the eighth Doctor and Professor Bernice Summerfield discover, all these events are connected. However, soon

all will be overshadowed.

This time, the Doctor is already too late.

CONTENTS

Author’s Preface/Introduction – Page 3

THE DYING DAYS – Page 6

Author’s Notes – Page 125

Originally published by Doctor Who Books, a division of Virgin Publishing Pty Ltd

The moral right of the author has been asserted; this reproduction is made with grateful acknowledgement to the BBC website

– no infringement of copyright is intended, as this work is produced for private use only, and not for profit.

Original series broadcast on the BBC

Format © BBC 1963

DOCTOR WHO and TARDIS are trademarks of the BBC

Bernice Summerfield created by Paul Cornell

The Ice Warriors created by Brian Hayles

Introduction - Preface by Lance Parkin

Conservative choices

Fans in high places

I’ve heard the same story from three independent sources. That doesn’t make it true, but it makes it true enough

that a newspaper editor would be more than happy to run it.

On May 1st 1997, on the night of the General Election, Tim Collins, newly-elected Conservative MP for

Westmorland and Lonsdale and Doctor Who fan (he’d had letters published in fanzine DWB) sat in his local town

hall, oblivious to the activity around him, frantically reading The Dying Days, ‘because he wanted to have read all

the New Adventures under a Tory administration’.

Over the years I’ve talked to hundreds of people, nearly all of whom remember exactly where they were when they

finished it, some of whom have admitted to bunking off school or work to do so. I think, though, that Tim Collins

wins the prize for best Dying Days related anecdote. He is now the shadow cabinet office spokesman and vice-

chairman of the Conservative party, and he’s on Sky News as I type this, calling for Stephen Byers’ resignation.

Licence revoked

The end of the New Adventures

So … the basics. The Dying Days was the sixty-first and last New Adventure published by Virgin Publishing.

Virgin’s licence to produce Doctor Who novels hadn’t been extended because the year before the TV Movie

starring Paul McGann had come out, and the BBC were keen to bring the books in-house.

At first, this was because there was a prospect of a TV series – but even when that evaporated, the BBC

recognised that Virgin had identified a niche in the market, and the books were nicely profitable (and just as

important in an unpredictable market, had very steady sales).

The Dying Days was the first original novel to feature the eighth Doctor. It was originally published in April 1997.

Selling fast

Out of stock before release

Because it was both a ‘last’ and a ‘first’ book, it sold very quickly. The Dying Days was out of stock before the

official release date. That’s led to reports and persistent rumours that the book had a lower print run.

No, no, a thousand times no: the book completely sold out, so I know exactly what the print run was. The irony is

that it’s easily my biggest-selling Who novel – it sold more than Just War, Cold Fusion, The Infinity Doctors and

Father Time. And it’s ironic, because for five years, now, second hand copies of The Dying Days have changed

hands for a small fortune.

They’ve sold on eBay for over fifty times the cover price. There are plenty of copies out there, but the people that

have copies cling on to them. So it’s rare that one comes up for sale.

Something special

Creating an 'event' book

I didn’t expect that when I got commissioned, but I knew it would be an ‘event’ book, and it had to be special. The

editor of the range, Rebecca Levene (who for reasons best known to herself prefers to be called ‘Bex’), and I

thrashed out some of the details.

With almost every Who book, the editor will give the author a couple of things that ‘have to happen’ – usually,

these aren’t major plot points, just things to bind the range together. When I wrote Just War, I had to put a couple

of hints in foreshadowing the death of Roz, one of the Doctor’s companions. With Father Time, there were

elements of the ‘Earth arc’, like the physical state of the TARDIS.

The Dying Days was, essentially, a long list of ‘requirements’. It had to both be a fitting end to a range and the

pointer to a new future... futures, actually – there was a new Doctor, but Virgin were continuing to publish books

featuring Benny, and the book had to act as a showcase, maybe even an introduction, to her.

A view to a kill

Would the Doctor survive?

At heart, the book was designed as an affirmation of what Doctor Who was in the mid-nineties. A hymn to the fact

that the books had moved things on, that we’d left Doctor Who in a better state than we found it.

It was also a unique thing – a ‘last Doctor Who’ story. A chance, like Dark Knight Returns or the Star Trek: The

Next Generation episode All Good Things, to put a capstone on the legend. And I could kill him. This was one

book where the Doctor might not make it.

Movie madness

Shouting in a cupboard

Bex and I were also reacting against the TV Movie. I love the McGann movie. Bex was far less impressed. Both of

us agreed it was a pretty poor ‘pilot’, in the sense that it didn’t really get across the essence of Doctor Who. But I

saw some great ideas in there – and I loved the visuals, the sense of scale, Doctor Who in the style of Coppola’s

Dracula.

What it was missing could be summed up in one word: monsters. The threat was too abstract, the scale of the

final confrontation – two people shouting at each other in one of the bigger TARDIS cupboards – was just not

grand enough. This book was going to end in a pitched battle– man versus an army of monsters. And the Doctor

would get to demonstrate steel – in the TV Movie, the Doctor’s a passive figure, someone who’s tied up, follows

Grace around. You see the velvet glove, and it’s a lovely glove, but there’s no steel inside it.

Bex and I had a phone conversation where we agreed that the TV Movie should have been that typical Doctor

Who plot: monsters invading contemporary London, using subtle ways at first, then an all out invasion. Then it

struck me... in sixty previous New Adventures, that had never happened. Alien invasions, contemporary stories...

but never the two together.

Bex didn’t believe it – "No Future... that was set in the seventies", "Damaged Goods... no, wait, that was the

eighties". We’d been banging on about how the TV Movie should have done something that the books had never

done. And we agreed there and then that was going to be our story.

Origins

Pertwee meets Tom Clancy

By happy chance, I’d been toying with a Pertwee Missing Adventure proposal a couple of years before, while I’d

been waiting to hear back about Just War. The basic concept – Pertwee UNIT story as Tom Clancy technothriller

was just so fundamentally wrong that I could never get the book to work, but I did have a usable plot.

The book was called Cold War, and featured the Ice Warriors. In one page synopsis form, it’s almost exactly the

same as The Dying Days, although it would have been a completely different book.

The Dying Days is also about the end of the New Adventures era, and the passing on of the torch. In 1995, just

after I’d been commissioned to write Just War, I joked that we were in ‘the Rebecca Levene Golden Age of Doctor

Who’.

No-one, least of all Bex, took the remark seriously. Five or six years on, the phrase pops up in internet discussion

of the books completely unironically. There’s even a word for it: NAstalgia.

Other influences

Links to War of the Worlds

The War of the Worlds was obviously a huge influence – how could it fail to be, with Martians invading the Home

Counties? Some of the chapter titles are the same, and almost all the original characters were named after places

or people in Wells’ book. Both, for example, have an astronomer called Ogilvy.

Note that I do invert a few of the things from The War of the Worlds – germs don’t kill the Martians in this, they’re

working for them! I saw Independence Day when I was writing Chapter Seven. As you’ll see for yourselves.

The title took longer than the plot. All we could come up with were joke titles: Licence to Kill, Licence Revoked,

The Morte D’Octor. We wanted something ominous, something that reflected the end of the New Adventures in

fact as well as fiction. In the end, I decided to watch the Bond film Licence to Kill, partly out of sheer masochism,

partly to pick up tips on how to kill a popular franchise. And there the title was, in the theme tune – The Dying

Days.

Bex and I had got a story and we had a title. Which was just as well, because the lead time for the book meant I

only had five weeks to write it...

Below: the original cover for THE DYING DAYS

Chapter One

What We Saw From the Ruined House

Tuesday, May 6th 1997

The Doctor was late, as usual.

Professor Bernice Summerfield wouldn't mind, but he was a Time Lord. Not only did this mean that he could travel

freely in the fourth and fifth dimensions of time and space, so he ought to be able to keep his appointments, it

meant that he could always have popped back afterwards and left her a note saying he was going to had been

late. He really had no excuse.

She resolved not to get too upset, and poured herself another cup of coffee. There were worse places to be than

the Kent countryside in the dying days of the twentieth century. Kadiatu and aM!xitsa had dropped her off at the

Doctor's house on Allen Road a week ago, on the morning of April the thirtieth 1997, the day before she and the

Doctor had arranged to meet. Kadiatu had told Benny that they couldn't stay long without violating the non-

aggression treaty between the People and the Time Lords. Benny and Kadiatu had used what time they had to

drive down to Adisham to stock up on provisions. AM!xitsa stayed behind to keep an eye out for the Doctor, just in

case he turned up early. The locals were used to them, now: they didn't turn heads at Mrs Darling's little corner

shop, even when they tried to pay for a trolleyful of food with a single five pound coin.

Kadiatu had never been the easiest of people to strike up a conversation with, but this time she had been more

taciturn than normal. She and aM!xitsa stowed away the provisions in virtual silence and soon after that their time

machine vanished from the gravel driveway in a burst of colour and light that Benny's human vocabulary couldn't

even begin to describe. Once she'd probably have envied them as they flew off into the unknown for another new

adventure, but now she was quite content to spend a day on her own sitting in the overgrown garden of the

Doctor's house, watching the birds chase each other around the treetops.

On that first morning she'd mopped down the wrought-iron garden furniture and brought out a couple of faded

cushions from the living room sofa. She'd arranged them along the south side of the house, the one with the best

view of the grounds, she'd put up a garden umbrella and then settled down to a day of serious relaxation. First,

she had caught up with her diary. This was more important than ever, now that she'd finally persuaded a

publishing company that there was a market for her memoirs. They'd paid her quite a big advance for the rights, so

it only seemed fair that she should get around to sending them something.

She only wrote eight hundred words, none of them particularly enthralling ones, but managed to avoid thinking

about Jason all day. Mid-afternoon she did catch herself congratulating herself that she hadn't been thinking about

him, but concluded after some soul-searching that that didn't count.

When the Doctor hadn't turned up as arranged the next morning, Benny decided to spend a couple of weeks here

in Allen Road before trying to get a lift anywhere else. She had quickly settled into a routine. At half-seven she'd

shuffle across to the other side of the double bed in the main guest bedroom, and then shake herself awake when

she realised that her husband wasn't there. Every night for thirty-three years - with only about a dozen exceptions

before she was married - she'd slept in a single bed, by herself, so why did she feel so lonely every morning now

when she woke up and there was no-one lying alongside her? She toyed with the third finger of her left hand. For

thirty-three years she'd not worn a ring on that or any other finger, why did she now miss the weight of one that

she'd only worn for a few months? Musing on this kept her occupied for a couple of minutes, before she decided

that angst wasn't her thing, and she really ought to get on with her life.

So, she'd get up, realise how chilly it was, pull her robe on and go down to the kitchen. The house was always a

little too cold, regardless of the season of year or the time of day. So, when she'd prepared breakfast, she'd lay the

pot and plates on the tray with The Haywain on it and take it outside into the sunshine. The next half-hour or so

would be spent leisurely munching triangles of wholemeal toast and washing them down with the finest Sumatran

coffee.

On the second day, she'd pulled an old portable television from one of the guest bedrooms and set it down on the

garden table. Locating an extension lead long enough to reach the socket in the kitchen had proved a little more

tricky, but there had been one on a workbench in the garage. Most of the time she kept the sound down, content to

glance across every so often at the flickering, two-dimensional, monochrome images of the world outside her

walled garden. First thing in the morning, though, she'd twist the volume control up and listen to the headlines.

Today, an Irishman with a square head was sitting on a sofa with a grinning young woman. They were discussing

the Prime Minister's visit to Washington, and there was much talk of 'forging links' and 'common ground'. Benny

tried a little quiz on herself, but couldn't remember the name of either the Prime Minister or the President. Both

countries had had an election in the last nine months, so it was tricky. It wasn't important.

She twisted the dial and managed to find another channel amidst the static.

' -fast News, coming live from the National Space Museum in London. I'm Justin Webb. Today, Tuesday May the

Sixth, Britain returns to Mars. It is over twenty years since the first missions to the Red Planet. We'll be asking

former Minister of Science Lord Greyhaven whether this is the beginning of a new life on the final frontier or just an

expensive waste of money. But first, here's Juliet with the headlines.' The picture switched to another chirpy

blonde. 'Good Morning. The headlines today: at a speech from the White House lawn, the Prime Minister has - '

Benny turned the television off. A little aurora danced on the screen for a couple of seconds as the tube cooled

down. It was eight o'clock, time to check the post. She stood, and made her way down to the lawn. In her bare

feet, walking down the gravel driveway was out of the question. Cutting across the garden was also a shorter

route. She stepped across the lawn, the long grass still wet with dew. She made her way past the fountain, a piece

of Victoriana that, like the tall greenhouse at the side of the house, had fallen into disrepair at some point over the

last century. Rainwater had collected, and yesterday she'd seen tadpoles swimming about in there. There was no

sign of them today.

Benny carried on walking, past the tulips, through the shrubbery and towards the gate. Every so often she'd look

back at the house, hoping to see the TARDIS arrive.

The statue of the girl was still by the gates, hidden among the leylandia. It was life-size and dull grey, the colour of

concrete. The subject was fifteen, at most, with hair that fell down her back. She wore a miniskirt and cropped

jacket, one of her high heels was missing. Her face was set forever in an expression of terror, her arms were held

out in front of her as if she was trying to keep something away. Benny didn't know which thought was more

disturbing: that the Doctor had chosen to put the figure in his garden for aesthetic reasons or that it hadn't always

been a statue. She certainly had no intention of asking him about it.

Benny reached the iron gates and checked the postbox. The first thing she found was The Mirror, which she still

hadn't got around to cancelling. Eschewing both the state visit to Washington and the Mars landing, the front page

had decided instead to reveal that a voluptuous young woman (pictured in a white basque and stockings) was

having sex with someone famous that Benny had never heard of. This, the headline declared, was a 'world

exclusive'. A quick flick through the paper revealed that many other people were doing much the same. A couple

of years ago, Benny would have tutted at the demeaning and trivial nature of the stories, now she just felt the faint

ache of jealousy, the belief that all the young people were off somewhere else having more fun than her.

Behind the paper there was a single letter. Benny frowned when she saw it. The envelope was dull grey, it was the

type used for official communications in her native twenty-sixth century. Before she picked it up, she checked

around but there was no sign of who had delivered it. There wasn’t a stamp, there wasn’t a postmark, there wasn’t

a corporate or military logo. The only thing printed on it was her name: PROFESSOR BERNICE SURPRISE

KANE-SUMMERFIELD. She looked at it for a moment. 39 characters, not including the hyphen. Opening the

envelope and was rather shocked to find that it offered her the chair of archaeology at St Oscar’s University on the

planet Dellah. There was a reasonable wage, a rather generous research grant and free board and

accommodation. The Vice-Chancellor looked forward to meeting someone of her repute. Benny read the letter

again to make sure she wasn’t missing some vital point, or perhaps the punchline. She had been given to

understand that to get that sort of job, one had to apply for it. The date on the letter was March 2593 - almost a

quarter of a century after her own time.

Somewhat preoccupied, she tucked the letter and the newspaper underneath her arm and set off. The journey

back up to the house always seemed to take longer than the trip down. As it sat on the green grass below the

clear blue sky, the house looked like a natural feature rather than anything man-made. Simultaneously it looked

well-tended and half in ruin. It seemed quite small from the gates, but inside it was a labyrinth of empty bedrooms

and dusty storerooms. She'd been dropping in for years, but Benny still couldn't think of the place as a home. The

house had stood for centuries, but no-one had ever lived there for more than a couple of weeks at a time. It had

compensated: filled its rooms and landings with the creak of floorboards and the rattling of pipes. Lying awake in

the middle of the night, something she did every so often, Benny always got the impression that there were other

people staying in the house. Not ghosts, or burglars: nice people.

By the time she returned to the house, Benny concluded that the Doctor wasn't turn up for at least another day,

and had reconciled herself to another day of dozing in the sun. Perhaps later she'd try her hand at sketching: the

orchard about a hundred yards to the west looked like a good prospect: recent storms had brought down a couple

of the trees, and made the woodland look terribly dramatic. There was a tin of pencils and a drawing pad in the

living room. It would give her some more time to think about the letter from Dellah.

When she stepped back onto the flagstones, Benny realised how dirty her feet had become. She put The Mirror

down on the garden table, propping it underneath the breakfast tray to stop it blowing away. Then she stepped

inside to take a quick shower. The house was vast, but there was only one bathroom, which had been the cause of

friction between the Doctor's travelling companions on more than one occasion. She remembered the last time:

Roz had stood at the bathroom door, demanding to know how Chris could possibly take an hour and a half in there

every day. Benny and ... Jason had ... they had both been woken by the sound of raised voices. They lay curled

around each other in the upstairs bedroom, able to listen only to Roz's side of the argument, trying to stop each

other giggling, but both their bodies convulsed with laughter at every terse insult that drifted up the short flight of

stairs. They'd been pressed so close together that in the end they hadn't been able to distinguish which of them

was laughing at which remark. They'd had to part, exhausted, and for the rest of the day, every time they made

eye contact they couldn't help sniggering. Benny found herself smiling, even now, despite all that had happened

since.

Another source of tension was the minuscule amount of hot water the house would allow every day. It was

possible to get more, Benny had discovered, although you had to slap the brass tank that sat on the landing a

couple of times to get it. When you heard the glup deep below in the bowels of the house, you'd know that you'd

done it. It was the sort of valuable-trivial information that you kept from your housemates, and she'd not told

anyone else about the trick. The brass piping, like the electrical wiring, was a little haphazard. Knowing the house's

owner, Benny could well imagine how the plumbing had been installed a bit at a time over the centuries, on the

basis of need, from junk the Doctor had found in the garage.

She reached the landing with the bathroom on it. A quick check of the tank revealed that it was just about full.

Benny stepped into the bathroom, leaving the door open, because she could. Experience had taught her to run the

shower for a minute or so before stepping into it, so she stood on the cold black tiles waiting for the rattling pipes

to catch up with her. Hot water soon began gushing out. She slipped out of her robe and into the shower stall. After

getting used to the temperature, she leant against the tiled wall, trying to prop herself upright while she soaped her

foot. By the time she had the other one clean, Benny had decided to wash her hair.

She stood for a moment, facing out onto the landing, letting the water splash across her shoulder blades and run

down her back. Without needing to look, she bent down and reached back until her hand located the tiny phial of

herbal shampoo slotted into the shower rack. Benny unscrewed the top and massaged it into her scalp, working it

up into a lather. Foamy bubbles ran down her neck and splattered to the floor of the shower unit.

The peace of the morning outside was disturbed by an unearthly wheezing, groaning sound that drifted through the

half-open bathroom window.

'Isn't it always the way?' Benny observed, ducking her head under the water to get the worst of the suds off. You

couldn't even rely on the Doctor to be unreliable.

She twisted the shower off, and scooped up her robe from the bathroom floor, pulling it around herself as she

bounded down the stairs. Through the kitchen window it was possible to glimpse a solid blue shape outside on the

patio, right by the garden table. Benny hurried out through the kitchen door, leaving a trail of wet footprints.

***

The TARDIS stood there as if it had never gone away. The light on the top was still flashing, and the grounds of

the house were echoing with the sound of its arrival. Benny stood, looking up at it for a couple of seconds, soapy

water dripping from her fringe.

The door opened.

'Sorry I'm late. You wouldn't believe the state of the traffic around the Horsehead Nebula.' The man who was

framed in the doorway looked about her age, in his mid-thirties, perhaps a little bit older. He was about her height.

He wore a velvet frock coat that was probably a very dark green, but which might have been a plain-chocolate

brown. Either way, it came down to his knees and underneath it was a wing collar shirt, complete with grey cravat

and a shiny patterned waistcoat. He was wearing baggy trousers, tan ones that had never even considered the

idea of having a seam. His long face was angular, with a jutting chin and aristocratic nose, but it was softened by a

mass of dark brown hair that swept back down all the way from his high forehead to his broad shoulders. He had a

full mouth and sad blue eyes.

'Doctor?' she asked, unsure why.

'Bernice!' he jumped forward, a broad open-mouthed grin on his face, and tried to hug her.

Benny took a step back, almost tripping over one of the garden chairs. The stranger pulled himself back. 'What's

the matter?' he asked. His voice had a hint of the Doctor's Celtic lilt, but only a trace.

'What do you mean "what's the matter"? What do you think?'

The man paused, stroking his top lip as he considered the question. 'I've changed my appearance since we last

met,' he concluded, with a faraway look on his face.

'Well spotted. You've also started to go in for hugging. You know I don't like that.'

He fixed her with those eyes of his. 'We were alone in your tent, on a planet called Heaven. The Hoothi had been

destroyed. You were packing, ready to leave. There was a Japanese fan in your hand. I asked if we could be

friends and put my hand on your shoulder. You asked me not to touch you. You said that I was very tactile, but you

weren't and that you'd prefer it if I didn't.'

The Doctor put a hand on Benny's shoulder.

'I am the Doctor, Bernice. Your friend.'

She hugged him.

'You're wet,' he whispered softly.

'I was in the shower. Where's Chris?'

'Gallifrey. He stayed behind, but he said he might pop around to see you. A lot has happened to me since then.'

Benny yawned. 'It's been pretty damn action-packed here, too, I can tell you. I'll get dressed and tell you about it.'

***

The helicopter maintained a steady 230 kph at 1750 metres altitude. From the ground it was a tiny black dot,

making its way silently across the clear blue sky.

Inside, the guards didn't know who their prisoner was, not for certain, but they knew that he was a convicted

multiple murderer and that he was to be considered dangerous at all times. They had been briefed about that

before they had left, and given orders to shoot him if he even looked like he was trying to escape. There were four

guards in all. The prisoner was handcuffed to one guard, with another, armed, man opposite. The prisoner wore

dark blue coveralls, a uniform without pockets, belts or buttons, fastened by a single strip of Velcro down the front.

They'd searched him twice, once in his cell and again at the helipad.

The prisoner wasn't allowed to speak, but the noise of the rotor blades and the engines would have drowned out

anything he said anyway. Everyone in the helicopter was wearing bright orange ear-protectors. Not a word had

been spoken since the start of the flight, over an hour ago. The prisoner was in his early fifties, and was still in

good shape. He had the square jaw and bearing of a military office. His face was striking, with a chiselled profile

and distinctive eyebrows that darted up over his temple. It was one of those faces you were sure you'd seen

before, in a colour supplement, perhaps, or on television. He sat in his harness, looking around with a keenness

entirely lacking in his wardens.

Only Caldwell, the man in charge of the transfer operation knew who the prisoner was. In his day Alexander

Christian had been notorious, but that day had long gone. The tabloids had plenty of other killers to vilify, and

they'd forgotten about him in favour of the Yorkshire Ripper, Myra Hindley and Rosemary West. Every so often

stories would leak out about the activities of those three, sparking off another little flurry of public interest. It had

been twenty years since Alexander Christian had made the headlines, back when the men that were guarding

them today were still at nursery school. Caldwell wondered if they'd even heard of him.

Caldwell sat at the front of the compartment, watching Christian carefully. He remembered what he had done, he

remembered seeing the arrest on the news. Caldwell was nineteen at the time, in his first year at university. He'd

sat in the common room with everyone else in his hall, and seen every second of the coverage via the zoom

lenses of The Passing Parade. This was the closest that the prisoner had got to fresh air since his conviction

shortly afterwards. Knowing what he did, Caldwell was not comfortable sharing a confined space with Christian.

The helicopter lurched, sending Caldwell sprawling, despite his harness.

The pilot was calling something into his radio: 'May Day! We're losing altitude. There's a problem with one of the

engines. May Day!'

'Let me help, Caldwell, old chap.' The prisoner was leaning over Caldwell, shouting over the noise of the engines,

'I'm a pilot.'

'One of the best,' Caldwell replied. It was a split-second decision: 'Let him out of those cuffs, he's our only hope.'

The guards looked at each other. The cabin lurched again, pitching them all over.

'Do it!' Caldwell shouted. He looked straight at the prisoner. 'If you try anything, Christian, you're dead, do you

understand?'

The prisoner nodded. The guard handcuffed to him undid the lock, releasing his wrist. Christian clambered across

to the cockpit, the guards parting to let him through.

He didn't bother clipping in his harness. 'What's the rate of fall, skipper?'

The pilot didn't have time to be wary of him. 'Ten metres a second. We're currently at one seven five metres.'

'That's about five hundred feet, right?' he grinned. He checked the oil pressure and rate of fuel loss.

The engine missed a beat, then another.

'Can you do anything?' Caldwell shouted.

'I can keep her upright.'

'Anything else?'

'I can try to crash this crate without killing us all. Hold on, everyone!'

***

Benny was up in her room, unsure what to think.

She towelled herself down, and fished around in the wardrobe for her chinos and a black T-shirt. Then she moved

over to the window, carefully unlatching it. She knelt on the bed, leaning her head out. The Doctor was sitting on

her garden chair, totally immersed in some cartoon on the portable TV. The picture was in colour, she realised. He

had a cup of coffee in his hand, and would occasionally sip from it. He didn't seem to have a care in the world. He

hadn't asked after Jason, but Benny sensed that he already knew that she hadn’t seen her husband for months.

That had been the same time she’d last seen the Doctor and a lot had happened since then. Benny wondered if

Chris had left before or after the Doctor had regenerated.

On Heaven, in her tent, the Doctor had pleaded with her. Ace had just left him. His voice was trembling and urgent

at the same time. He couldn't travel the universe fighting monsters alone, he had told her: the magic dragon

couldn't be brave without the little boy. Without his companion, he had nothing to be brave for. In that moment,

Benny had seen the real Doctor. Behind all the tricks, behind all the plans and dark expressions and all his

righteous indignation there was a little man who thought the universe ought to be a friendlier place. Dorothee had

never seen that, or if she had she hadn't understood it. She'd have laughed: 'Yeah, sure, Professor, everything

would be great if we were all nice to each other. Very profound'. It's easy to be cynical, but it's hard to be nice. The

Doctor had been a man who once in a while needed protecting from the universe he was protecting. The Doctor

needed looking after, he wasn't carefree. And he certainly didn't have sex appeal and boyish charm.

And now that little man had gone forever. The new Doctor looked up at her and waved, grinning. Benny smiled

back, trying not to look like she was spying on him.

Suddenly he was on his feet, peering up at the sky to her left, shielding his face with his hand. She couldn't crane

around enough to see what had grabbed his attention.

'Come down!' he shouted up at her.

There was a clattering filling the sky, and a droning underneath it. It shook the pictures hanging on the staircase

wall, it rattled the crockery in the kitchen. It sounded like an aircraft in trouble. Benny bolted out of the door. As she

reached the Doctor, the windows were rumbling, the sky was full of noise and a near gale force wind was blowing.

A shadow fell over the house and a vast black helicopter almost clipped the roof. Warm, gasoline-rich, air blasted

down, pitching the garden umbrella over and forcing her and the Doctor to cover their faces. As their clothing

whipped up, the aircraft passed over them, trailing thick black smoke. It was streaking towards the orchard, but all

the time it was losing height. The orchard was on raised ground, and Benny realised that the helicopter was going

to crash, and that nothing that she or the Doctor could do was going to stop it.

***

The whine of the engines, the clatter of the rotors, the screams of the men, the snapping of branches all merged

into a solid wall of noise. They were flying through trees, each impact slowing them down but breaking them apart.

One of the guards tumbled past Caldwell, his limbs flailing like a crash dummy's. Oxygen masks, medical kits and

emergency supplies showered from the overhead compartments, trapping Caldwell in his seat, catching him on

the side of the head, and perhaps even breaking one of his legs.

The helicopter ground to a halt, the front end pitching upwards. The lights had failed, the cabin would be in

darkness if it wasn't for the sunlight streaming in from the cockpit. For a moment there was silence. Then Caldwell

heard the sound of movement above him.

His gun was in his hand by the time the prisoner appeared framed in the sunlight, but Caldwell found that it was

too heavy to lift. His forehead was bleeding, he realised, where a metal box from the overhead locker had caught

him.

Christian was kicking at something in the cockpit, something Caldwell couldn't see. The impact was enough to

shake the whole of the helicopter, or what was left of it. They were the only two people left alive, Caldwell

instinctively knew that. Christian wasn't even hurt.

He tried to say something, but was too weak.

Out of his vision, the cockpit door slammed open. Caldwell heard Christian scramble out of the cockpit and down

the fuselage of the helicopter. He heard a pair of heavy boots crunch down into the soft earth outside. Caldwell

tried to move, but he couldn't.

***

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61 - The Dying Days

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