73 - The Gallifrey Chronicles

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The Doctor’s home planet of Gallifrey has been destroyed. The Time Lords

are dead, their TARDISes annihilated. The man responsible has been

tracked down and lured to Earth in the year 2005, where there will be no

escape. But Earth has other problems – a mysterious signal is being

received, a second moon appears in the sky, and a primordial alien

menace waits to be unleashed. . .

The stage is set for the ultimate confrontation – for justice to be done. The

Doctor and his companions Fitz and Trix will meet their destiny. And this

time, the Doctor isn’t going to be able to save everyone.

This adventure features the Eighth Doctor.

The Gallifrey Chronicles

Lance Parkin

Contents

Prologue 5

Chapter One – New and Missing Adventures 9

Chapter Two – Gone 22

Interlude – The Girl Who Was Different 35

Chapter Three – The Time Trap 44

Chapter Four – Acquisitions 54

Chapter Five – Deadly Reunion 71

Interlude – The Last of Gallifrey 85

Chapter Six – And the Dream I Had Was True 95

Chapter Seven – The Edge of Destruction 108

Interlude – Intervention 125

Chapter Eight – WWDWD? 132

Chapter Nine – The Sphere of Our Sorrow 145

Chapter Ten – Ask Not. . . 160

Chapter Eleven – The Vore Games 177

Interlude – Marnal’s Error 193

Chapter Twelve – Reloaded 198

CONTENTS 2

Chapter Thirteen – It’s the End. . . 209

Fitz’s Song – Contains Spoilers 219

The GaIlifrey Chronicles – The Album 221

About the Author 222

Credits 223

To Brie Lewis

Thanks to Allan Bednar, Simon Bucher-Jones, Jon Blum, Mark Clapham,

Mark Jones, Brie Lewis, Mark Michalowski, Jonathan Morris, Kate Orman,

Philip Purser-Hallard, Justin Richards, Lloyd Rose, Jim Smith and Nick

Wallace

The Doctor never loses.

Oh yeah, the whole concept behind [the album] came from Rick. He was

into these books written by this crazy old guy. I guess you’d call it science

ﬁction, but they weren’t, not really. They were all about this broken-down

planet. Real weird stuff with giant fallen statues and old temples, and

eternal life and huge libraries. The people there existed in all times at once,

that was their thing. We live in three dimensions, they live in four, that was

how Rick explained it. That made them gods, but they were, y’know, very

English, too. They’d fought all types of monsters in the past, but it hadn’t

worked out and they’d stopped all that. Forbidden it. One of them broke

the rules, he went off and you never saw him again. Rick was always trying

to get the rest of the band to read these things, but we weren’t too keen.

There were more than a hundred books in the series, yeah? There were like

two or three hundred, and you couldn’t just pick them up in the middle or

anything. Danny tried to read one of them, I think, but I’ve never been

much of a reader. I always preferred jamming over books, so I went along

with what Rick said, y’know, while doing my own thing.

Interview with a famous rock guitarist, 1989

Prologue

‘No doctors!’

That made a few of the relatives on the edge of the group jump, then

look back at each other self-consciously. One of the aunts turned away,

opened the window a little. The old man on the bed glared at her as the

cold air drifted in, but said nothing.

Rachel was sitting by the bedside. The relatives were little more than

silhouettes. Black outlines of people. Men in suits, women in tailored

jackets, small, restless children in their Sunday best. She couldn’t see how

many there were. Almost all of them, though. Crowding round.

Circling.

‘This is such a lovely house,’ another aunt said. She was standing at the

window looking down over the lush, green garden.

‘Surprisingly large,’ an uncle agreed.

‘Too dark,’ a woman’s voice said.

‘Cluttered,’ another chipped in, to a general murmur of agreement.

There was a touch like a butterﬂy’s at Rachel’s wrist.

She looked down at the old man. Rheumy eyes stared back, unblinking.

It had worn him out just lifting his hand. He’d heard every word.

‘Don’t let them destroy the books,’ he said, loud enough for everyone to

hear. ‘They’re my life.’

There wasn’t much of that life left now. He twisted a little on the bed,

the pain in his back surging for a moment, coursing through him. He

opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

Rachel hadn’t known him that long, but in the last month he had clearly

begun to fade. He was very old – how old the agency had never told her,

but she’d always thought he was in his eighties – with thin white hair and

thinner white skin. He had an aquiline nose and high forehead. He had

beautiful blue eyes, even if they were a little watery today. He hadn’t stood

for a long time, he barely even sat up now. When she’d ﬁrst given him a

bed bath, she’d been struck that he was smaller and lighter than she had

thought.

PROLOGUE 7

She’d seen his picture on the inside of one of the dust jackets once.

Before, there had been so much dignity.

‘A good innings,’ one of the grandsons said softly.

‘He was a friend of H.G. Wells,’ another whispered to his wife. ‘Wrote

science ﬁction before it was even called that.’

‘Do you have any of his books?’

‘I have some of them, it doesn’t mean I’ve read them,’ the man replied,

eliciting a guilty chuckle from a couple of the other relatives.

‘Not all of the new ones were published,’ the old man tried to explain.

‘No,’ the grandson said, sympathetically. ‘But that didn’t stop you writ-

ing, did it?’

‘Pen,’ the old man demanded.

Rachel passed him the blue biro and the notepad. A couple of the rel-

atives glanced nervously at each other. There was still time, after all, for

him to change his will.

Once again, he tried to draw it. He started with a circle. Then a sort

of broken ﬁgure-of-eight inside the circle, one with little swirls at the side.

It looked vaguely Celtic. He gave up trying to get it right, again. This was

the furthest he’d got with the shape for about twenty pages. He was nearly

through the notepad. He could ﬁt two, three or four circles on each page.

He dropped the pen. Rachel caught it before it slipped off the bed, and

tried to hand it back. The old man refused to take it, or couldn’t summon

the strength.

‘No,’ he said.

Rachel smiled. ‘You said it was always quite difﬁcult to draw,’ she said

gently.

‘Two hundred feet in diameter,’ he said, angry with himself. ‘Machonite

inlaid in bone-white marble. A circle like that. . . should be. It ﬁlled the

whole centre of the. . . the hall. The big hall. The one with hexagonal walls

and statues the size of tower blocks. The. . . damn it! I want to get it right.

When I close my eyes, I can see it all. But I can’t even remember the name

of the. . . I can’t remember it. I was born there. Spent lifetimes there. It’s

important.’

The relatives were shifting their feet. Embarrassed by the outburst or

worried that he had more life left in him than they’d thought.

The old man looked around, almost apologetic.

‘I only wish I could remember the name,’ he explained. ‘I’m the only

person on Earth who even remembers. Except. . . except I don’t. You

understand, don’t you?’

Rachel made an attempt to look positive. But whenever he’d tried to

explain this before, there had been just too much of it to get her head

PROLOGUE 8

round. She thought he was sincere, that was the thing, but she didn’t

understand him.

‘I believe you, Marnal,’ she whispered. It was his pen name. Since the

breakdown, he had insisted on being called that, although no one ever did.

He sighed, returned his head to the pillow. Screwed his eyes closed,

wringing out a tear. Drew in a breath.

‘Now I don’t have the time. Lord, I wish I could remember the name.’

His head slipped back a little, his face relaxed.

Rachel watched him carefully for a minute, then held the back of her

hand close to his nostrils, like she’d been taught. She placed a ﬁnger on the

side of his neck and waited a whole minute. One of the relatives, a man in

his thirties, looked at her, not daring to ask the question.

She nodded. ‘He’s gone.’

One by one, the relatives ﬁled out. Most at least glanced back at him;

one of his daughters made a show of kissing his cheek, inspiring his other

daughter to do the same.

Then they had gone. Rachel imagined them all downstairs, perhaps

taking a room each and sorting the contents into plunder and litter.

She turned back to Marnal. He looked even smaller and older than be-

fore. Peaceful, though. It felt like she should pray for him or something.

Instead, she went over to the window and closed it. The garden was so

colourful this time of year. A little overgrown, but with splashes of yel-

lows, reds and purples among the dark green. Great trees. A couple of the

younger children had already found their way outside, and were climbing

them like nothing had happened.

‘Life goes on,’ she said.

Rachel turned back to the old man. His skin had some colour to it. She

hadn’t expected that, but then she hadn’t known what to expect. None of

her patients had ever died on her before, not right in front of her eyes.

She’d been told that dead bodies could do strange things.

There was something. . . the old man’s skin was glowing. Ever so faintly,

at least at ﬁrst, but too brightly to be any trick of the light. She didn’t think

that was normal. It was like an overexposed photo now, his eyebrows and

the exact lines of his nose and mouth bleached out.

She stared at the old man’s face, and when it stopped glowing it was a

young man’s face.

Brown eyes snapped open.

‘Gallifrey,’ the young man said.

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摘要：

TheDoctor'shomeplanetofGallifreyhasbeendestroyed.TheTimeLordsaredead,theirTARDISesannihilated.ThemanresponsiblehasbeentrackeddownandluredtoEarthintheyear2005,wheretherewillbenoescape.ButEarthhasotherproblemsamysterioussignalisbeingreceived,asecondmoonappearsinthesky,andaprimordialalienmenacewaitsto...

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