54 - Anachrophobia

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Imagine a war. A war that has lasted centuries, a war which has

transformed an entire planet into a desolate No Man’s Land. A war where

time itself is being used as a weapon.

You can create zones of decelerated time and bring the enemy troops to a

standstill. You can create storms of accelerated time and reduce the

opposition to dust in a matter of seconds.

But now the war has reached a stalemate. Neither the Plutocrats nor the

Defaulters have made any gains for over a hundred years.

The Doctor, Fitz and Anji arrive at Isolation Station Forty, a military

research establishment on the verge of a breakthrough. A breakthrough

which will change the entire course of the war.

They have found a way to send soldiers back in time. But time travel is a

primitive, unpredictable and dangerous business. And not without its

sinister side effects. . .

This is another in the series of original adventures for the Eighth Doctor.

Anachrophobia

Jonathan Morris

Published by BBC Worldwide Ltd

Woodlands, 80 Wood Lane

London W12 0TT

First published 2002

Jonathan Morris 2002

The moral right of the author has been asserted

Original series broadcast on the BBC

Format c

BBC 1963

Doctor Who and TARDIS are trademarks of the BBC

ISBN 0 563 53847 3

Imaging by Black Sheep, copyright c

BBC 2002

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of

Chatham

Cover printed by Belmont Press Ltd, Northampton

Contents

Chapter One 4

Chapter Two 22

Chapter Three 42

Chapter Four 62

Chapter Five 81

Chapter Six 101

Chapter Seven 120

Chapter Eight 138

Chapter Nine 155

Chapter Ten 173

Chapter Eleven 191

Chapter Twelve 206

Acknowledgements 228

About the Author 229

To Ann and George

Chapter One

As always Oake’s thoughts turned to death. It would be soon, he knew; he

felt it with every shudder of the van, with every cigarette-warmed breath,

with every shadow that dropped to a mournful bow as they passed by.

But the thought of death held no terrors. He had heard the screams of

too many soldiers for that. He had cradled someone in his arms, her skin

cooling to the touch. He had pumped bullets into strangers and felt nothing

as they jerked into the mud. It was a comfort, to know that soon it would

all be extinguished. Oake valued his own life as little as that of the enemy.

No, death held no terrors. But the means –

A bullet, its impact pulping the innards? The burn of a gas attack? A

snow-blanketed corpse? These deaths were quick. Easy. No, the real horror

was reserved for the new death. The death that ﬁlled every nightmare.

Oake sucked the smoke into his lungs and held it there for comfort, his

body rocking. Ahead, picked out in the glare, the snow swirled towards

them like a starﬁeld. The wipers batted the slush into the corners of the

windscreen. The van’s engines whined as it pitched over potholes, the

mountain road winding down into a forest of skeletal trees. Beyond the

beams of the headlights, there was nothing. The road rolled out of a restless

blackness, dipping into patterned sludge or rising into the brilliance of a

fresh snowfall.

The air inside the van was freezing, bringing blood to the skin and biting

the lips. The ﬁttings rattled at every bump and the dog masks overhead

nodded dolefully. The dashboard clock read ﬁve-twenty. It was nearly

morning, thought Oake, though on this planet there would be no dawn.

Twenty-nine hours had passed since they had left Station One. According

to the clock. On this planet, in this never-ending dead of night, it was easy

to lose track of time.

Oake stubbed the exhausted roll-up into the ashtray and shifted to look

into the tarpaulin-covered rear section of the van. He could see eight ﬁg-

ures in the gloom. They huddled into their thick protective suits, their eyes

blanked with goggles, juddering with the motion of the van.

CHAPTER ONE 5

As they rounded a corner, Oake turned to face the road. It was blocked.

The outlines of black vehicles. An enemy barricade.

For two long seconds, Oake found himself staring ahead. Then he re-

acted.

‘They’ll have mined the road,’ he yelled. ‘Get off the bloody road!’

The driver swung the steering wheel to the right and crunched down

the gears. But the road was sheer ice and the wheels had locked into a

skid. Reacting too late, the driver parried the van away, revving it hard and

heaving them towards the edge of the road. For a moment the wheels were

spinning against thin air, then they dipped and jolted down the incline.

The rocks beneath them ﬂung the van from side to side. The branches

of the trees thwacked into the windscreen, scraping away the wipers. The

headlights went out. The windscreen shattered. The engine died. The

driver dragged at the wheel, but there was nothing he could do.

Oake was not afraid. He would be free soon. He thought of the other

deaths he had shared. The smell of antiseptic and corridors echoing with

footsteps. Her eyes, ﬁlled with fear and wet with tears. Her skin, pale and

growing cold –

The impact slammed through his body and the seat belt knifed into his

shoulder. And then all was darkness.

Oake opened his eyes to ﬁnd the side window was under him. Overhead,

the driver’s corpse swung from its belt. The engines were dead and all was

silent, bar the creak of metal. He could smell leaking fuel. He struggled out

of his belt and kicked away the shards of windscreen. He grabbed a head-

mask, bundled it into his pocket and, feet ﬁrst, edged his way through the

windscreen and out into the night.

A cold gust whipped into his body and rolled him down the incline. He

spread his arms and pressed his leather-gloved hands to the ground. For

a moment, he lay and listened to the wind and the bustling of the trees.

Flecks of snowﬂakes gathered on his goggles.

Leaning into the blizzard, he picked himself up and struggled around

the vehicle. The tarpaulin had detached from the framework and was ﬂap-

ping as though trying to escape its moorings. Oake strained to make out

anything; everything was just shadows amongst shadows.

Four of the soldiers were dead. Their bodies lay piled against the side

of the van, already covered in a crust of snow. Within a few minutes,

they would be completely buried. Another soldier was nearly dead. His

legs and arms were twisted. Oake trudged towards him, ﬁghting to stay

upright. Closer, he could see that the soldier had become impaled on one

of the supporting struts. He too would soon be buried.

CHAPTER ONE 6

Of the three remaining soldiers, one limped, his left leg barely able to

support his weight. The other two were unharmed but shivering in shock.

‘Names?’ Oake shouted over the roar of the wind.

The limping soldier said, ‘Combe.’

‘Heath,’ said one of the others through chattering teeth. ‘Heath.’

‘Bishop.’

Oake acknowledged with a nod. ‘We have to move. The defaulters will

be here soon.’

‘Which way?’ said Combe, patting together his snow-caked gloves.

Oake surveyed the blackness, one arm sheltering his vision. The slope

led down into a forest. Nothing but trees and rocks. It would provide cover,

at least. ‘This way.’

‘What about the others?’ said Heath. ‘And –’

‘We don’t have any choice.’

Oake climbed into the back of the van and scrabbled under the benches.

He felt several heavy cylinders. He pulled out one riﬂe and passed it to

Bishop, then retrieved riﬂes for himself, Heath and Combe. He checked the

ammunition before clicking off their safeties and handing them over. ‘You

got your dog masks?’

They all nodded.

‘Good,’ Oake instinctively patted his suit to make sure his own gas mask

was at hand, ‘then let’s go.’

They made their way down into the forest. Sheltered from the storm,

the wind soon faded and the only noise was the scrunch-scrunch of their

boots.

Suddenly an intense light picked out the trees. There were shadows ev-

erywhere, including those of Oake and his fellow soldiers, giants dappling

over the ground. A moment later and they were plunged back into the

darkness.

Oake turned. In the distance, maybe thirty yards behind them, two

searchlights, their beams scanning the surrounding forest. No, three

searchlights. Four. The beams glanced back and forth, creating wraiths

from the mist.

‘Defaulters,’ said Combe.

‘Come on.’ Oake dropped to a crouch and ran, piling bodily through the

underbrush.

One of the soldiers called out, ‘Sir!’

Combe had tripped into the knee-deep snow. He pulled himself upright

and stood, his silhouette haloed in the beams of a searchlight.

A shot rang out, and another. Combe’s body crumpled under the im-

pacts and he fell, face down and dead.

CHAPTER ONE 7

The defaulters ﬁred again, and again as Oake ushered his two com-

panions forward. They had no choice but to keep moving. They pounded

down through the forest, skidding on the scree and scrambling over boul-

ders. Oake never looked back.

They must have been running for twenty minutes before Oake ﬁnally called

for them to stop. Bishop and Heath piled up to him, gasping, as he gave

the signal for silence.

There were no lights. Gunshots rang out in the distance.

‘They’ve stopped,’ said Heath hoarsely. ‘We’ve lost them.’

Oake dug into his pockets and pulled out a torch. He clicked it on,

keeping the beam low.

‘Where are we going now, sir?’ said Bishop, his young face lit a ghostly

white.

‘We’ll wait, and then head back to the road. We can follow it back to the

nearest station.’

‘What about the defaulters?’

‘We’ll just have to keep our eyes open.’ Oake huddled into his suit.

Something was making him nervous. The defaulters did not usually give

up so easily.

He circled with the torch. They had reached the edge of a steep-walled

gorge. The snow whirled around them, catching on their fur-lined hoods

and their beards. The wind was joined by an eerie howling. The trees

creaked in the breeze, their arms dancing.

The creaks of the trees grew louder as though, one by one, they were

coming to life. The storm gathered in intensity. Soon it took all Oake’s

strength to remain upright, and he grabbed a nearby tree for support. The

wind grew stronger still. It rose to a scream. The rustle of the trees became

a constant rushing.

It meant only one thing. The death that ﬁlled every nightmare. As Oake

realised, his heart pounded in panic. So this was it.

‘Time storm!’ screamed Heath.

‘Get your masks on!’ yelled Oake. He dug his head-mask out of his

pocket and tugged it over his face. The material of the baggy, balaclava-like

hood was coarse and chafed against his skin. Next, he strapped the bottom

of the mask into the neck of his suit to form a protective seal. The wind

tugged at Oake’s fumbling thick-gloved hands, but, after what seemed like

a lifetime, he had each strap secured. Light-headed with relief, he fastened

the ﬁnal buckles. This made the suit completely airtight, an impenetra-

ble TR body-bag. He was completely enclosed in a claustrophobic, smelly

world.

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摘要：

Imagineawar.Awarthathaslastedcenturies,awarwhichhastransformedanentireplanetintoadesolateNoMan'sLand.Awarwheretimeitselfisbeingusedasaweapon.Youcancreatezonesofdeceleratedtimeandbringtheenemytroopstoastandstill.Youcancreatestormsofacceleratedtimeandreducetheoppositiontodustinamatterofseconds.Butnowt...

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54 - Anachrophobia

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