Truyện tiếng anh virgin missing adventures 15 millennial rites craig hinton

 
 


 
 


MILLENNIAL
RITES
Craig Hinton

 
 


First published in Great Britain in 1995 by
Doctor Who Books
an imprint of Virgin Publishing Ltd
332 Ladbroke Grove
London W10 5AH
Copyright © Craig Hinton 1995
The right of Craig Hinton to be identified as the Author of this Work has
been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and
Patents Act 1988.
'Doctor Who' series copyright © British Broadcasting Corporation 1995
ISBN 0 426 20455 7
Cover illustration by Alister Pearson
Typeset by Galleon Typesetting, Ipswich
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
Mackeys of Chatham Ltd

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to
real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the publisher's prior written consent in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

 
 
 


 
 
This book is dedicated
to the memory of my dear friend,
Ian Mitchell Clarke

 
 

 
 


Wer mit Ungeheuern kämpft, mag zusehn, daft er nicht dabei
zum Ungeheuer wird. Und wenn du lange in einen Abgrund
blickst, blickt der Abgrund auch in dich hinein.

He who fights with monsters might take care lest he
thereby become a monster. And if you gaze for long into
an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.
Nietzsche –Jenseits von Gut and Bose
(Beyond Good and Evil)
A sad tale's best for winter.
I have one of sprites and goblins.
Shakespeare – The Winter's Tale

 

1 
 


Prologue
In the Beginning Was the Word
Yeti, Cybermen, Daleks. Ashley Chapel stared at the images
on the three television screens in fascination. On the first,
unstoppable silver figures strode through the deserted streets of
London. The second showed huge furry creatures patrolling
the silent London Underground, while the final video
displayed squat, metallic monsters with their ape-like servants,
engaging army troops outside a country house.
Chapel paused all three recordings and frowned. Thanks to
his sources, he now had all the proof he needed that the Earth
was prey to all manner of alien invasions, and it was only a
matter of time before the planet's valiant defenders – Dame
Anne Travers's precious UNIT – met their match. He sighed.
The Earth needed a man of vision, a man of strength, to unify

and protect.
He thought of his late lamented employer, Tobias Vaughn,
and shook his head. During the five years that he had been
Vaughn's personal assistant, Chapel had bought into his
dreams of unity and direction. The people of Earth were weak
and directionless, and Vaughn had known that he was the only
one who could lead humanity and protect it from conquest.
But Vaughn had made a single mistake: his allies were ill
chosen. The Cybermen had betrayed him, and Vaughn's life
had been the cost of that betrayal.
Chapel stood up and walked over to the window. Outside,
night was falling over London, but he could still make out the
reconstruction work going on at Canary Wharf. He smiled.
When Cesar Pelli's Tower was complete, Chapel fully intended

2 
 


to occupy it with his portfolio of companies. But there were
more pressing matters to attend to that evening.
Opening a cupboard, he pulled out a metal tray holding a
complex assembly of electronic circuits. Very special
electronic circuits.
Vaughn may have died, but his legacy lived on: the micromonolithic circuit, invention of the Cybennen, was Chapel's;
he now owned the patent, and despite its inclusion in virtually
every piece of electronic household equipment, only Chapel
knew of its hidden nature.
For the last five years, he had been experimenting with the
circuit. Vaughn's notes – and Chapel's genius – indicated that

the circuits could be used to boost the latent telepathic
potential of the human mind, and his experiments up till now
validated that idea. But experiments on animals could only
reveal so much; the time had come for the final test of the
circuit's abilities.
Placing the thin metal circlet over his head, Chapel
switched on the device. As a faint humming rose from the
assembly, he concentrated, reaching out with his mind.
Vaughn had first contacted the Cybermen through the
clumsy medium of radio. But radio could lie, radio could hide
the truth. Anybody who heard Chapel's pleas would see the
conviction in his heart, and would be incapable of lying in
return. Chapel would choose his allies wisely, unlike Vaughn,
and those allies would give him the backing he needed to set
the Earth straight once more.
For the briefest of moments, Chapel was convinced that he
could hear Vaughn's mocking laughter, but that was
impossible, wasn't it? And then his mind touched something –
someone. An intellect that burnt more brightly than the sun, an
incandescence of genius that radiated inside Chapel's skull.
Saraquazel.
It wasn't just a name, it was a word of power, of glory, of
majesty. A word that resonated with possibilities, all of which
could now be achieved.
Chapel had found his ally.
Dawn was breaking when Chapel finally severed the link.
Not that he would ever need the device again; he and

3 
 

Saraquazel were bonded. And together, they would usher in a
new age of harmony and prosperity.
A new millennium.

4 
 


Part One
Fin de Siècle

5 
 


One
'Melanie Bush, you really are a sanctimonious old prude,'
snapped Chantal Edwards. 'We're in the nineteen-nineties, not
the eighteen-nineties.' The attractive brunette shook her head.
'You haven't changed, have you?'
Mel's expression didn't waver. Morals were morals,
whatever the century, and her old university friend's brazen
revelation that she was having an affair with a married man
deserved only one response.
`I stand by what I said, Chantal. What about this man's
poor wife? Sitting at home, unaware that her husband's having
yet another romantic tryst with you – how must she be
feeling?' Mel was so indignant that she almost stamped her

feet.
In an attempt to calm down, she looked around the large
room, which was festooned with Christmas decorations and
packed with her contemporaries. And sighed. What secrets
were they hiding? In calendar terms, it had been ten years since
she had last been in the Student Union of the University of
West London; ten years in which her former classmates had
married, had affairs, had babies. But for Melanie Bush, time
traveller, it had only been a couple of years since she had
sipped her orange juice and winced at the noise from the latest
student band. Such were the vagaries of time travel, she
decided, returning her attention to Chantal. 'Well?'
Chantal sighed. 'His wife happens to be doing exactly the
same thing, Melanie,' she continued. 'Only last week, we had
to leave a restaurant because she came in with her toyboy.'
Mel ran a hand through her cascade of red curls. 'Then
you're all as bad as one another. Two wrongs don't make a

6 
 


right, you know.' But she was suddenly acutely aware that
Chantal had gained an experience of life over the last decade
that she had missed out on, and momentarily wondered
whether she should try to temper her high moral stance. Her
friend's next words made her mind up for her.
`So, how's your love life? Or, did you finally decide to
become a professional virgin?' Chantal transfixed her with a
cold stare.

Any response that Mel was composing – and she was
having difficulty – was aborted by the arrival of Julia Prince.
Plain and unremarkable when she had been a student, the last
ten years had affirmed Julia's frumpiness. Mel couldn't
understand why the woman didn't do something about her hair,
her clothes, her make-up; but at least she and Julia had seen
eye-to-eye on those delicate ethical issues.
Julia!' she exclaimed, grasping her hand warmly. 'You look
–' For a second, Mel's natural kindness was almost overridden
by her desire to say something about her friend's appearance.
But her sensitivity won out. 'You haven't changed a bit!' she
gushed.
The woman with the mousy hair tied up in a bun and thick
glasses smiled, revealing slab-like teeth. 'Nor have you,
Melanie. Have you been in suspended animation for the last
ten years?'
Mel smiled contritely. The computer science reunion at
West London University was neither the time nor the place for
her to admit that she had spent the last couple of years in the
company of an eccentric time traveller. Nor could she explain
to Chantal, Julia or any of the others that she had persuaded –
although bullied might have been a better description – that
same time traveller into nipping forward to 1999, so that she
could attend the long-arranged reunion. She thought of a
suitable reply that was both sufficiently evasive yet truthful.
Naturally. She glared at Chantal. 'Healthy living and a clear
conscience – much better than any pills or potions, or –' The
next words were spoken as if blasphemous, and directed
towards the unaware Leonor Pridge and her reshaped nose, 'or
surgery.' Leonor's ears must have burned, because she looked

directly at Mel and gave a tiny wave.

7 
 


`So, what are you doing now?' asked Julia, enthusiastically.
'The lecturers reckoned you were the brightest one out of all of
us.'
Already committed to a discussion on nose-jobs and breast
enhancements, Mel was momentarily stuck for an answer. And
again, she decided to fudge the issue. 'Oh, I've been travelling.
All over, really.'
`I would have thought that you'd have been snapped up by
one of the big computer companies. Or didn't you fancy being
a corporate woman?' said Chantal, making the words 'corporate
woman' sound like 'prostitute'.
Mel's perfectly accurate memory went back to her final
year at West London, when the big companies had turned up to
interview them as part of the so-called `milkround'. Her
qualifications had been impressive, and all the major computer
companies, such as IBM, I2 and Ashley Chapel Logistics, had
offered her jobs.
She had already turned down the place at I2; and after what
the Doctor had told her recently about that particular company,
she was quite relieved. She was as broad-minded as the next
person, but working for a company whose director was a
bionic snake seemed almost unpatriotic. And she clearly
remembered her interview with David Harker, ACL's head of
development; she had been very impressed by what he had to

tell her about the company, and probably would have accepted
the position he offered her as a junior programmer. If the
Doctor hadn't intervened.
`I was going to work for ACL,' Mel replied.
`Then you'd have been looking for another job now,'
Chantal pointed out. 'They're all being made redundant today. I
thought you would have known.'
`It's funny that you should mention ACL,' said Julia,
rescuing Mel from trying to come up with a response to
Chantal. 'It's all thanks to Chapel that this place is here.' She
gestured through a nearby window at the impressive library
and computer block, ten storeys of polished aluminium.
'Ashley Chapel funds the university to the tune of millions. He
baled out the university when it was having financial problems,
and then pumped loads of hard cash into setting up the best

8 
 


compsci department in the country.' She smiled. 'Then again,
I'm biased: I work here. Have done since I graduated.'
`That's right,' agreed Mel. 'I remember you applying for a
place here.' But Julia's account of Ashley Chapel's generosity
was puzzling. She could clearly remember that Chapel had
been considered to be something of a philanthropist, but why
fund West London University, she wondered. Surely it would
have made more sense to go to one of the more prestigious
universities, such as Oxford or Warwick? Before she could say
anything, Julia continued.

`Actually, it's all a bit weird,' she whispered in
conspiratorial tones, ushering Mel and Chantal closer with a
furtive wave. 'One of the conditions of the funding was the
setting up of a research team that reports directly to Chapel.'
`What's so weird about that?' asked Chantal, grabbing
another glass of white wine from the nearest table. 'Most
universities have direct links with industry – it's how they
survive. The company I work for does a lot of work with Luton
Uni's psychology department.'
`That's not what I meant,' said Julia. 'Chapel's team is
working on some really odd stuff, new computer languages,
that sort of thing.'
Mel shrugged. 'Isn't that what they're meant to do?'
But Julia smiled, and Mel got the feeling that she was about
to deliver the coup de grace.
She wasn't wrong. With a drama-laden voice she
announced: 'They've solved Fermat's Last Theorem,
algebraically!'
Mel cocked an eyebrow. A large part of her degree had
included mathematics, and the importance of such a discovery
wasn't lost on her. The algebraic solution to Fermat's Last
Theorem – which stated that equations of the form yn = xn+ zn
were insoluble if n was greater than 2 – had been a
mathematical Holy Grail ever since the seventeenth century,
when the French mathematician Pierre Fermat had indicated
that he had proved it. Unfortunately for mathematics, he had
neglected to write the proof down, claiming that the margin of
his copy of Diophantes had been insufficiently wide to contain

9 

 


it. Others had been trying, and failing, to duplicate his work
ever since. So, solving it was a key mathematical discovery.
`Fine,' said Chantal. 'So the university gets another award,
and everyone's happy.' She leant over and grabbed another
glass of wine. Mel couldn't help tutting: that made six glasses
in the last hour.
`You only get awards if you let people know what you've
done,' Julia stated. 'They proved the Theorem a year ago, but I
haven't seen it published anywhere. Have you?'
This last question was aimed at Mel, who shook her head,
but she was rather behind with her technical journals. Mainly
because the sorts of journals the Doctor had lying around the
TARDIS were a little too esoteric for her tastes, with titles
such as Abstract Meanderings in Theoretical Physics and
Wormhole Monthly.
`All I know is that they solved it, and then kept it quiet. All
seems a bit suspicious to me.' Julia was really pressing her
discovery.
And to me, decided Mel. Filing the information away in her
photographic memory and tagging it so that she would mention
it to the Doctor a little later, she changed the topic of
conversation to fashion. And hair. And make-up. And how
they would dramatically improve Julia's life.
The newly opened Chapel Suite of the Dorchester Hotel
was packed. Surrounded by antique mahogany tables and
Chippendale chairs, with unbelievably heavy crystal
chandeliers hanging overhead, the Civil Service mandarins

floated round the buffet with prim expressions and prissy small
talk, while junior ministers from all four of the major parties
made polite but pointed conversation amongst the wine and the
canapes. And, sitting at the centre of the celebration, trying to
make out that she was enjoying the whole shebang, was a
woman whose expression made it embarrassingly clear that she
wasn't.
Despite the fact that today was her fiftieth birthday, she
was modestly aware that she had aged well: her high
cheekbones and thin, arched eyebrows, coupled with good skin
and doe-like eyes, definitely belied her five decades. And,

10 
 


although her once black hair was now shot through with grey,
she looked ten years younger.
But Dame Anne Travers OBE, scientific advisor to the
Cabinet and reason for the party, was well aware that she was
in great danger of becoming a right party-pooper. All these
people, here to celebrate the fact that she hadn't died yet, all
eating and drinking and taking absolutely no real notice of her,
save the odd 'hello' and 'how are you?' She shuddered at the
hypocrisy of it all. And at the inappropriate choice of location.
She had risen through the ranks, from scientist to civil
servant, before finally replacing Rachel Jensen as chief
scientific advisor to the Cabinet. Anne had held that position
for the last eighteen years, offering her advice and counsel to
successive governments. Every aspect of British scientific

policy had fallen under her remit, from the aborted attempt to
tap geothermal energy early on in her tenure, to the British
Space Programme of the nineteen-eighties. But her greatest
professional success had been the UK branch of UNIT, the
United Nations Intelligence Taskforce; under her, it had
received enough funding to become an example to the rest of
the UN of how to run a paramilitary organization, and repel
alien invasions into the bargain.
But throughout that period, two subjects had been
guaranteed to elicit strong emotions within her: one of UNIT's
earliest enemies, and the man standing on the other side of the
suite that he had paid for, the suite that bore his name. Ashley
Chapel, philanthropist and genius. The man who had destroyed
her father's life. And when she discovered which of her
underlings had reckoned that the Chapel Suite at the
Dorchester would make a perfect place to celebrate her
birthday, she would bounce them around Whitehall and right
out of the door.
`Care for a drink, Dame Anne?' The voice was charming
yet forceful, and Anne couldn't help but look up from her
reverie. The man addressing her was tall and heavily built, and
dressed in the boringly ubiquitous dinner suit worn by all of
the male attendees. His hair was curly and light brown, and his
face was friendly, and obviously capable of deep passions. He

11 
 


was holding two glasses of white wine. Anne rose from her

chair and took a glass.
`Thank you, but I don't believe I've had the pleasure,' she
said, smiling. Falsely.
`I'm afraid you have, Dame Anne,' the man grinned. `But it
was a long, long time ago.' He squeezed her hand. 'I'm the
Doctor.'
Anne stared at him as if he were mad. Which of course he
was: the Doctor was a small man with a mop of dark hair and
an impish expression, a man whose knowledge had helped
both her and her father in their personal crises. A man who
would have understood the problems that weighed so heavily
on her mind. Not this imposing figure who brimmed with
arrogance and bravado.
He stepped back and held up his hands. 'I admit, I'm not
your father's Doctor. But I am the genuine article, all the same.
If you want proof . . .' He placed his glass on a nearby table
and reached into his black jacket, producing an object which
made Anne gasp as he held it on the flat of his left hand.
'Recognize it?' he whispered ominously, rolling the ball around
on his palm.
It was all too familiar – and all too intimate. She grabbed
the shiny silver sphere without asking and turned it over in her
hands as if it burnt. The surface reflected her face and hair in
pink swirls and grey loops of confusion, mirroring both her
looks and feelings.
`Where did you get this?' she hissed. And then louder.
`Where!'
`Hush,' muttered the man, making her aware of the
increasingly curious audience with an askance nod. 'If you
need further proof, I retrieved it from a deactivated Yeti near

the Goodge Street platform of the Northern Line about twentyfive years ago.' His tone changed to one of long-standing
annoyance. 'After Jamie and Colonel Lethbridge-Stewart
accidentally thwarted my plans to destroy the Great
Intelligence, that is.'
Anne staggered back and grabbed the arm of her chair,
ignoring the stares from the other guests, vaguely aware of the
Doctor grabbing the falling sphere with an underhand catch

12 
 


and dropping it into her handbag. A small portion of her mind
accepted the fact that the stranger was the same man who had
helped her father against the Intelligence in the Tibetian
mountains, who had then turned up forty years later – looking
not a day older – to fight the same evil in a web-ensnared
London. It was helped by the circumstantial evidence:
LethbridgeStewart's mysterious scientific advisor, instrumental
in the two Auton attacks, the Axon presence, the Zygon gambit
with the Loch Ness Monster; wasn't that scientific advisor
called 'the Doctor'? And a report that had arrived on her desk
only a few months ago – from Brigadier Winifred Bambera,
wasn't it? – had mentioned the invaluable help provided by
UNIT's former scientific advisor in the Carbury situation. And
weren't there four totally different descriptions of this 'Doctor':
a scruffy clown, a debonair dandy, a bohemian, and an imp
with a Scots' burr? Why shouldn't this tall man with his fruity
expression and cat-like manner be yet another version of the
same person?

Glorious, glorious rationalization. But it didn't stand a
chance against the deep-seated terror that preyed on her mind
every second of the waking day, and in every corner of her
nightmares. Her greatest fear, and it was intimately connected
with the Doctor. She couldn't help the outburst that exploded
from her.
`So why the hell have you come this time? Another
visitation by the Intelligence?' She knew that she was shouting,
but she didn't care. She didn't care about the mandarins with
their holier-than-thou expressions. She wasn't worried about
the Leader of the Opposition, all handbag and perm, raising her
eyebrows in indignation. She ignored Prince William's alarmed
look. She didn't even care about Ashley Chapel himself, who
turned from his conversation with the Defence Minister and
gave her a quizzical stare. All she cared about was that her
greatest fears stood personified in front of her, greeting her like
a long lost friend, his handshake the precursor to death and
horror and alien invasion.
`No,' he said quietly, smiling with understanding. 'I've
come to celebrate your birthday.'

13 
 


She deflated, sinking her body into the chair and her face in
her hands. 'I – I'm sorry.'
The Doctor knelt down next to her. 'That sounded like a
heart-felt plea for help, Anne.' He grabbed her shaking hand.
'Would you like to tell me about it?'

Anne's feelings were in turmoil. This had been meant as a
happy occasion, one where she could wallow in the plaudits
and praise from her friends, rivals and outright enemies, while
nibbling the odd vol-au-vent and passing an inconsequential
few words with the Chief Whip or a minor Whitehall dignitary.
And although things had started badly – the Chapel Suite,
indeed – she hadn't really been prepared to enjoy herself
anyway. But seeing the Doctor was making it unimaginably
worse, bringing back all the dreadful memories that had
haunted her over the last twenty-five years, since her first
encounter with the Great Intelligence and its furry robot
hordes.
She didn't move from the chair, aware that her whole body
was shivering uncontrollably. 'I've kept it to myself for all
these years,' she whispered, an admission and a plea in one.
`I think we need to talk,' said the Doctor reassuringly. `At
least, you need to talk.'
She dabbed at her eyes with a paper tissue, hurriedly
retrieved from her handbag. And managed a weak smile. `I –
I'd like that.'
Barry Brown sauntered down the wide corridor, hands in
suit pockets. Possibly not the demeanour expected from a
professional, but he didn't really give a toss. Today was his last
day of gainful employment, and if his bosses took offence at
his casual manner, what difference would it make? Eventually,
he would have to clear his desk of personal belongings, but
that could wait. He was more concerned about the people he
was going to miss than a few old journals and a couple of outdated books.
He reached the double doors that led into the next section
of the office area – in truth, the whole office was nothing more

than a vast, open square, partitioned into smaller areas by
yellow metal walls and glass doors – and caught his reflection

14 
 


in the glass: he knew that he was cursed with one of those
permanently miserable-looking faces, but even he was
surprised by exactly how dejected he seemed. He brushed his
light brown fringe out of his eyes and tutted at his collar length
hair; with all the recent upsets, he had totally forgotten to get it
cut. It was time he got somebody to cheer him up. Or make
them as miserable as he felt, he decided maliciously.
He reached the third bay in the area and crept round the
partition. Louise Mason was furiously typing at the keyboard
of her Tablette computer, watching the words appear on the
LCD screen with absolutely no enthusiasm – just desperation.
`Ciggie?' he whispered in her ear, smiling with satisfaction
as she jumped in her seat.
`Oh, it's you,' she gasped, putting her hand on her chest.
'You half scared me to death.' She nodded at the slim black
Tablette on her desk, before running a hand through her blonde
hair.
`Well?' asked Barry.
`What? Oh, a cigarette.' She shrugged. 'Yeah, why not?'
Although Louise didn't smoke, she was as much a regular in
the smoking room as any of the twenty-a-day brigade.
Barry raised an eyebrow. 'Because Derek Peartree might be
in there?' he laughed.

The rumours of redundancies had first started back in
September, three months ago, and the ACL gossip network –
infinitely more efficient than the Internet, and usually
coordinated by himself and Louise from the depths of the
smoking room, where most of the rumours originated – had
gone into overdrive, especially given the mysterious
circumstances surrounding the bankruptcy of the company's
long-time rival, I2. All manner of possibilities had been
mooted, but the truth had come in the form of a terse e-mail
message to all employees. With a few exceptions, everyone
would be made redundant on 30 December.
Derek Peartree had been the person who had appeared to
take it worst of all. The first reports of his behaviour in the
smoking room had been greeted with disbelief by the gossip
network. But, after a number of reliable witnesses had seen
him crying openly, he became one of the few bits of

15 
 


entertainment to liven up the increasingly depressing
atmosphere. Eventually, very few people in the company had
failed to encounter the weeping programmer, boring everyone
stupid with the same old anecdotes and the same old emotions.
Louise shook her head. 'No fear of that,' she said. 'He's off
with the outplacement consultants.'
ACL's term for an up-market job club, Barry mused. He
fiddled with her mouse. 'Then I hope they've stocked up with
kleenex.' He pointed at the screen, where a table of schools,

qualifications and experience stared back at him. 'Another
CV?' he asked, rhetorically.
Louise stood up, smoothing down her ankle-length green
skirt and adjusting her white blouse. And then she shrugged
and gave a wry smile. 'Of course. Some of us have got to find
new jobs.' There was venom in the statement, but it wasn't
aimed at Barry. Rather, it was aimed down the corridor, where
the advanced research group sat. The fifteen members of that
particular team were the only survivors of the sweeping cuts in
ACL headcount that Ashley Chapel had decreed, and, by six
o'clock that night, they would be the only people still
employed by the company.
`Calm down. It's not going to do any good if we upset
Chapel's chosen few, is it?' Barry was well aware of the threat
of 'retroactive dismissal' that senior management had leaked to
the gossip network: if you displeased Chapel in any way, he
was well within his rights to demand the generous redundancy
payment back. Not something that either Barry or Louise could
really afford, given the current Government's position on state
benefits.
The flush faded from her cheeks. 'I suppose not. Anyway,
how's your job search going?'
Barry looked up from correcting her spelling with a
puzzled look. And then realized. 'I forgot to tell you: I've been
accepted on that catering course. I'll be doing that for the next
three months.' He grinned as he dreamt about a future of haute
cuisine, far away from technical manuals and bad-tempered
programmers. Food – both cooking it and eating it – was his
greatest passion, as his waistline proclaimed, and the course
promised a three-month respite from the dole queue.

16 
 


She smiled. 'Well done. And there was me thinking that
you were going to become an award-winning novelist.'
He pointed at the gold- and silver-jacketed book that lay on
Louise's desk: Programmer's Reference Guide to the ACL
Probe Language. 'That's hardly going to win me the Booker
Prize, is it?'
Louise pulled Barry from the chair by his sleeve and pulled
him towards the corridor. 'Given your last three work
appraisals, I doubt it.'
With an ironic grunt, Barry followed her past the morbid
people who were worrying about their future, and the few
smug people who weren't. Well, someone had to keep her in
check, didn't they? He still remembered narrowly preventing
her from barging into Chapel's office and giving him a piece of
her mind when the news of their imminent redundancy had
been announced. 'I've got a good feeling about the future. I
mean, the new millennium and all that? A new beginning for
all of us.'
`Thanks for the platitudes,' said Louise, but she wasn't
laughing. 'I'll remember that when I'm queuing up to collect
my job-seekers' allowance after the redundancy money runs
out. Then again, it's all right for you. You haven't got any
responsibilities.'
Barry winced. 'Thank you for reminding me of my marital
status, Lou. That's just what I need.'

`Oh, I'm sorry,' she said. 'I didn't mean it like that –'
He held up a hand to stop her. 'I know, I know. Cassie,' he
stated.
`Who else? I'm a single parent and I'm about to be made
redundant. What reason have I got to look forward to the year
2000?'
As the atmosphere grew ever more morbid, they reached
the double doors that led from the office area to the toilets, lifts
and smoking room, and Barry felt a slight moment of nausea in
the pit of his stomach; David Harker, Chapel's head of
programming development and right-hand man, was coming
the other way. The atmosphere plummeted even further.
While Ashley Chapel's presence was mainly due to his
charismatic personality, Harker's was a direct result of his

17 
 


physical appearance. He was large, in the way that brick walls
are large. And grey, in the way that battleships are grey. This
was reinforced by a couple of things: his never-changing grey
suit (Barry suspected that Harker had a wardrobe full of them)
and his never-changing expression: grumpy. Actually, that
wasn't strictly true: he did smile, occasionally. And then
everyone knew that it was time to run for cover. But the
Harker pushing open the door was the grumpy version, so
Barry relaxed, and hurried Louise forward before she could
launch into yet another tirade. He reached into his suit jacket
and felt for his cigarettes and lighter.

As soon as Louise opened the door of the smoking room,
she realized her error. She should have peered through the
frosted glass porthole in the door and checked before barging
in. But it was too late now; Barry was pushing past her, and
Louise tried to suppress a smirk at his horrified expression.
Derek Peartree was in the smoking room.
Barry sat down in one of the plastic chairs and lit up;
Louise sat opposite and shrugged. At least Derek didn't seem
to be crying.
`I thought you were supposed to be with the outplacement
consultants?' asked Barry, politely.
Derek leaned back in his chair and smiled, revealing a
mouthful of uneven and yellowing teeth. 'Well, that's where
you're wrong, Mister Brown,' he said unctuously, and Louise
shuddered. The man had no redeeming features. 'I don't need to
go searching for another position, so I don't need those dogooders tearing my CV apart and telling me that my skills
aren't marketable any more.' He scratched at the scraggly beard
that just about covered his pointed chin.
`You've got a job?' replied Barry. 'That's – that's great,' he
finished, trying to sound pleased for him. And failing.
`Indeed I have, young man.' He took another cigarette from
the packet on the table and lit it. Oh God, thought Louise. If
only we'd been five minutes later. 'I've taken up Mister
Chapel's most generous offer –'
`You've taken the King's shilling? You're joining Chapel's
private army?' Barry sounded both surprised and angry, and

18 
 

Louise could understand why; they were out on their ears, and
someone like Derek was staying on? It just didn't seem fair.
`Doing what, exactly?' asked Louise.
Derek stopped trying to peer down her blouse and frowned.
'My dear young lady, I can't tell you that. As a member of
Mister Chapel's advanced research team, I appreciate the needto-know basis of the work that's going on. And since neither of
you were considered suitable material for the team, it wouldn't
be my place to speak out of turn, would it?'
Louise sighed. She wasn't sure what was worse: Derek as
an emotional wreck, or Derek as a supercilious old fart.
Deciding that the latter was by far the more disagreeable, she
stubbed out her cigarette and indicated for Barry to do the
same.
`Sorry, Derek, must dash. Things to do,' she muttered.
`Such as?' he whined. 'You're being made redundant, aren't
you?'
She bit her lip. 'Packing, that sort of thing.' She followed
Barry through the door, as Derek carried on talking. The fact
that there was no audience any more didn't seem to slow him
down. Then again, Derek Peartree had always been his own
best audience.
`I have a meeting with Mister Chapel later on this evening,
when he'll tell me the important role I'm going to play in his
operation . . .'
As the droning voice faded in the distance, Barry shook his
head. 'Member of the advanced research team? He's not even
fit to be a member of the human race.'
`So, what was all that about?' asked the Doctor, handing
Anne Travers a glass of Australian Chardonnay. He had led

her to a private inglenook, well away from the fawning and
inquisitive dignitaries, in a quieter room in the Dorchester: two
leather armchairs, a low mahogany table, and a wonderful
view of Hyde Park, covered in snow. Very festive, Anne
decided.
She sipped the wine and smiled. A 1994 – a good vintage.
After all these years of holding back, of bottling up her hidden
horrors, the knowledge that she was just about to release it all

19 
 


was akin to the anticipation of having sex, and the wine was a
perfect accompaniment. Indeed, this current incarnation of the
Doctor wasn't that bad looking. But it was time to ease her
conscience rather than fulfil her repressed libido. 'The Great
Intelligence,' she stated.
The Doctor frowned. 'What about it? It was defeated almost
thirty years ago. I repelled it from its human host and left it
adrift in the void.'
`It came back four years ago, Doctor. Or didn't that
particular invasion merit your attention?' she added spitefully.
He stroked his chin. 'As a matter of fact, no, it didn't.
Earth's defenders – the defenders that you've devoted your
career to supporting – managed to overcome its perfidy
without my assistance.'
She had to admit that the Doctor was correct. The forces of
UNIT, bolstered by some old friends, had proved victorious,
but the cost had been in a coinage that she had not been

prepared to pay. 'Whether it was defeated or not, Doctor, the
fact remains that it returned.' She shook her head. 'It's all my
fault, isn't it?' She stared at him, masochistically hoping for
both blame and benediction. 'I brought the Intelligence to
Earth, didn't I?'
The Doctor sighed: 'Would you like to hear a story about
the Great Intelligence?' He reached out and grabbed her hand.
Anne squeezed it. 'I'd like that.' Facing up to your demons,
wasn't that what you were meant to do?
The Doctor took a deep breath and picked up one of the
doilies that lay on the table, protecting the varnished surface
from the bowl of complimentary nuts. 'Before this universe
was created, there was another one. A totally different
universe, with alien physical laws. The heavens were green,
and the stars looked like –' He chuckled. `Giant doughnuts, to
be brutally frank. Very, very different. And, as in this universe,
there were people who discovered the deeper mysteries of time
and space. In this universe, they're my people, the Time Lords.
In that universe, they were also Time Lords, but they were
lords of a very strange version of time and space.' His gaze
shifted to the window and the snowy wastes of Hyde Park, but

20