First plumbed in England in 2003 by Telos Publishing Ltd

61 Elgar Avenue, Tolworth, Surrey KT5 9JP, England

www.

telos.

co.

uk

ISBN:

1-903889-26-X (standard hardback)

Companion Piece © 2003 Mike Tucker & Robert Perry

Foreword © 2003 Revd Colin Midlane

Icon © 2003 Nathan Skreslet

ISBN: 1-903889-27-8 (deluxe hardback)

Companion Piece © 2003 M ike Tucker & Robert Perry

Foreword C 2003 Revd Colin M idlane

Icon C 2003 Nathan Skreslet

Frontispiece C 2003 Allan Bednar

The moral rights of the author have been asserted

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device mark and logo are trade marks of the British

Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence from BBC W orldwide Limited.

Doctor W ho logo C BBC 1996. Certain character names and characters within this book appeared in the BBC television series '

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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

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s

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whirr of K9 in the distance,

stumbling over the stones — wretched dog! — and

Romana,

coming t

o t

he rescue.

I sink down int

o t

he deck-chair,

envel

oped

not

by a l

ong scarf

but

by t

he heat

and swirl

ing sea mist

.

Cl

ut

ching t

he t

ext

of Companion Piece, I drift away, into the future and the Doctor'

s sevent

h

incarnat

ion.

Companion Piece intrigues me.

Both Doctor Who and '

religion'

have

always intrigued me. One of the two has never failed to entrance, inspire

and enthral me, and give me j

oy.

Some of my favourite Doctor Who stories are still the early historical ones, such as The Aztecs or The Massacre of St Bartholomew's Eve, where religion and politics were driving forces.

In some other stories religious

groups became too much of a cliché:

robed and cowled men (never un-

robed women) chanting, sacrificing virgins, their psychic energy awaking

ancient, long-dormant alien beings.

In Companion Piece religion comes in with a bang!

No one expects

the Holy Inquisition!

And, of course, to make the Church the villain is

a good hook.

After all, '

bad'

perverted religion still sells newspapers,

whereas '

good'

religion rarely makes the press.

To describe this book as

a religious story would be an instant turn-off, but Robert Perry and

Mike Tucker have succeeded in creating a Roman Catholic culture in the

28th century whi

ch resonates with popular knowledge of that tradition

today and builds on our reaction to it.

This novella breaks new ground

for Doctor Who because it raises so many explicitly theological questions.

M any of these questions are voiced by new companion Cat and are

ones that most of us ask at some point. In my experience, most people, althoughperhaps uninterested in organised religion, are fascinated by the ultimate spiritual questions, looking for the meaning or purpose of life itself. So Cat asks how we can have faith when we see so much evil.

W hat happens after death? Is there such a thing as a '

soul'

? This may

lead us on to other, equally basic questions, such as what it means to be human.

Is '

God'

interested in other, non-human beings? W hat value

has the life of a dolphin or an alien being .

.

.

or a Cyberman?

Books of Christian doctrine (and of other faiths) attempt to provide

answers to some of Cat'

s questions, although I'

ve yet to see a Vatican

pronouncement on the status of alien life-forms . . . Personally, not always sitting comfortably with narrow or rigid '

answers'

or definitions, whether

of the Protestant or Catholic tradition, I find the title of `Christian agnostic'

a respectable one. Faith does imply living with difficult questions, be they theological, ethical or whatever, and often living without all the answers.

Christianity (and the ancient Jewish creation stories) seeks to explain

the uniqueness of humanity and what it means to be truly human —

made in the image of God, with the capacity to relate and to love, to be

creative, to share in responsibility and in care for planet Earth. The concept of '

soul'

(meaning we are more than j

ust the physical and emotional)

almost symbolises the link between creature and Creator and eternal

element, and the essence of the person.

Angican priest and poet David

Scott says (in his Moments of Prayer SPCK, 1997) that the soul is that

—

part of us which responds to God.

He is reminded of black box flight

recorders on planes, which preserve crucial details and hold the secrets,

the story;

the soul records the way we are in the eyes of God.

There is also in many faiths a strong tradition of the sacredness of all creation and of the love of God for all his creation.

Is it, therefore, not

impossible that alien beings have souls, the ability to relate to God?

W ould they, in their own particular world or situation, need their own

Christ figure, to fulfil their spiritual need?

Perhaps the frightening prospect of the Cyberman, an even more

chilling possibility today than nearly forty years ago, may help us to

define what we mean by '

being human.

Originally human themselves,

do they retain their own soul or do they mark the end-point, once free

will and emotions have been engineered out of the person?

Religion has an inherent power and can easily become oppressive and

manipulative. In this novella, on the planet Haven, it produces a reaction

of fear, and fear itself is one of its motivating forces.

Freedom poses a

threat to it, so religion is prepared to fight and kill for orthodoxy.

Del

Toro'

s Church, with its wealth and militia, demonstrates the corruptive

tendency of power and is a perversion of the true aims of religion.

Similar corruption has been explored in the Gallifreyan corridors of

power and perhaps the Seventh Doctor, more frequently than his

preceding incarnations, is aware of his personal capacity for the use or

abuse of power.

Manipulation for good or bad? The Seventh Doctor

lives in a grey area, rather than one of black and white morality.

Previously, in many adventures, the Doctor had an almost Christ-like

role — he comes into a world and shows it a better way forward with

good overcoming evil, solutions given to problems, the healing of a

situation, and the gift of hope.

But the Seventh Doctor often sets in

motion events that can either save or destroy.

W e see the responsibility

that must accompany knowledge and power, and the possible subsequent

agonies of conscience.

'

W e did good, didn'

t we, Professor?'

The Doctor, so often respectful of alien creeds and cultures, sees

straight through the trappings of Del Toro'

s Church, identifies the evil

threat that has to be countered, then plunges into the conflict.

It'

s left to

Patriarch Julian, physically the frailest, most vulnerable character, to

represent the more traditional face of '

good'

religion and to express the

value of love and hope, wisdom and compassion, and to echo the Gospel

worlds, '

You must become like a little child:

W ithin the conflict, those

values may seem as frail and vulnerable as Julian himself, but we know

that they are also very dear to the Doctor'

s own hearts.

Images run t

hrough my mind .

.

.

Got

hic but

t

ressed spaceships.

Tort

ure

chambers.

Kil

l

er priest

s.

Heret

ic Time Lords.

The Doct

or al

ongside a new

companion .

.

.

What

woul

d t

he Archbishop have made of

al

l

t

his?

Revd Colin Midlane,

Parish Priest & Hospital Chaplain,

Brighton,

August 03

space in a blaze of ionised particles and swung silently into its allotted

orbit.

W arp engines vented plasma and powered down, and slim aero-

dynamic wings slid gracefully from their housings.

Junior navigator Ellen Trellawn punched co-ordinates into the flight

computer and slumped back into her seat, waiting for the confirmation

signal from traffic control to proceed.

She stared through the forward

view-port at the planet that hung below her.

Haven — a patchwork of

blue and gold, green and bronze — hung against the inky blackness of

space;

unspoiled, innocent.

And the last place in the galaxy that she

wanted to be arriving at.

'

Cheer up;

we won'

t be down there that long.

'

Her co-pilot — the only other occupant of the cramped, functional

flight deck — was grinning across at her from his adjacent seat.

Charles

Dolbyn was an old hand at this cargo run, a veteran with nearly seven

hundred hours in warp. Something he never let her forget. He unsnapped

his flight harness, rose to his feet and peered down over her shoulder.

`Sure it doesn'

t appeal to you? There are people who would give up

anything to settle on a planet like this.

Unspoilt atmosphere, lazy pace

of life, no technology.

'

Ì happen to like technology. I'

m a girl who likes her creature comforts.'

`Fresh air, open spaces.'

`No shops, no restaurants.

'

`Lots of well-built farmers .

.

.

'

Ellen clouted him with her cap.

'

Give it up, Charles.

I'

m not about to

go back to nature:

A harsh buzzer sounded.

Ellen nodded at the control console.

'

That'

s

our clearance.

You'

d better take us down.

'

`Yes, ma'

am.

'

Charles slid back into his chair, grinning from ear to

ear, and refastened his harness.

The cargo ship started to bank, the planet sliding from Ellen'

s view.

Filters slid automatically into place over the view-port as the sun swung

across in front of her.

There was a lurch as the ship touched the atmo-

sphere.

`Here we go;

said Charles.

Ellen swallowed hard to clear her ears, and sighed.

Eight days on

Haven whilst their ship was loaded with grain.

Eight days with nothing

to do but stay inside the compound and get drunk.

Contact with the

indigenous population was kept to a minimum — not that she had any

great desire to meet them. The planet was crude. Simple. Uncomplicated.

God, if it hadn'

t been for the famine out on the backworlds, then first

contact would never have been made.

The ship straightened and the planet loomed large in the view-port

once more.

A planet of fields and crops, a planet of food.

It was that

abundance of natural resources that had persuaded the old Council of

Settlers to land on Haven in the first place — to break one of their most

sacred laws:

'

Don'

t contact a people until they'

re evolved enough to be

contacted:

Hunger had seen their noble rules consigned to the trash —

where the Council had feared to tread, the Church had gone boldly

forward, marching as to war, and all that.

A series of electronic beeps rang around the flight deck as Charles

lined the Saint Augustine up on her glide path.

The beeps merged into a

steady tone as the ship homed in on the cathedral beacon.

Saint Saviour'

s, Braak.

It must be.

One of the great wonders of the

new worlds.

Gothic, ancient looking, and built less than twenty years

ago.

Already a popular site for pilgrims from all over the rimworlds.

Pilgrimages had died out on the old planets centuries ago, but not out

here, where the Church had made initial contact with dozens of systems.

As was the case with most of the backworlds, the Church practically

owned Haven now.

Space port taxes for using cathedral landing pads,

export duty;

the entire operation was controlled and run by the Church,

and they had to be coining it in.

Ellen'

s stomach lurched as the air brakes roared into life and the

freighter dropped towards the planet'

s surface. As on every other landing

that she had ever made, Ellen clutched at the small Saint Christopher

medal that hung around her neck, and mentally kicked herself for her

superstition.

The roar of the descending transport boomed across the cliff tops. Anne-

Marie struggled with the reins of her plough as her two kreekgs started

at the sound.

She looked up at the vapour trail cutting across the sky,

and cursed under her breath.

She pulled the animals to a halt and hopped down from the plough.

The kreekgs shook their heads and grunted as she smoothed their

muzzles and cooed softly to them.

The roar of the shuttle settled into a

low rumble, like distant thunder.

Anne-Marie could see it arcing down

over the horizon. It was probably heading for one of the prairie cities —

Treel or Braak, one of the cathedral cities.

She stared at the fading trail against the blue of the sky, wondering

what these strangers from other worlds were like.

Apart from the priests

and monks and other Church functionaries who mingled freely with

the populace, in twenty years no one had ever actually seen an off-

worlder.

They took the grain that was grown, the crops that were

harvested, they paid good money to the farmers that worked the fields,

but they remained mysterious, almost mythic figures.

The old men in the taverns were always quick to offer their stories

about what the strangers were like;

that they were tall, blue-skinned

giants with flaming hair;

that they were so ugly that only the holiest of

Church men could bear to set eyes on them.

Anne-Marie had heard

dozens of different tales since she was a child, and had believed none of

them.

One of the kreekgs lowed softly, pawing at the ground with a hoof.

Anne-Marie scratched its ears.

'

Don'

t worry.

It'

s j

ust the machines of

the off-worlders:

The animal shook its head free of her grasp, its eyes wide with fear.

It

butted at its companion'

s side, straining against the straps of the plough.

Anne-Marie frowned.

The animals had heard the transport noise before,

and it always startled them, but they soon quietened down.

Now they

seemed to be getting more and more agitated.

She caught hold of the reins, trying to calm the skittish beasts.

W ith

a bellow of fear, the animals reared up, j

erking Anne-Marie off her feet

and sending her sprawling in the furrowed earth.

She scrabbled

desperately to catch hold of the reins as kreekgs and plough set off at an

oblique angle across the field, the steel blades cutting a ragged swathe

through the neat lines of freshly planted crops.

Anne-Marie struggled to her feet.

'

I can see me digging out grand-

mother'

s old recipe for kreekg stew before the day is out she muttered.

W iping her hands on her mud-splattered smock, she set off after the

careering animals, boots squelching in the soft soil.

She picked her way

carefully through the neat rows of seeds, watching every footfall.

The

kreekgs were prairie animals, better built for haulage than for speed, so

she would soon catch up with them. Besides, when they reached the fence,

there was nowhere else for them to go.

A strangled whinny of pain made her look up in alarm.

Both animals

had stopped and were stamping at the ground, thrashing their heads

from side to side.

`W hat in the name of God .

.

.

'

Then it hit her. A wave of sickness and nausea that made her gasp out

loud.

Seconds later, she fell to her knees, grasping at her forehead, pain

like white hot needles lancing through her skull.

The agonised bellowing

of the kreekgs was j

oined by something else now:

a deep, resonant

trumpeting, rising and falling.

W ind whipped at her hair.

Through

streaming eyes she saw the air before her start to blur and shimmer,

solidifying like curdling milk.

The pain began to build, and Anne-Marie screamed out in agony as,

with a shattering roar, a large, silver cube appeared amongst the neat

furrows of the field.

Her skull throbbing as if it would burst, Anne-Marie crossed herself

clumsily and tried to haul herself to her feet, stumbling away from the

strange cube.

Bile rose in her throat, and for a moment she thought

that she would pass out.

W ithout warning, one side of the cube started to move, sliding

outwards on gleaming metal runners.

Blue lightning arced from the

open box, tearing at the sky.

Puddles of rainwater started to hiss and

boil, the field was lit up with brilliant flickering light, and out of the

light came the figures; one, two, then a tide of bodies. Far more than the

cube could possibly have held.

One of them stumbled and fell, tumbling

into the churning mud at Anne-Marie'

s feet.

Her breath caught in her

mouth.

The man'

s face was contorted in pain, lips drawn back over his

teeth in an agonised grimace.

He reached out for her with a trembling

hand.

'

Run,'

he hissed.

'

Get away from here, before .

.

.

'

His words became a howling scream as the cube suddenly flickered

and changed, its surface distorting and bulging, folding itself in impossible directions.

Lighting danced in crackling spirals around them.

Anne-Marie began to cross herself, and to pray.

`Hol

y Mary,

Mot

her of

God .

.

.

'

Then there was a sudden and impossibly bright pulse of light and, in

her last few moments of terror, Anne-Marie saw her hands wither to

stalks in front of her face, before blackness took her over.

The energy pulse hit the SaintAugustine without warning. Ellen struggled to keep the ship on an even keel as every light on the instrument panel

went red.

Static flared in her earpiece.

Tearing her headset off, she hauled back

on the control column.

Alongside her, Charles frantically tried to reboot

the ship'

s systems.

'

Cathedral beacon is down.

All the automatics are

offline:

Ellen gave a cry of frustration. '

Come on you piece of junk. Come on!'

`She'

s lifting!

'

Charles was incredulous.

'

She'

s lifting!

'

The smile had barely reached Ellen'

s lips when the wave of pain washed

over her.

Ellen convulsed in her chair.

She could hear Charles screaming

as the ship began to roll. The last thing she was aware of was the spire of the cathedral looming in the view-port and her Saint Christopher biting

into the palm of her hand.

next to his head, showering him in drops of molten metal.

He brushed

frantically at his smouldering j

acket and bellowed into the gloom of

the battleship, desperately trying to locate his companion.

`Cat? Cat, where are you?'

His voice attracted unwanted attention, and bolt after bolt of energy

slammed into the wall above him.

Clamping his hat onto his head, the

Doctor scampered from his hiding place, ducking behind one of the

bulky crane controls that littered the platform.

From the shadows of the service corridor he could hear the clicking,

rattling voices of the W ierdarbi, see the glint of metal and the low

flickering light that burned deep within their artificial compound eyes.

On the other side of the cargo bay was the TARDIS, its familiar blue,

box-like shape nestling amongst the harsh alien technology of the

W ierdarbi battle platform.

The Doctor sighed.

There was no cover

between him and it.

One of the W ierdarbi scuttled out from the corridor, antennae

quivering, a fearsome looking pulse-laser clasped in the claws of its

forearms.

Head darting back and forth, it gestured to its comrades with

a secondary arm, and slowly more and more of the aliens began to edge

their way out onto the platform.

The Doctor'

s mind was racing.

He was

running out of places to hide!

Searing pulses of light suddenly raked across the metal floor, and the

W ierdarbi scattered, mouthparts chattering angrily, blazing eyes

searching for their attacker.

`W ell, don'

t j

ust sit there, you dozy pillock, run for it!

'

The Doctor stared up to see his young companion perched precariously

on one of the gantries that criss-crossed overhead.

She waved frantically

at him, then hoisted the cumbersome W ierdarbi laser off her hip and

unleashed another burst of energy at the retreating aliens.

The Doctor launched himself towards the TARDIS, brogues skidding

on the oil-smeared deck-plates. Behind him he could hear the screeching,

metallic staccato of the W ierdarbi commandant'

s voice and the roar of

laser fire.

Overhead he could see Cat haring across the gantry, racing

for the ladder that scaled a steel pillar next to the TARDIS.

The Doctor

fumbled in his pocket for the key.

There would be no second chance at

this.

He was ten metres from the TARDIS when the harsh crack of a

W ierdarbi whip echoed around him and his legs were snatched from

under him.

He hit the deck hard, his umbrella skittering across the floor.

A metallic foot slammed down next to his head.

Groaning and breathless, the Doctor rolled onto his back.

The

W ierdarbi commandant loomed over him, mandibles clacking.

Àlmost, Doctor, almost:

A gleaming tentacle snaked from the augmented, insectoid torso,

winding its way inside the Doctor'

s jacket.

W ith a sharp click, it gripped

something and withdrew.

The W ierdarbi cocked its head and examined

the small phial of liquid metal.

`W ierdarbi gold is precious, little one.

You were foolish to think that you would get away with it

The Doctor smiled weakly.

'

W ell, you know what it'

s like when you'

re

redecorating.

You want to find that colour that'

s j

ust right:

Razor sharp claws extended from the commandant'

s forearms.

'

Let'

s

see if the colour of Time Lord blood matches our furnishings.

'

A piercing whistle echoed around the cargo bay.

The Doctor craned

his neck back to see Cat leaning precariously over the gantry, something

black and bulky hanging from her outstretched arm.

`Special delivery from Cat and the Doctor:

She let the obj

ect go.

The Doctor scrambled to one side as his pre-war Gladstone bag

dropped twenty feet and smashed onto the deck-plates, bursting like a

water-filled balloon.

Dozens of small metal shapes scattered across the

floor.

`W hat is this?'

hissed the commandant.

Òh, dear,'

said the Doctor.

There was an explosion of movement as every one of the metallic

obj

ects sprouted a variety of legs, tentacles and protuberances and

launched into a sudden attack on the startled W ierdarbi.

The cyborgs

barely had time to raise their weapons before the first of them collapsed

onto the deck in an untidy heap of disassembled parts.

`Not possible!

'

The commandant swiped at the tiny robots that

crawled over his exoskeleton.

'

You will die for this, Time Lord!

'

He raised a bladed forearm, then watched in disbelief as it dropped

neatly away from his torso and crashed to the floor with a metallic clang.

`Sorry.

'

The Doctor shrugged apologetically.

'

My assistant does seem

to like to take things apart to see how they work.

'

Dancing between the

W ierdarbi'

s flailing arms, the Doctor plucked the phial of liquid from

between the pincers.

`No!' The commandant lashed out at him, but the Doctor was already scampering towards the police box shape of his TARDIS.

The W ierdarbi gave a bellow of rage and started after him.

W arning

lights were beginning to light up across his torso readouts.

He crashed

to the ground as three of his legs folded under him.

The little robots

were swarming over him now, precision lasers flaring and slicing.

He

could see the Doctor'

s companion sliding down the ladder, grinning

broadly.

Then Time Lord and girl vanished inside the tall blue box and,

with an elephantine trumpeting, the box vanished from view.

The Doctor mopped at his forehead with a large paisley handkerchief

and regarded the small glass phial in the palm of his hand.

'

Refilling

these fluid links really is going to be the death of me one day.

'

`You should stock up, get a bumper pack.

You know, "buy one, get

one free", something like that.

'

Cat shrugged out of her donkey j

acket

and slumped back onto the chaise longue.

`Quite. The Doctor shot a disapproving look at his companion. '

W ould

you like to explain to me what just happened out there, Miss Broome?'

Cat gave him a cheeky grin, and popped the lid off the biscuit tin

that sat on the low occasional table.

Ì saved your ass.

Again:

`That'

s not quite what I meant: The Doctor slid the delicate glass phial

into an ornate, brass-studded socket on the polished wooden surface of

the console and leaned back against one of the perforated metal girders

that arced over the control area.

'

I meant, how does a twenty-eight year

old woman manage to overpower a hive of W ierdarbi?'

`By using my considerable talents, and by listening to you for once:

Cat popped a whole biscuit into her mouth.

The Doctor raised an eyebrow.

'

Listening to me? That would make a

change .

.

.

'

`That'

s not fair,'

said Cat through a mouthful of crumbs.

'

I always

listen!

I don'

t always do what you say, but I always listen:

Ànd what did I say this time?'

`Let'

s see .

.

.

That the W ierdarbi were a warlike and vicious breed of

giant insects, adapted with artificial parts by an unknown alien intelligence; that they were probably not going to be very happy about us stealing

some of their precious horde of mercury;

and that we should be very

careful.

'

Èxactly!

So which bit of that did you fail you understand?'

`Hey!

I took precautions!

'

`Yes .

.

.

'

The Doctor frowned.

'

Small, cybernetic precautions.

I

suppose it would be too much to ask where you got them from?'

Cat looked sheepish.

'

Your workshop .

.

.

'

Àh, you stole . . . '

`Borrowed!

'

`They were prototypes!

'

`So I field tested them for you!

'

Cat grinned.

'

I thought they worked

pretty well.

'

The Doctor gave a deep sigh.

'

You'

re incorrigible.

'

Ànd beautiful and intelligent and witty .

.

.

'

Cat stretched out on

the chaise longue, rummaging in her jacket pocket.

'

And in recognition

of the help I'

ve given you in repairing the fluid link, you can let me have

a cigarette.

'

Ì thought you agreed not to smoke in the TARDIS .

.

.

'

Ànd I thought you said that I could if I'

d been good!

'

`W ell, Catherine, you haven'

t been good,'

the Doctor snapped.

'

You

seem to have forgotten something.

'

`W hat?'

Cat was crestfallen.

`My Gladstone bag!

'

wailed the Doctor.

'

Have you any idea how hard

they are to come by?'

Ìt was old and tatty .

.

.

'

Ìt had character!

'

Ìt had moths!

'

Ì'

d had it for centuries.

It was given to me by .

.

.

well, Gladstone

actually.

'

`Then you were long overdue for a new one!

'

Cat slid off the chaise

l

ongue and hopped up onto the control dais next to the Doctor.

'

Is this

thing working properly now?'

Òf course it is said the Doctor defensively.

`Good,'

said Cat.

'

It'

s time we went shopping!

'

The market square of Braak was a riot of colour and noise. Street traders

meandered through the crowds, waving their goods under the noses of

anyone and everyone; children raced through the tangle of stalls, pushing

close to the hastily erected pens and corrals to pat the muzzles of the

pa-arteks and young kreekgs destined for the auctions.

Philippo tutted angrily at the chattering crowd of youngsters that

clustered in front of his stall.

He didn'

t like children at the market.

They

cluttered the streets, they brought no money and they stopped people

getting easy access to his goods.

He waved angrily at them, cursing in his native tongue.

The children

scattered, shouting playground insults.

Philippo sighed.

He didn'

t like

being out in the middle of the market.

It was too close to the pa-artek

pens, the smell of the animals masking the delicate aroma of his freshly

roasted plegan beans.

He preferred his old spot, over by the city wall,

next to the cathedral, but until the repairs were finished, he had to make

do.

He craned his neck back, staring up at the spire of the cathedral.

Through the tangle of scaffolding and bracing, the scar through the

stone was still visible.

The noise from the chisels of the stonemasons

rang out across the square.

It had been sixteen months since the

shuttlecraft of the off-worlders had all but demolished the west wing of

the cathedral.

Sixteen months since the Devil-box .

.

.

Philippo felt goose bumps run down his spine.

Like all the people of

Braak, he still had nightmares about the day that the Devil-box had

arrived, could still feel the pain tearing through his mind, could still

hear the screams . . . He felt a wave of anger. This had been a good place

before the off-worlders had come with their machines and their

technology;

now it was a world haunted by memories of howling winds

and flaring lightning, a place where the victims of that terrible day still shambled through the streets, their minds wiped clean, their bodies

changed.

Philippo crossed himself.

Thank God for the monks and the priests.

If they had not taken the poor unfortunates in, and exposed the evil

hand that had been set against the people of Braak .

.

.

He shook his

head.

It was not good to ponder on the past.

A chattering gaggle of prairie women had descended on the market-

place, gesturing and haggling over the goods on offer.

Philippo smiled.

It was well known that the women of the prairie had a fondness for

plegan beans.

He looked over his shoulder to check his stock, then

realised with a curse that his kreekg was still tethered on the far side of the market, the bulk of his goods still slung in panniers across its back.

He swore loudly.

In the confusion of his change of location, he had

forgotten to offload the remainder of the beans;

in his usual spot, he

had been able to tether his beast alongside the stall, with no need to

unpack every one of the bulky sacks.

He stretched his neck to see where the prairie folk were.

A dozen or

so of them were clustered around the stall of Enrique the clothier.

The

stocky mountain man was gesturing animatedly at his rolls of cloth, his

rich voice booming across the market square.

Philippo nodded in

satisfaction.

Enrique was a hard negotiator.

The women would be there

for some time.

Snatching up his jerkin, he darted out into the bustle of traders.

If he

could j

ust get two more sacks back to his stall before the women

arrived .

.

.

The marketplace was bustling, and it took Philippo some time to

make his way through the crowds to the quieter outer edges.

Kreekgs

and redaara of all sizes stood patiently in lines at the feeding troughs,

snorting and pawing at the ground. Philippo stumbled through the hoof-

churned mud to his heavily laden old bull-kreekg.

The sooner he could

get back to his old patch, the better.

He fumbled with the leather straps that held the panniers in place.

Two bags should be enough for the moment.

He could come back for

the rest once the prairie women had gone.

Better still, if he could

persuade them to take the rest of his stock, wholesale as it were.

He heaved one of the panniers onto his shoulder, grunting as the

strap bit into his flesh. His beast jerked against its tether, braying hoarsely.

`W hat'

s the matter with you?'

Philippo slapped its rump harshly.

`You'

ve plenty of food.

They look after you better than they do us .

.

.

'

The kreekg shook its maned head, rattling the steel rings that were

set into the city wall.

Philippo frowned.

A wind had sprung up, and

there was a noise;

a noise that reminded him of .

.

.

All colour drained from Philippo'

s face.

The pannier dropped from

his shoulder, splashing into the mud and sending beans scattering

between the feet of the kreekgs.

The trader turned slowly, eyes wide

with fear.

Across the street, in the shadow of one of the municipal

buildings, a shape was beginning to form:

a tall blue box, a light blinking

on its top.

A grating roar echoed around the stone walls.

Philippo pressed himself between the skittering animals, clutching

at the small cross that hung around his neck and praying desperately

that the pain that had haunted his dreams for over a year would not

return.

W ith a loud, asthmatic thump, the noise stopped.

Then the light on

the box stopped flashing.

Philippo watched in horror as a door swung

open and two figures stepped out into the crisp morning air.

As he

watched, the smaller one — a girl — brought flame flaring to life in her

hand and raised it up to her mouth.

W ith wispy smoke drifting around them, the two strangers vanished

into the marketplace, bickering animatedly.

Philippo tried to calm his

hammering heart.

'

W itchcraft .

.

.

'

he whispered.

Deep, sonorous bells began to ring out across the square.

Philippo

looked up.

Above him, the cathedral stretched into the morning sky.

`Yes .

.

.

The priests .

.

.

The priests must be told:

All thoughts of plegan beans gone from his mind, Philippo stumbled

towards the cathedral.

Cat blew a hazy blue cloud of tobacco smoke into the air and stared in

delight at the effervescent market around her.

The Doctor nodded pointedly at her cigarette.

'

I thought you were

going to give up, this year .

.

.

'

`Yeah, and I thought you were going to let me take a look at your

teeth at some point. I'

m sure you'

ve got some root canal work that needs

doing .

.

.

'

The Doctor grimaced.

'

Perish the thought.

'

Cat caught hold of his arm and squeezed it.

'

Right, so loosen up a bit

and stop giving my vices a hard time.

Look on the bright side — I'

m not

bringing blokes back to the TARDIS:

`True.'

Not yet, at least:

Laughing at the Doctor'

s indignant expression, Cat dragged him

towards the colourful market stalls.

'

Come on, let'

s see if we can buy

you a bag that'

s a bit more funky than your last one .

.

.

'

The Doctor shook his head in despair.

'

Funky?'

Philippo stood breathless in the quiet gloom of the cathedral, hands

clutching nervously at his cap.

At the end of the long central nave, two

robed figures conversed in hushed tones.

One of the cowled shapes

turned and stared in his direction, and Philippo shivered.

The shadows of the cathedral were long and dark, flickering fingers

cast by the thousands of candles that lined the walls.

Huge, soaring

buttresses climbed the ancient stone to the gilded ceiling, and overhead

hung the huge, ornate cross.

As a child, he'

d watched the cathedral being built:

spires, buttresses,

rising from the earth like one of the mud nests of the biter-ants in the

prairie.

It had frightened him, and continued to do so over years of

dutiful observance of holy worship under its spidery stonework.

It had been an old priest that had helped him conquer his fear.

A

gentle old man from the mountains of a place called Italy, on a world

far from here.

Philippo gazed sadly at the cross.

That had been a long time ago.

Father Bernoldi was dead, and with the arrival of the next bishop, Agatho,

all his old fears had returned.

His heart jumped as one of the cowled figures glided down the nave

towards him, sandals slapping softly on the cold, flagstone floor.

The

priest gestured towards a line of dark wooden booths in the shadow of

the cloisters.

Philippo frowned.

'

A confessional? But I have nothing to

confess. I need to see the — '

The priest unlatched the ornate screen door. '

Nothing to confess? W e

all have something to confess, my son.

Please .

.

.

'

Obediently, Philippo entered the creaking wooden structure, the dark

wood flexing beneath him as he sat. The door swung closed, and darkness

and silence enveloped him as the priest'

s footfalls faded away into the

distance.

`You have something you wish to tell me?'

The question came like an explosion after the silence, and Philippo

had to stop himself from crying out.

`You seem frightened.'

The voice was low and sonorous. '

Tell me what

has troubled you so .

.

.

'

`Forgive me, Father.'

Philippo'

s voice was trembling. '

I do not wish to

trouble you, but I have seen .

.

.

a sign .

.

.

a manifestation;

another of

the Devil-boxes:

He was gabbling now, relieved to be able to unburden

himself of what he had seen. '

It arrived by the city walls, and the creatures

within now walk among us!

Something must be done.

They cannot be

allowed to unleash their demons upon us again!

Merciful Father .

.

.

'

`Quietly, quietly .

.

.

'

The voice was calming.

'

Describe what it is that

you have seen.

Carefully.

Leave out no detail.

'

Philippo took a deep breath. '

It was as described in the texts. A rushing

wind, and a noise, like the mating calls of the wild ettriggel.

Then it

appeared, like a desert mirage.

A tall box, blue of colour, fire blazing

above it. It opened, and two creatures appeared — a man and a girl. The

girl made smoke with her mouth, like the pa-artek herders do with

their clay pipes.

'

Ànd where are they now, these creatures from the box?'

`They entered the market square, Father.

'

`The market, indeed .

.

.

W ould you recognise these .

.

.

creatures?'

`For certain.

Their clothes, their manner .

.

.

all is strange.

'

`Then return to the market, watch them, report to the cathedral all

that they do.

Say nothing to anyone outside these walls.

`But Father, the people must be warned!

'

Philippo rose from his seat.

`These creatures .

.

.

'

`W ill be dealt with!

'

snapped the voice.

'

Now do as I have asked.

'

Philippo bowed his head.

'

Of course, Father.

I'

m sorry.

It'

s j

ust, the

memories of the last time .

.

.

'

Ì understand.

'

The deep voice softened again.

'

But trust me.

You are

in no danger.

W atch the strangers.

Follow their movements.

W e shall

attend to everything else:

Philippo pushed open the door of the confessional and scurried off

into the candlelit gloom.

He stepped out into the morning light with a

gasp of relief.

He was terrified of the task that he had been given, but

more terrified still of the cloaked and silent priests that had watched

him as he left.

He clutched at the cross under his j

erkin.

The Church

would deal with the strangers.

He just had to have faith.

In his office, Bishop Agatho leaned back into his seat, stroking a hand

through his beard. He played the recording again, then hit the com-button.

`You'

ve listened to it?'

`Yes . . . '

The reply crackled and spluttered through the hidden speaker.

Òf course, the trader might be mistaken.

Every few months some

peasant sees Our Blessed Lady in his barn:

No.

His description is too accurate, and his fear sounded genuine:

`You think that they have been sent?'

Agatho'

s voice cracked slightly.

His nerves were showing.

He reached for the crystal glass of deep red

communion wine that stood on his desk, and took a sip.

Ì'm not sure.

I would have expected more than two if they knew

anything.

It might j

ust be coincidence.

'

Àre you willing to take that chance?'

No, I think that would be foolish, Agatho:

said the voice.

'

Someone

will be sent to investigate:

at where the Doctor stood in the middle of the market square.

The little

Time Lord was juggling with nearly a dozen pieces of brightly coloured

local fruit, and the kids were loving it.

Cat grinned.

He could be such a

show-off when he wanted to be.

After wandering back and forth through the market for a while, the

Doctor had led her to a large tent lined with rough benches, and with a

huge open grill blazing in the centre.

There the two of them had break-

fasted on hot spicy bread, a rich yellow yoghurt and a strong cinnamon-

flavoured brew that the locals seemed to drink by the gallon.

Suitably fortified, they had decided to split up.

The Doctor had

wandered aimlessly off through the bustle, peering at stalls and chatting

with the traders, while Cat had started in earnest on her quest for a

replacement Gladstone bag. The variety of goods on display had astounded

her.

Food and spices, animals and clothing.

Tools and trinkets and more

varieties of fruit and grain that she would have thought possible.

Eventually she had found her way to a quarter of the market that

seemed to specialise in fabrics and clothing and leather goods.

The

Doctor had given her a small purse filled with what he promised was a

good selection of local coinage, and Cat had been sorely tempted to

blow it all on one of the gorgeously coloured saris that the local women

wore.

She had made the mistake of trying on one of the elegant robes,

admiring herself in front of a large sheet of polished metal.

It was only

when she had turned around that she had realised that she wasn'

t the

only one doing the admiring. A crowd of appreciative men had gathered,

and it had taken a great deal of gentle persuasion, and a lot of less-than-

gentle slapping by the owner of the dress stall, for her to get back into

her j

eans and sweater without a dozen sets of eager hands assisting.

Ignoring the pleas of her would-be suitors, Cat had headed off

through the stalls, determined that she was going to find something for

the Doctor before the day was out. Eventually a large, heavily laden trestle had caught her eye and she had pushed her way through the chattering

crowds for a closer look.

The stall had been piled high with different

bags.

Heavy waterproof panniers big enough to carry a person hung

alongside delicately beaded j

ewel pouches;

dark-brown leather piled

up next to gaudily painted canvas.

Trying to ignore the constant jabbering sales pitch of the stall owner,

Cat had started to trawl through the pile of different styles and sizes.

Eventually, with a cry of delight, she had pulled a heavily embroidered

canvas shape from the tangle and smiled in satisfaction.

The bag had been perfect. A carpet bag in deep beige, its surface swirled

with deep, rich embroidery.

Blues and reds intertwined with gold and

silver;

stars and planets, animals and plants delicately hinted at in the

twisting patterns.

Paying for her purchase with a handful of heavy,

perforated coins, Cat had tucked the bag under her arm and set off

through the marketplace to catch up with the Doctor.

He hadn'

t been hard to find.

She had j

ust had to follow the excited

chatter of children'

s voices, and the Doctor'

s faint Scottish burr ringing

out across the cries of the traders.

She watched as the Doctor pretended to fumble one of his catches,

hopping around the square like a fool, face contorting into a variety of

extraordinary expressions.

Children screamed with laughter as he caught

all the airborne fruit in his hat and performed an elaborate bow.

Cat

j

oined in the applause, but the Doctor wasn'

t finished yet.

Tor my next trick, I shall require the assistance of a member of the

audience!

'

he announced, holding up a piece of elastic.

Tor a very

dangerous stunt:

Cat groaned.

It was one of the Doctor'

s favourite gags.

Getting

someone to put the elastic between their teeth, stretching it as far as it

would go, and then asking them if they were ready to begin.

The person

would reply, the elastic would be released and the Doctor would be

catapulted backwards, prat-falling into whatever foliage or soft landing

place he could find.

She wondered if the woman watching from a stall

piled high with silks realised that she would probably have the diminutive

Time Lord floundering amongst her goods in a matter of moments.

The Doctor started to dart through the bystanders, trying to caj

ole

one of them into helping him. The crowd was good natured, but none of

them seemed to want to be part of the Doctor'

s impromptu performance,

perhaps knowing all too well what tricksters of this nature were like.

Resigning herself to acting as the Doctor'

s stooge again, Cat started to

push her way towards him.

A sudden, frightened cry made her stop. Across the square, the Doctor

had found his victim, but far from j

ust politely declining, the man was

backing away, clearly terrified, trembling hands clutching at a cross, as

if warding off some terrible evil.

`Keep away from me, witch!

'

the man screamed.

The Doctor stared in puzzlement.

'

W itch?'

Ì saw you!

Saw the manner of your arrival.

The Devil-box!

'

A worried murmur went through the crowd.

`No, no, no.

'

The Doctor shook his head.

let me explain .

.

.

The

TARDIS . . . '

`You see!'

the man hissed. '

He does not even try to deny it! He speaks

the name.

'

The crowd was getting agitated now;

Cat could see anger in their

eyes.

Anger and fear.

The majority started to push towards the Doctor,

while worried mothers hurried their children in the opposite direction.

Ì saw them, by the city wall.

This man and a girl.

Arriving in a box,

with wind and fire, like the texts say! He tries to lull us into false security, he plays the fool to get us close .

.

.

'

`No, you must listen to me, the Doctor pleaded with the now-looming

crowd.

`You remember what happened the last time a box arrived?'

The man

was working the crowd now.

They muttered angrily.

`Something has obviously happened here, blustered the Doctor.

`You remember the pain?'

roared the man

Ì can possibly help.'

`You remember the months of suffering?'

Ìf you will trust me.

'

`He'

s a witch!

'

The crowd surged forward, swamping the Doctor.

Cat was pushed

along in the rush, carried forward by the tide of angry people.

Her mind

was racing.

There was nothing she could do.

There were far too many

of them, and sooner or later they would realise .

.

.

`The girl!

Has anyone seen the girl?'

A voice rang out across the melee.

Swearing under her breath, Cat

dropped to her knees and rolled sideways under one of the stalls.

She

heard a cry of alarm, but the crowd was too intent on its purpose and

swept by in a noisy rush.

Keeping low, Cat darted under the wooden trestles, putting as much

distance as she could between herself and the mob. There was no chance

of getting back to the TARDIS.

Not yet.

She had to disguise herself, and

quickly.

Stalls temporarily abandoned in the heat of the moment gave

her access to everything she needed, and soon she was wandering back

towards the angry rabble, swathed in the muted fabrics of the prairie

people.

The crowd had made its way towards the edge of the market, near to

the place where the TARDIS had landed.

She could see curious people

eyeing the police box shape warily, crossing themselves as they did so.

Cat hurried past them, shawl pulled tight over her head, desperately

trying to get a glimpse of the Doctor.

She could hear raised voices in the

distance.

Being careful not to draw attention to herself, she tucked into the

shadows of the city wall, skirting round the edge of the noisy mass of

people that had gathered there. A small set of steps set into the crumbling stone provided a natural platform.

Eager children clustered at the top.

Cat pushed up alongside them, making sure the long fabric of her dress

was pulled tight around her j

eans.

Her breath caught in her throat and

she felt her eyes blur with tears as she looked down into the courtyard

below her.

The Doctor was hunched on the cobbles, his hands tied behind his

back.

His jacket was torn and mud-splattered, and his face bloodied.

As

she watched, one of the men kicked at him savagely, sending him

sprawling in the mud.

Cat dug her nails into the palms of her hands.

She wanted to scream out, to kick and punch and bite at these people

that were hurting her friend, but for the moment there was nothing

that she could do.

The man that had started all this was standing behind the Doctor,

arguing heatedly with a group of traders.

Cat struggled to hear what

they were saying, but the angry babble from the masses below drowned

out their words.

Abruptly, one of the men stepped forward, grasping

the Doctor by the hair and wrenching his head back.

A hush fell across the crowd.

The man who was holding the Doctor

was obviously important in some way.

He gestured angrily towards the

TARDIS.

Ìt seems that Philippo was right;

a witch does walk amongst us, and

a clever one at that, beguiling us with his tricks, engaging us with his

stories.

'

He bent down, sneering at the Doctor.

'

But you will find us no easy

pickings, witch.

'

He spat in the Doctor'

s face, and released his head.

Ànd so what are we to do?'

the man continued.

'

W hat are we to do

with the witch that has come amongst us? Philippo here thinks that we

should wait, that our beloved Church will deal with him for us.

But I,

like many of you, lost loved ones to the madness.

'

He paused, staring into the faces before him.

`Do you, like me, still lie awake at night haunted by howling, shrieking

winds? Do you live in fear of the sudden pains, like skreetah claws digging into your skull? Do you still see jagged bolts of lightning every time you

close your eyes? I do!

'

There was a roar of agreement from the people.

`W e all know the price that must be paid for trafficking with the Devil.

W e'

ve all seen the way witches are dealt with.

W hy wait for the Church?

W e know what we must do!

'

A single voice rose from the crowd.

'

Burn him!

'

The man nodded in agreement.

'

Yes .

.

.

It is our duty.

'

`Burn him.

'

The two words rose like a chant now, voice after voice

j

oining the refrain.

'

Burn him, burn him.

`No!

'

Cat felt the word escape her throat, drowned out by the noise

from below.

She watched as the Doctor was manhandled onto the back

of a low wooden cart. The square was suddenly alive with activity, traders

and townsfolk gathering twigs and branches.

Cat was sick with fear.

Her friend was going to be burned to death in front of her and she was

powerless to stop it.

There was the sharp crack of a whip, and the cart carrying the Doctor

started to move, pulled along by huge, bull-like creatures.

Cat pushed

her way back down the steps, looking around desperately for something

that she could use as a weapon, something that might stop this madness.

Around her, people were chattering excitedly, as if what was about to

take place was part of the day'

s festivities, an entertainment.

Across the square, in the shelter of the city wall, a blacksmith'

s forge

stood empty, its owner part of the jostling crowd.

Cat eyed the selection

of ironmongery hanging from the smithy ceiling.

Scythes, ploughshares,

hoes.

Items more suited to keeping a well-groomed farm than fighting

off a murderous city mob.

W ith a bravado born of desperation, she

slipped inside the forge, checking over her shoulder that she wasn'

t being

watched.

Bladed tools of every description lined the craftsman'

s workshop.

Cat

hefted one in her hands, already knowing in her heart that any gesture

she made was liable to be a futile one.

Undoing her robes, she slid two

wicked-looking scythe blades into her belt and took a deep breath.

`Remind me never to take you shopping again, Doctor .

.

.

'

The Doctor gave a grunt of pain as his hands were wrenched painfully

behind his back.

Every part of him ached and protested at the men'

s

rough handling.

Through puffy and streaming eyes, he could see a huge

pyre being constructed on the scrubland j

ust outside the city walls.

`Having a barbecue?'

he croaked.

'

Lovely weather for it:

`Quiet, witch!

'

A hand cuffed him sharply over the back of the head.

`The only sounds we want to hear from you are the screams as the flames

reach you:

`That'

s a shame.

I'

ve got such a lovely singing voice.

'

Òh, you'

ll sing, witch.'

A grimy face filled the Doctor'

s vision. '

And a

terrible song it will be.

The song that my wife sang when your box took

her mind from her.

'

`Listen to me .

.

.

'

The Doctor kept his voice low and soothing, steel

eyes fixed with those of his captor.

'

Your people have suffered some

terrible catastrophe, something that you cannot comprehend.

You look

for someone to blame, someone to punish, but I'

m not the one .

.

.

'

A frown flickered over the man'

s mud-flecked face. The Doctor leaned

forward, straining against his bonds.

'

I'

m a traveller, an explorer, a

Doctor.

I came here with my friend.

I can help you .

.

.

'

`Help?'

`Yes.

Help you to understand what happened here, help you to

learn .

.

.

'

The Doctor could hear startled cries from around him now,

shouts of panic and alarm.

He didn'

t have much time.

His head was

pounding with the effort.

He needed j

ust a few more seconds.

`Leave him, witch!'

Blows rained down on the Doctor as men swarmed

over the cart, pulling their comrade away from him.

The Doctor saw

him shaking his head, clearing his mind.

Anger flared in the man'

s face.

`Thought you could put a spell on me, did you?'

He lashed out at the

Doctor, sending him crashing to the floor of the cart.

'

W ell, you'

ve cast

your last hex.

'

He looked around at the expectant crowd.

'

Take him!

'

A dozen pairs of hands dragged the Doctor from the cart, sending

him sprawling in the mud.

He tried to stagger to his feet, but his legs

gave way under him. A blow from a staff cracked across his back, making

him cry out.

There was ugly laughter from the crowd.

A rough noose

was slipped around his shoulders and, with a jerk, he was hauled forward

across the wet ground.

The Doctor'

s world became a blur of whirling faces and taunting

cries.

He tried to shut down his mind, centre himself for the ordeal to

come, but with every j

erk of the rope pain flared through him.

The

noise was deafening now:

screaming women, jeering children, the harsh

guttural chant of the menfolk.

He felt himself being hauled upwards,

his arms wrenched backwards, sharp ropes biting into his wrists.

The mass of bodies pressing around him eventually melted away,

and a hush fell over the throng.

The Doctor forced his eyes open.

He

was lashed firmly to a thick wooden stake, while bundles of dried wood

were being stacked beneath his feet.

The crowd was staring at him

nervously, as if they expected this, his final moment, to be when he

revealed some dark, hidden power, some spell that would set him free.

Rough torches were being lit, wicks made of animal fat crackling and

popping in the morning air.

A weak smile flickered across the Doctor'

s face.

After all the complex

technological prisons he had escaped from, after all the alien aggressors

he had outsmarted, it was all to end here.

A backward agricultural world.

An angry mob.

Burnt as a witch.

He gave a coughing laugh.

A ripple of concern ran through the sea of faces that watched him.

A

flurry of hands made crosses in the air.

The leader of the mob stepped

forward, blazing torch held high.

`You would mock us?'

The Doctor shook his head.

'

I wouldn'

t dream of it.

'

`Then make your peace with whatever demons you serve.

Your time

has come:

Àre you sure about that?'

The Doctor narrowed his eyes.

The man gave a wicked smile, revealed broken yellow teeth.

'

W hat

do you think can save you now, witch?'

`That,'

said the Doctor, nodding at the sky.

Cat had stood on the fringes of the crowd, watching as the Doctor was

dragged from the cart and manhandled over towards the stake.

Everything had started to become dreamlike for her, unreal somehow.

The noise of the mob had faded to a low, distant roar, while the pale

morning sun bleached everything to muted whites and yellows.

It had

been as if time was slowing down as the Doctor'

s death approached.

She had felt the cold metal blades in her belt, and there had been a

sudden moment of total calm as she had steeled herself for her last,

doomed attempt to rescue the little Time Lord.

Slowly she had started across the scrub, pushing people to one side,

ignoring their cries of protest.

Gradually her pace had increased as she

had reached for her weapons.

Hands had started to grasp at her.

Head

down, Cat had barrelled forwards.

And then the cross had appeared in the sky.

It burst through the hazy morning cloud with a deafening, screaming

roar, a vast, impossible mass of gleaming gold and silver, sunlight making

its surface blaze like fire.

There was a moment of stunned, unbelieving silence.

Cat watched

open-mouthed as the huge cross wheeled in the sky, engines thundering.

It was a ship.

A vast spacecraft, but unlike any she had ever seen before.

It was the size of a tower block, a vast column of metal and plastic, the

stubby arms blazing with thrusters.

No attempt had been made to give

it an aerodynamic shape;

pure, thunderous energy kept this thing aloft.

Its surface was a twisting gothic mass of decorative swirls, buttresses

and gargoyles, picked out in gleaming gold and silver. Searchlights blazed

from its belly, sweeping across the terrified crowd. Above the roar of the

afterburners, Cat thought she could hear music — deep, sonorous organ

notes and soaring angelic voices.

W ith a scream of engines that rattled Cat'

s teeth, the ship began to

drop, huge clawed feet unfurling from heavily sculpted hatchways.

The stunned crowd suddenly erupted into life, exploding in all

directions as the downdraft from the ship tore at their clothing. Mothers

clawed desperately for their children, men tried to calm terrified animals.

Cat could see the stake holding the Doctor start to quiver as the turbulence from the engines engulfed it.

She struggled towards him, but the surge

of bodies carried her backwards.

She was screaming at the Doctor, but

the typhoon created by the spacecraft whipped the words from her

mouth.

Remorselessly the crowd carried her back towards the city.

Cat caught hold of one of the frantic shapes scrabbling past her.

`W hat is it, what is going on?'

The young girl in her grasp shook her head in fear.

'

Mother of God,

we are all damned now.

'

`W hy?'

Cat demanded.

'

W ho is in that ship?'

Three words made her blood run cold.

`The Holy Inquisition.

'

that stretched out ahead of him.

Pulling his sumptuous robes tighter,

he paced slowly down the gilded ramp of the sector flagship of the Holy

Inquisition.

Steam rose in billowing clouds around him.

The clink of armour rang out through the crisp, sharp air as a squad

of guards, splendid and sinister in coal-black breastplates quartered by

a bold white cross, spread out amongst the townspeople.

The unkempt

mass of traders and townsfolk allowed themselves to be shepherded into

a large and ragged group.

Del Toro picked his way through the mud,

staring into the eyes of the crowd before him, nodding with satisfaction

at the fear visible there.

W ith a clatter of bolts and the creak of ancient timbers, a door in the

cathedral wall burst open and an agitated cluster of priests, led by the

puffing Bishop Agatho, splashed across the scrub.

Del Toro gazed with

amusement at the Bishop'

s face, which was wrinkled in distaste as he

slipped and stumbled through the mud.

`Milord Grand Inquisitor .

.

.

'

The Bishop was breathless, his face as

purple as his robes as he exchanged the kiss of peace with his visitor.

`The speed of your arrival took us unawares.

'

Ìndeed.

'

The Grand Inquisitor'

s voice was low and insistent, like the

droning of a huge, rasping insect.

'

W e were rooting out heretics on

Torkus 3.

It seems, however, that my timing was fortuitous.

In a matter

of moments, your flock would have taken matters into their own hands

and I would have had no answers: He glanced across to where his guards

were untying the Doctor from his execution pyre. '

It is difficult to extract

information from a charred corpse:

`This .

.

.

gathering is not of our design, stammered the Bishop.

'

W e

gave no permission.

W e told the witness to watch, to wait'

`So, it seems that the people have taken it upon themselves to do the

holy duty of the Church. How devout. The Inquisitor'

s gaze swept across

the crowd.

'

And by what means did you reach the decision that a witch

was amongst us?'

A ring incrusted finger stabbed out, pointing at a child

in the crowd.

'

You.

W ho revealed this witch to you?'

A frightened mother clutched at her child.

'

Please sir, he knows

nothing, he'

s j

ust a baby.

'

let the child answer!'

Del Toro'

s voice was vicious. He crouched down,

forcing a smile to his lips.

'

Come child.

You have nothing to fear.

Tell

me.

'

'

Philippo, the bean seller, sir;

the child'

s voice quivered.

'

He told us:

Ah .

.

.

Philippo, the bean seller .

.

.

'

Del Toro straightened.

'

And

(

where is this bean seller now?'

The crowd started to mutter, glancing nervously at each other.

Ì am not a patient man!

'

snapped del Toro.

'

W here is he?'

The crowd parted and a terrified Philippo edged reluctantly forward.

Del Toro regarded him with slitted eyes.

'

Our would-be witch-finder.

W as your fear so great that you could not wait for our arrival?'

`Forgive me, excellency, I tried to hold back my fear, to watch as I was

told, but the witch sought me out.

Picked me from the crowd.

I feared

for my life!

'

`Sought you out, by God!

You flatter yourself.

'

Del Toro snapped his

fingers.

'

Bring the witch:

The Doctor was dragged forward and thrown at the Inquisitor'

s feet.

`How do you do?'

The Doctor croaked.

'

Forgive me if I don'

t shake

your hand, I'

m a little .

.

.

tied up at the moment.

I'

m the Doctor, and I

really must thank you for a most opportune arrival.

Now, if you could

untie me, I have an idea about what is going on .

.

.

'

`Silence, witch!

'

The guard captain gave the Doctor a sharp kick with

the top of his boot.

`Can we stop this witch nonsense, I'

m really not .

.

.

'

The Doctor

never finished his sentence.

At a nod from del Toro, the guard captain

snatched a small metal cylinder from his belt and pressed it against the

Doctor'

s neck. There was a sudden hiss, and the Doctor pitched forward

onto his face.

Del Toro regarded the Doctor'

s prone form with amusement.

'

This?

The object of your fear? The most unlikely of witches, it seems.

'

`His clothing may be strange, but the manner of his arrival .

.

.

'

Philippo pointed towards the square.

'

The Devil-box .

.

.

'

Del Toro'

s head snapped up, his smile evaporating.

'

You saw this?

W ith your own eyes?'

Philippo nodded frantically.

'

I swear!

This man and a girl appeared

from within:

`Show me:

The Grand Inquisitor swept forward, the crowd parting like curtains

before him.

Philippo scampered ahead, desperate to be vindicated:

This

way, my Lord, in the shadow of the apothecary'

s.

'

W ith Bishop Agatho and his priests following uneasily behind him,

del Toro approached the tall blue shape that sat amongst the clutter of

the market.

Ignoring the frightened gasps from the watching crowd, he

placed a gloved hand on the side of the box.

`Yes .

.

.

'

he murmured.

'

It is as I thought .

.

.

'

He swung round to Philippo, his eyes blazing. '

Two people came from

this infernal device, you say?'

`Yes, excellency. The man and a girl.'

`W here, then, is the girl?'

Ì .

.

.

I don'

t know,'

Philippo stammered.

'

W e have not found her.

Perhaps her powers .

.

.

'

`Her powers?'

snapped del Toro.

'

Rather, fear my powers!

Your lack

of faith makes you blunder.

'

He nodded at his guards.

'

Take him.

'

Philippo was caught roughly by the arms.

'

Please;

he screamed, '

I

have done nothing wrong.

'

`That is for me to determine:

snapped del Toro.

He turned to the

Bishop. '

You will have this device taken into the cathedral. Get the rabble

to move it with their carts and beasts.

Keep it under constant guard.

'

The Bishop eyed the box warily. '

If you are sure, eminence. But would

it not be safer on board your ship?'

`Safer?'

`Given the nature of this . . . engine. The terror it brought before . . . I mean, the people.

'

Ìt will serve as a warning to the people always to be vigilant for the

Evil One, and a reminder of the mercy and benevolence the Church has

shown to this blighted world.

An unpleasant smile danced at the edges

of del Toro'

s mouth.

'

Besides, if our ship were to be damaged by that

thing, we would be stranded on Haven until a suitable vessel could be

despatched from Rome.

That might mean months.

'

The Bishop swallowed hard.

`Better that it rests within the hallowed walls of the cathedral, yes? I

want you to oversee it personally, Agatho.

'

Bishop Agatho dabbed a piece of linen to his brow and nodded.

Àt once, milord.'

`Good.

I will take the witch to my ship and question him.

'

The Grand Inquisitor turned and swept back towards the ship, the

guards dragging the unfortunate Philippo after him.

In the shadow of

the huge cross, the Doctor'

s unconscious body was being strapped to a

metal stretcher by more guards. Del Toro beckoned to a grizzled captain,

who strode to his side.

`Milord?'

`Captain, we have the man but a girl is still at large in the city.

Once

the landing site has been made secure and the Time Lord capsule

transferred to the cathedral, take some of the men — as many as you

need — and search this city.'

`Yes, milord.'

`Tear the place apart if you have to.

I want that girl!

'

Hidden among the frightened throng, Cat watched as the ornately robed

Grand Inquisitor vanished into the bowels of the huge, gleaming ship.

Her heart sank as she saw the Doctor'

s stretcher hoisted off the ground,

and he too was taken inside.

All around her there was an audible sigh of

relief as the great metal doors slid shut behind him.

People started to

mutter and chatter, nervous and j

ittery.

Cat pulled her shawl around

her face and started to push her way out of the square.

She had seen the murmured conversation between the Inquisitor and

the guard captain, seen his eyes raking over the crowd.

He would be

looking for her, of that she had no doubt, and any thoughts she might

have had about making a heroic rescue had vanished as soon as the

guards had taken charge of the Doctor. These men were no prairie traders

— they were well trained and disciplined, and they had complex

technological weaponry.

They gave off a convincing illusion of pomp

and ceremony with their black helmets and gleaming swords, but Cat

had seen the ugly stub-nosed shapes of blasters beneath their cloaks as

they had cleared a path for their master.

If they had blasters then it was

a fair bet that they would have trackers, and then her disguise would be

useless.

No. Her only chance now was to lie low and try to get to the TARDIS

when things were quieter.

But she had a horrible feeling that the hawk-

faced Inquisitor would probably have thought of that.

As she approached the overhanging section of city wall where they

had landed, her fears were confirmed.

Spurred on by the urgings of the

priests — and the presence of the Inquisition guards — a less-than-willing party of market traders was manhandling the bulky police box shape of

the TARDIS onto the back of the same cart that had earlier held the

Doctor.

As Cat watched, it was lowered onto its side, the pair of huge

bull-like creatures whose j

ob it was to pull this load bellowing in

discomfort as their harnesses stretched under the weight.

There was a harsh whip-crack and the two animals started to strain

at their yokes. The cart gave a groan of protest, wheels cracking alarmingly on the cobbles.

The guards shouted orders, commandeering more and

more passers-by to help move the unwieldy shape.

W ith a sudden flash of inspiration, Cat hurried forward to help.

Any

time now, guards would be combing the streets looking for her.

The last

place they would be expecting her to be was in the crowd moving thèDevil-box.

Let the guards search the city;

this way, she would know

exactly where the TARDIS was being held, and with any luck, would be

able to lose herself as soon as they were inside the cathedral walls. It was a plan worthy of the Doctor himself.

W ith the first glimmer of hope she had felt in hours, Cat put her

shoulder to the back of the wagon and heaved with all her strength.

The Doctor'

s world swam back into focus as he struggled to shake off

the numbing effects of the tranquilliser that had flooded his system.

He

ran his tongue over his parched lips. There was a bitter taste in his mouth, a trace of the drug they had used.

`Terelexin:

A shrill voice cut across the room.

Ùnpleasant for a while, but harmless, I assure you.

'

The Doctor opened his eyes. The Grand Inquisitor was seated opposite

him, watching him with faint amusement.

Ùnpleasant and unnecessary;

said the Doctor '

There was no need to

drug me.

'

Ì won'

t allow you to spread your perfidies among these simple, faithful

people, Time Lord:

`These simple, faithful people were going to burn me as a witch.

'

`But you are a witch. The Pope has declared all Time Lords to be witches: The Inquisitor pulled the stopper from a crystal decanter and poured

a generous quantity of deep red wine into a tall, slender goblet. The Doctor tugged experimentally at the bonds that held him to the chair.

His eyes

flicked around the room.

The craft was a gaudy mix of high technology

and high church. Plastisteel bulkheads draped with heavy tapestries; deck-

plates lined with deep carpets;

art and j

ewellery and sculpture ranged

amongst airlock controls and power relays.

The chair to which he was

strapped was of ornately carved mahogany, but the shackles that bound

his wrists crackled and flickered as energy from a force-field generator

coursed through them.

`Now that you have me safely tucked away from the eyes of your .

.

.

flock, is there any need to keep me restrained?'

Òh, yes, I think so:

The Inquisitor took a sip of his wine.

'

Yours is a

particularly resourceful race.

I know only too well what trouble you

might cause.

'

`W hat do you know of my race?'

The Doctor was puzzled.

Àll in good time, uh, Time Lord:

`Doctor.'

`Doctor.

All in good time.

For the moment, all you need to know is

that I am Guii del Toro, Grand Inquisitor for all of this sector of Roman

Catholic space, working under special dispensation from His Holiness

Pope John Paul XXIII, and that you and your ship — your TARDIS — are

now in my custody:

The Doctor frowned. '

You'

ve been visited by a TARDIS before, haven'

t

you?'

Del Toro pursed his lips. '

The . . . event that took place here left deep

scars in the minds of these people, and alerted us to the presence of

your race. Sadly, it also left us with no more than the remains of a useless and broken time machine — a few twisted fragments that survived the

molecular break down — which is now stuck in a Vatican vault.

'

The Doctor had already suspected from the few snippets of information

he'

d gleaned from the frightened populace that a malfunctioning TARDIS

had landed on this planet.

The fact that it had been totally destroyed

indicated a catastrophic failure of the failsafe procedures. The dimensional forces held check by the vast engines of a TARDIS were of a staggering

magnitude.

If the dimensional barriers had failed .

.

.

`W hy are you here, Doctor?'

del Toro asked lightly.

Ì'm on holiday,'

said the Doctor.

À Time Lord, holidaying here, on Haven? Even if I believed you, the

insult alone would be enough to condemn you to death.

'

`Yes, well I wasn'

t aware — '

`Silence!'

the Inquisitor barked. '

You are my prisoner on my ship. You

are alone, save for a single girl, and she will soon be in my custody. Your TARDIS will be brought aboard, dismantled and analysed:

`You won'

t have much luck getting into it.

'

Òh, we will, Doctor. You will give us the access codes.'

The Doctor snorted.

`Do you really think so?'

`Sixteen months has been ample time for me to learn how co-operative

a Time Lord can be when encouraged.

'

`The occupants of that TARDIS .

.

.

'

.

.

.

have been most forthcoming with their information, though it

has been of limited practical use since their ship was so spectacularly

destroyed.

'

`W hat have you done to them?'

Del Toro pressed a small control panel on the desk before him.

`See for yourself, Doctor.'

Cat forced herself to bite her lip as one of the guards pushed her sharply

in the back.

Keeping her eyes firmly fixed on the floor and her shawl

hersp

lf ulled tightly around her face, she heaved on the rough rope, tucking

TARDIS

amongst the straining mass of bodies that struggled to raise the

from the back of the cart.

It had been back-breaking work getting the police box from the square

below.

The cobbled entranceway to the cathedral had been steep and

slippery, and the cart dangerously overloaded. Gradually, by sheer weight

of numbers, they had managed to get the TARDIS through the cathedral

doors.

Once inside the quiet stillness of the cathedral, the cart had been

unhitched from its exhausted animals and the unwilling workforce roped

into their place.

Scurrying priests had cleared a passageway through the

central nave, and the doors to a secluded chamber had been unlocked.

Now they were trying to manhandle the TARDIS through a narrow

passageway, spurred on by the shouts of the guards and the nervous

cries of the priests.

Cat kept her head down, waiting for any opportunity

to break from the group.

The cathedral was huge;

a great dark tangle of

openings and passageways.

She should have no problem concealing

herself, if only she could slip away unseen.

There was a sudden cry of alarm as one of the guide ropes lashed

around the TARDIS'

s wooden shell gave way with a sharp crack.

People

scattered in all directions as the huge blue box toppled forward off the

cart, crashing to the floor with a deafening thump.

There was a scream

of pain from one of the guards.

His comrades-in-arms hurried forward,

and Cat seized her chance.

Ducking around the back of the cart, she darted from the passageway,

keeping tight to the shadow-flecked walls.

Tentatively she eased her way

back out into the vast open space of the cathedral. Figures slipped through the quiet gloom, some casting concerned looks towards her, startled by

the noise and cries of pain. Keeping her movements calm and unhurried,

Cat made her way slowly towards the altar.

Running now would achieve

nothing.

She had noticed several passageways leading off from the

rearmost wall.

Long, dark, pillared cloisters ideal for her to keep out of

sight.

W ith any luck, she would be able to find a crypt or vestibule;

somewhere dark and quiet, away from prying eyes.

She cursed under her breath as the Bishop and several of his priests

emerged from one of the passageways, muttering in low, concerned

voices.

Bowing her head, Cat turned on her heel, skirting the front of

the altar, edging her way between the ranks of wooden pews.

She would

have to try the passageway on the other side of the central aisle.

Abruptly, a coarse voice broke the stillness of the building.

Barked

orders from one of the soldiers to his colleagues.

Armed men started to

make their way down the nave.

Cat'

s heart leapt in her chest.

Surely

they couldn'

t have spotted her? Not yet .

.

.

Trying to keep her panic under control, she stared around for some-

where to hide.

In the shadows of the wall ahead of her were rows of

wooden doors.

Confessionals.

W ith slow, measured steps, Cat made her

way towards one of the delicately carved boxes, opened the door and

slipped gratefully inside.

Through the filigree of carvings she watched as half a dozen of the

soldiers hurried down the passageway from which she had just escaped.

They emerged moments later with their injured colleague hoisted between

them.

The man'

s foot was a bloody mess, and his groans of pain echoed

throughout the cavernous cathedral, to the irritation of the Bishop and

his entourage. Cat nodded in satisfaction. It was the guard who had been

treating them so roughly.

`Serves you bloody well right,'

she murmured.

`Hardly a charitable sentiment.

'

Cat j

umped, scrabbling for the door latch.

`There'

s no need for alarm.

You act as if you need sanctuary, and I

will certainly not deny you that.

'

The voice was old and mellow.

Cat could make out the figure of a

man on the other side of the screen.

She struggled to see his features,

but the candlelight kept his face in darkness.

Cat tightened her shawl,

keeping her own face hidden, her voice muffled.

`There was an accident.

One of the guards got hurt.

I was frightened.

'

`Frightened, but not very sympathetic.

'

The voice was tinged with

amusement.

`The man was a thug.

'

Cat felt herself bristle.

'

He'

d been given a bit of

power and it had gone to his head:

`The secular arm of the Inquisition.

Most seek to avoid their gaze.

'

Aware that she was being drawn into a conversation that she didn'

t

have time for, Cat eased open the door of the confessional.

'

I'

ve got to

go:

Ànd where will you go?'

Ì'

ve a stall.

In the marketplace, Cat blustered.

'

I'

ve got to go and see

to that.

'

Àh, a stall holder.

'

The voice was thoughtful.

'

Strange, since from

your clothes I would have taken you for one of the prairie folk, who are

not permitted to own stalls in the marketplace.

'

Cat let out a heavy breath.

`Look, uh, Father — what'

s going on?'

Ìn what sense?'

`W ell all this .

.

.

cathedrals in space stuff.

Priests in spaceships.

'

`How else would they travel?'

`But .

.

.

this is the future!

Surely people don'

t still believe .

.

.

'

Ìn God? In the Holy Trinity? Christ'

s sacrifice? Look around you, my

dear.'

`They'

ve taken my friend aboard their ship.

'

`Yes . . . I heard talk. A Time Lord.'

`Yes:

`That'

s very bad.

'

He coughed slightly.

'

Oh, I'

m sorry.

I meant no

offence.

That is .

.

.

I take it you'

re also .

.

.

'

Ì'm not a Time Lord, no said Cat.

'

I'

m human.

From Earth.

'

Àh. It is many years since I visited Earth . . . Or Rome: he added sadly.

`Look — '

This guy, Cat concluded, had only half his marbles.

'

My

friend .

.

.

in the ship .

.

.

'

Àh .

.

.

yes, yes, your friend.

I will do what I can for him, but a Grand

Inquisitor answers only to the Pope.

I fear my poor prayers have never

stayed the hand of Milord Guii del Toro.

'

Ìt'

s not prayers I need, it'

s a way into that ship!

Can you help me or

not?'

she demanded, respectfully adding, ùh .

.

.

Father,'

a moment later.

She heard the old man behind the grille chuckle.

`You are Roman Catholic, my child.

'

Ì .

.

.

yes.

'

Cat smiled and quivered slightly with the intensity of the

memory.

She couldn'

t even recall when she'

d last given the Church any

thought at all. Her first communion . . . '

Yes. But I haven'

t been to church

in years.

'

She shook herself.

'

Father .

.

.

what will they do to him?'

`Grand Inquisitor del Toro is a devious, avaricious, manipulative

hypocrite — may the Lord forgive my passing j

udgement.

His motives

are invariably bad, but — like the Evil One himself — he moves in ways

that are difficult to discern, let alone foresee. And he has a vicious streak.

All of this makes him very difficult to predict.

'

Ànd very bad news for the Doctor. I'

ve got to get him out of there. I

need to find a way onto the ship:

Ìn order to do what? You would be arrested immediately by the

guards, or possibly even shot.

Your friend will not thank you for an act

of futile heroism.

'

Ì'

ve got to do something, Father.'

`They al

so serve,

who onl

y st

and and wait

.

'

`Pardon?'

`Milton. An English poet. You can do nothing for your friend, child .. .

except remain here and pray.

'

Ì haven'

t prayed in years, Father. I'

m not really sure I believe in it any

more:

She paused, thoughtful.

'

Certainly not since travelling with the

Doctor.

I'

ve seen too much.

'

`W hat have you seen, child?'

`Things that make the Bible look like kids'

stuff.

The Doctor'

s taken

me to a factory where they make artificial black holes.

Machines do it.

Built by men!

'

Òften men try to imitate God'

s works, but seldom his wisdom or his

compassion.

'

Ì'

ve seen a lot of killing, too;

Cat said quietly.

'

A whole army, blasted

to pieces.

They weren'

t recognisable as people afterwards.

Just meat and

blood.

That'

s all we are.

'

Èvery one of those people was a soul going through its final agony

and breaking through to God.

'

`No, Father.

I saw bodies fly in all directions, but not souls.

'

`You have seen perhaps too much, child.

Your friend, the Time

Lord .

.

.

'

`The Doctor.

W e travel together.

He'

s got a nose for trouble.

'

`W here did you meet this Time Lord?'

Ì .

.

.

'

Cat trailed off instantly.

This was stupid.

Èarth.

'

Of course, it had to have been on Earth.

`You don'

t sound too sure:

Èarth. Definitely. It all just happened so fast. I was a kid in Liverpool,

then I moved to London.

W here'

s it all gone?'

`W hat, my child?'

`The time . . . '

She shook her head. '

This isn'

t helping the Doctor. Please

— you'

re a priest, Father . . . can'

t you . . . talk to the Bishop or something?'

Agatho? I think not .

.

.

No, indeed.

But I shall do what I can, I shall

do what I can:

Cat heard the old priest opening the latch on his booth.

`W hat is your name, child?'

`Catherine .

.

.

People call me Cat.

'

`Do not leave the cathedral, Catherine,'

he said.

'

You will be safe in

here.'

`How will I find you?'

Òh, I am always here:

he replied.

'

Usually at prayer.

God be with

you, my child.

'

`Thank you, Father,'

said Cat.

She heard him leave the little wooden box and shuffle off. She opened

the door of her booth and peered out after him.

An old man, frail

looking, in a tatty monk'

s habit.

W hat could he possibly do against the

Grand Inquisitor and his vast battleship?

Lift doors slid apart with a hum and the Doctor was led out into a long,

dark space.

Unlike in the rest of the ship, there was no decorative adorn-

ment here, no fine fabrics or expensive ornaments.

Stark metal walls

lined with heavy doors stretched towards a central chamber.

A blaster was thrust painfully into the Doctor'

s back.

Out of sight of

the populace, all pretence of the theatrical had been abandoned.

Swords

and spears had been quickly exchanged for blasters and energy-beam

rifles.

`W here are we going?'

the Doctor asked.

'

The torture chamber?'

`The cargo hold, Doctor,'

del Toro replied.

He coughed politely.

Àlthough I am using it as a makeshift torture chamber at the moment,

yes.

I have a rather special piece of equipment, which will not fit inside

my conventional chambers.

'

`Did they send the wrong-sized iron maiden?'

the Doctor sneered.

Del Toro gestured around him.

'

Aboard this ship, Doctor, my

investigative powers have absolutely free rein.

You would do well to

remember that.

'

Ì'

ve met your kind before;

the Doctor snapped.

'

Many times.

The

toenail-pullers.

You sicken me.

'

`More than j

ust a toenail-puller, I assure you.

'

Del Toro opened a

small window in one of the doors and peered through it.

'

You are a very

special guest here, Doctor. I hope you will be as helpful to me as was the

last of your kind.

At the Inquisitor'

s bidding, the Doctor was thrust forward, out of

the corridor and into the chamber beyond.

It was a huge, steel cathedral

of a place, the granite-grey bulkheads of which stretched high into the

workings of the ship. W ith a shock, the Doctor felt the familiar telepathic tingle that accompanied close contact with any of his own people.

A

trace of a Time Lord mind.

A mind already at the point of death.

He looked about him, and closed his eyes in disbelief.

Against one wall was a gigantic machine, the purpose of which the

Doctor could not begin to guess at.

Twin metal girders, as black as coal

and as thick at oak trees, jutted upward from the deck, intersecting with

a huge horizontal beam suspended from the ceiling high above.

W hether intentional or not, the device resembled a cross.

There was a figure hanging from it.

A Time Lord, already dead.

Just

an after-sense.

A flicker of pain.

A j

umble of painful regenerations.

A

stampede towards oblivion.

`W hat did you do to him?'

Èxhausted his usefulness.

I shall try to take better care with you.

'

Tubes had been clamped onto the Time Lord'

s gaunt torso. They snaked

between cross-struts, through a tangle of holographic cables and out to

a squat, black plinth with a goldfish-globe top.

Greenish-grey liquids

squirted around the tubes and oozed in and out of the bowl, flooding

the circuitry within.

It looked to the Doctor like a very crude time rotor.

`Your people are criminals on this world, Doctor,'

del Toro said. '

Mass-

murderers.

Here, this is j

ustice:

Àll this in the name of God.'

All this because it is necessary!

The Church is spreading like a bloody

rash over these backward systems. There has been no plan — no guidance.

Just endless damned monks tramping around the cosmos recruiting

souls for Jesus:

Ì would have thought that was the point:

Ìt'

s causing chaos.

These places are too remote from Rome.

They are

all going their own way doctrinally.

Bishops and local rulers are getting

involved.

Do you know, two worlds are currently at war over the correct

thickness of the communion wafer? There are three rival Popes.

W e, the

Holy Inquisition — '

'

— ride around the galactic rim like outlaws, spreading terror and

murdering innocents.

You are a monster;

said the Doctor.

'

And all my

life I have fought monsters.

You'

re no different from any of them:

`Perhaps I am a monster . . . '

Del Toro suddenly and painfully gripped

the Doctor'

s chin.

'

I know a thousand different ways of inflicting pain

upon you, Time Lord, a thousand different ways of getting the information

I seek;

and if you prove to be resilient, then I will take you to the very

brink of death and watch you regenerate.

'

He released his grip on the Doctor, smiling in satisfaction at the shock

on his face.

`So your machine can force a Time Lord to regenerate?'

Del Toro smiled in triumph.

'

That is .

.

.

one of its functions:

The Doctor looked del Toro straight in the eye.

'

And the other?'

Ènough prattle, Doctor.

I have found that the first few hours of a

new incarnation is the perfect time for me to conduct my investigations.

Post-regenerative trauma is a useful ally.

Struggle against me all you

wish in this body, Doctor.

Your future selves will tell me all that I wish

to know.

'

snapshots.

Funny — she hadn'

t thought about her Catholic childhood

for years.

Her favourite childhood cousin had become a priest.

W hen

had she last seen him? She couldn'

t remember.

She recalled finding church boring as a child, but always enj

oying

visits to the big cathedrals — though this was the first time she'

d been

trapped in one.

She tried to clear her mind and think of a plan.

She

wandered the cloisters, the dark crypt, the many side-chapels, the choir.

She even sat through a service.

She wondered about the old man in the black habit.

She caught sight

of him again as he passed briefly through a cloister at the far end of the

nave, where two priests bowed to him and addressed him, in tones of

the deepest respect, as '

Venerable Father.

`W ho'

s the old man?'

she asked a young priest.

`That'

s Father Julian:

the priest said.

'

The Sublime and Venerable

Patriarch of the Spinward Clusters.

Or he was.

He has abandoned the

material world for that of the spirit.

He lives as a simple Benedictine

now.'

À Patriarch .

.

.

That'

s .

.

.

quite high up, isn'

t it?'

She recalled as a young child always getting confused about who was

who in the Church.

The Pope she knew, of course .

.

.

and God .

.

.

but

all the bishops and cardinals and whatnot .

.

.

The priest smiled and pointed towards the ceiling.

`Higher than the cardinals:

he said.

'

In ancient times, they used to be

thought co-equal with the Holy Father himself:

`W hat'

s he like?'

`Father Julian? Oh, he'

s a very great man,'

said the young priest.

'

He'

s

retired now, of course, but he'

s been more revered than ever since he

turned his back on the world and came to Haven.

Even here, in this

house of wonders, he is the brightest ornament.

'

That gave Cat hope.

He must be able to help the Doctor.

In place of the dead Time Lord, the Doctor was now pinned to the

Grand Inquisitor'

s great crucifixion machine, shoulders, wrists and feet.

W ires nipped and tubes bit under the skin of his neck, face and head,

encouraged there by a variety of automated robotic arms.

Across from the Doctor, Guii del Toro stood at the goldfish-bowl

control unit and rested his hands tantalisingly on a lever.

`Say goodbye to yourself, Time Lord, said del Toro, smiling.

'

As my

machine .

.

.

encourages you to regenerate, so the data we record will

be of immense use to me:

Three feet below the Doctor'

s dangling feet, wheels and cogs began

to grind.

He suddenly felt the wires in his skin bite.

The skin of his head

felt tight, stretched across his skull.

His skull seemed to be expanding. Memories crowded out — temporal

flotsam, other selves, old friends, old enemies — and tumbled away into

the sudden distance.

Behind him a voice whispered.

'

Puccini.

.

.

'

Future memories.

They tugged at him.

The voice whispered again.

It sounded youthful, warm — light, yet

calm and reassuring.

He could almost make out words.

He felt a warm breath on his neck.

So close .

.

.

He was fighting the urge to look around.

Through the chaos of his memories, he could see del Toro making

adj

ustments to the machine.

W ith a jolt, he began to experience another, more alarming sensation.

It was as if the wires were sucking something out of him — and trying to

force something else in.

He felt at the same time drained and stuffed to exploding with .

.

.

himself.

This machine was more than j

ust a device of torture .

.

.

much

more.

He struggled to remain conscious. He had responsibilities. Cat . . . W hat

would happen to her? W hat would the Inquisition do to her if they found

her? He was vaguely aware of a guard approaching the Inquisitor.

`Lord, the Cardinal is here,'

the guard said.

`Good;

said the Inquisitor.

'

He should see this.

Bring him in.

'

`The Cardinal is already in, milord del Toro.

'

Another voice, high and

petulant and used to being obeyed.

'

And he has no wish to see this,

thank you.

Turn that thing off.

'

The Inquisitor paused.

'

As your eminence commands;

he said at last,

bowing.

No longer able to see, the Doctor heard the sound of dying machinery.

The dreadful tug of war that had threatened to rip his mind from his

body began to subside.

He focused on the new arrival — tall, gaunt, old and proud looking,

and dressed from head to foot in a cardinal'

s dazzling red.

Ìs this the witch that you dragged me out here to see? I was on my

way to Rome, man!

'

Èminence, this one is a Time Lord.

'

Ì see . . . '

Ànd on this planet, of all of them .

.

.

'

Ì know, I know .

.

.

'

`His Holiness has commanded — '

`The man who styles himself John Paul XXIII has not issued a

command or spoken a word since brain-death,'

the Cardinal snapped.

`But it was clearly established in the reign of His Holiness Pope Sixtus— '

The Cardinal hissed with contempt;

the Inquisitor continued.

'

— that soul-death occurs five to seven years after brain-stem activity

ceases. Until that sad event occurs, the throne is not vacant. It is almighty God who makes the rules, milord:

`Very well, very well.

W hat do you expect me to do?'

`W itness the interrogation.

As a representative of the Curia, you have

no choice.

Ìf by the Curia you mean Bonaventure and his gang of Frenchmen,

hovering like vultures around John Paul'

s corpse — '

`There is only one Curia, milord:

`There are two;

said the Cardinal tartly.

'

Three, if you include what

that maniac in the Magellanic Clouds has been doing in the name of

our Saviour:

`W e of the Holy Inquisition are in the vanguard of the fight to re-

establish orthodoxy.

'

`You merely profit from the chaos, del Toro. Now, get what you need

from this man and let me be on my way.

The Inquisitor turned to address the Doctor.

'

Time Lord.

W e have a

distinguished guest. Please forgive the delay whist I reset the instruments: The Doctor tried to say something, but no words came out.

He could

no longer feel his body.

His vision was clear of memory fragments now.

The torture chamber seemed unusually bright.

`Look at him;

the Cardinal snapped.

'

He'

s quite unconscious.

'

`The process takes a few days, Eminence:

À few days!

I don'

t have the time, man!

John Paul is dead — or his

soul dying!

The conclave is assembling!

You know what is at stake!

W ar

across Christendom!

'

He drew in an angry breath.

'

I know what you'

re

trying to do, del Toro.

And your ambitions .

.

.

I won'

t be delayed here.

You will j

ust have to take him down and use more traditional methods.

You have one hour, whilst I pay my respects to Patriarch Julian:

The old man had been gone too long, and Cat'

s anxiety about the Doctor

hadn'

t abated.

She'

d seen him in difficult scrapes before, but this was

different.

This was too close to home.

To her, the Catholic Church was

an authority that couldn'

t be resisted.

A bit frightening, really — an

undercurrent of absolute, stern authority and veiled menace underlay

it all.

Her mother had been devout, and her father had let her get on

with it.

Even her mother'

s '

hairbrush to the back of the head'

routine

(when, for example, she'

d flooded the kitchen) had seemed to be

delivered with papal authority.

Maybe that'

s why she'

d blanked it from

her mind, buried her childhood memories.

But she hadn'

t been an unhappy child, she was sure .

.

.

She hadn'

t given her parents any thought in years — she didn'

t even

know where they were.

Still in Liverpool, she supposed.

She'

d upped

and gone to London as soon as she could get away. Then it all went a bit

hazy .

.

.

And now she was on the other side of the galaxy, and her only

remaining friend was probably dead.

Àh, there you are, child:

The old Patriarch'

s voice snapped her out of her reverie.

`Father,'

she cried, rather too loud.

'

Did you .

.

.

?'

She could see from his face that he didn'

t have good news for her.

Ì'm sorry, my dear.

The Grand Inquisitor sent me his apologies via

an intermediary.

He says he'

s in a sub-space conference with Rome.

W hich is a lie. He had to say something to avoid seeing me. A certain . . .

protocol .

.

.

still attaches to my former labours for the Church.

'

`So you didn'

t see him?'

`No. And what I learned from one of the servants gives us little cause

for optimism, I fear.

Del Toro is in his ship playing with some new toy,

and your friend is with him:

`Toy?'

`His filthy instruments of interrogation.

No human has ever resisted

del Toro, and I doubt a Time Lord could either:

Tut the Doctor'

s done nothing wrong!

'

`He is a Time Lord.

That is excuse enough for del Toro .

.

.

Not that

he needs an excuse.

'

Ì don'

t know what I'

d do without the Doctor,'

said Cat in a low,

tremulous whisper.

'

He'

s .

.

.

all I'

ve got.

'

The old man lay a comforting hand on her shoulder and raised it to

brush her cheek.

`No tears now,'

said Father Julian.

Cat pulled away.

'

I don'

t cry,'

she said, flashing the old priest a glance.

Ì am truly sorry, child.

I will pray for your friend.

Even the fate of

Time Lords is in the hand of the Almighty.

'

The Doctor was beyond help.

His body hung insensible on the black

wall, but he was not inside it.

The machine had done something .

.

.

split

him from his body.

He was drifting slowly through the ship, dazzled by

light that had no source.

Voices rose and fell like waves in a lazy sea.

People shone with energy — some brightly, some dully, each with his or

her own peculiar tone of light.

None of them could see or hear him.

He floated, it seemed, at random, through the ship'

s massive engine

rooms and even more massive kitchens, then up into Guii del Toro'

s

luxurious quarters, where he watched the Inquisitor raising a glass of

dark wine in a silent, grimly satisfied toast, and out through the ship'

s

bulkhead, into the market square.

He could touch nothing and no one,

he passed through solid objects, he could not control the rate or direction of his drift.

He was heading towards the Cathedral, thinking absently about how

it looked centuries old.

It couldn'

t have been there longer than thirty

years — probably less.

The solid stone walls were as diaphanous as air to him, and he passed

within.

There was Cat, sitting, head bowed, in the front row of pews, before the

high altar.

She looked so sad.

So alone.

The Doctor wanted to reach out

to her.

To tell her he was sorry.

At the foot of the altar, two men were

kneeling in prayer.

One was the red-robed Cardinal.

The other was a

good twenty years older, and dressed in what appeared to be the habit

of a Benedictine monk.

The silence was suddenly shattered by an explosion of noise — a side-

door crashed open and a black figure rushed through it.

A monk.

He

ran forward, straight at the Cardinal.

`No!

'

Cat leaped forward.

The Doctor tried to cry out, but found that he had no voice.

He tried

to will himself to move forward, but merely began to drift backwards,

back through the wall.

He saw the Cardinal flailing at the monk with a free-standing gilded

cross.

The monk batted it aside and then struck the Cardinal to the

cathedral floor with a single blow.

The Doctor saw the Cardinal'

s light

die like a candle snuffed out by fingers.

Cat froze.

The old monk was only just reali

si

ng what was happeni

ng.

He crossed

himself and slumped to the floor, muttering frantically about the

Antichrist.

The attacker regarded him for a moment, then turned and

ran back the way he had come.

The cathedral fell silent again, save for the old man'

s fevered prayers.

The Doctor found it so difficult to concentrate .

.

.

Had someone been

killed? It seemed so long ago.

The sun was going down to the east of the ramshackle city.

Lamps

were being lit.

The Doctor had drifted far from the town square, out

over darkening fields.

He was forgetting where he was .

.

.

The cathedral was lit up like a beacon in the advancing night. He could

war music coming from within, carrying over the benighted rooftops.

He felt himself slipping from consciousness — if you could call this

;consciousness .

The limbo of light and muted sound was starting to

engulf him.

He tried to focus on the light, on the music.

Singing .

.

.

It seemed to gain in clarity. He was drifting — so slowly — back towards

the town.

Allegri'

s Miserere .

.

.

Concentrate.

.

.

Cat was in chains.

Del Toro had decreed that she should be there to

reflect upon her crime.

It was a requiem mass in the cathedral for the

late Cardinal Runciman.

She was under arrest for his murder.

She had been found trying to revive Father Julian.

Del Toro had

immediately had her manacled and thrown into a cell.

The service dragged.

She was thinking about the Doctor.

Del Toro

had laughingly confirmed Father Julian'

s prediction — he was dead. And

she would soon follow him to wherever the Devil had sent him.

Agatho, the fat Bishop, preached the sermon.

He eulogised Cardinal

Runciman as a great shepherd of the flock, a dreadful loss to the Church.

Cat thought the Bishop had been drinking.

Next to Agatho — in chains! — was the TARDIS, which was periodically

struck with a mitre whilst Agatho railed against Time Lord witches and

murderers.

He warned the congregation to be vigilant for strangers and

to report them to the cathedral, or they would answer to the Inquisition.

His gaze kept flashing to del Toro, who occasionally, almost imperceptibly, nodded his approval.

The choir exalted the Cardinal'

s soul to heaven, and Cat'

s chains bit

into her wrists.

She was tired.

She longed for the service to end.

She was aware of a muttering behind her, and a slight drop in the

temperature of the cathedral.

The mutters became raised voices, and

some women screamed.

Cat twisted in her chains, to see a pale, smoky figure, semi-translucent,

float slowly down the aisle towards the altar, its arms raised as if in

supplication. A guard stepped up to bar its path — and the wraith passed

through him.

It was the Doctor.

.

.

He floated up to the pulpit .

.

.

he seemed to be reaching for the

Bishop.

Agatho fell to his knees, sweating and trembling.

'

My God!

W e are

undone!

'

he cried.

'

The sin was not mine .

.

.

'

`The Devil'

s work!

'

someone in the congregation shouted, and others

shouted back in agreement.

People were starting to get to their feet,

pushing towards the doors.

Pews were toppled over, people fell, were

trampled.

At a nod from Guii del Toro, the guards tried to corral the

panicking crowd, but to no avail.

Cat strained to see past the jostling, pushing bodies of the faithful, to

catch a glimpse of the Doctor.

She saw him float up to the TARDIS,

then vanish.

The ghost was gone.

The Doctor came round in a cell that could have belonged to any age.

Crude metal walls, no light, no sound.

He called out, but heard only the

echo of his own voice in reply.

He felt forgotten.

W hat had happened up there on that awful machine? W here had he

been? He had felt his .

.

.

consciousness ripped out, blown about the

planet like so much dust.

Clawing his way back had been so hard .

.

.

He

still felt far from his old self.

Is that what they had done to the other Time Lord? Again and again

— exploring, analysing and then stripping his regenerations away.

.

.

The cell door opened and a guard beckoned for him to come out.

He

crawled through the hatch and into the dim light of the corridor.

`W hat — ?'

The guard grabbed him roughly by the arm and began

jerking him down the corridor.

'

W here are we? Look, you don'

t have to

be so .

.

.

'

He was pushed through a door and fell at the feet of Guii del Toro.

Next to him, held tightly by a guard, was Cat.

Relief flooded across her face.

She tried to reach out for him, but the

guard held her back.

`Doctor!

I thought you were dead.

I saw you .

.

.

'

Tor a while, I thought I was

dead.

'

He smiled up at her weakly.

'

How

are you, Cat?'

Cat struggled from her guard'

s grip.

`Doctor, there'

s been a murder!

'

`The Cardinal Archbishop of the Southern Rimworlds was struck

down while at prayer at the high altar,'

del Toro cut in levelly.

À murder in the cathedral . . . '

The Doctor nodded slowly. '

Yes . . . I

think I might have seen it.

My memories are still very vague:

`So you admit you were there.

'

Ìn a sense, yes.

Not my corporal body, of course.

You had that.

'

`W e have already seen that you can send your spirit from your body

at will:

`That was your machine;

the Doctor grumbled.

'

It nearly killed me.

Nearly forced me to regenerate.

'

À shame that it didn'

t,'

said del Toro.

'

Cardinal Runciman might still

be alive.

Ìf you had any grasp of the technology you use against your victims

you would realise the impossibility of my — '

`Doctor, you are not here to debate your guilt or innocence.

You are

here to give me information, and sate the hunger of the faithful. Philippo

here saw you arrive in your Devil-box.

'

A terrified-looking townsman was pushed forward from the shadows

by a guard.

He stared at the two prisoners and nodded his head

vigorously.

À Time Lord, back on Haven, del Toro continued, '

the Cardinal Arch-

bishop murdered in his own cathedral and the murderer'

s blasphemous

spirit appearing to mock the grieving at prayer.

Do you know what they

want to do to you, Doctor? If I hadn'

t brought the girl in here, they

would have torn her apart.

'

`So you intend to execute me without hearing what I have to say.

'

`Not j

ust you, Time Lord.

The community of the faithful have

condemned you both — I am merely their instrument, and God'

s.

'

`W ho was the other man at prayer with the Cardinal?'

`No less a figure than the Sublime and Venerable Patriarch Julian.

'

`Perhaps we should hear what he has to say.

'

`He is still .

.

.

in a state of shock.

'

`Then can I ask that you refrain from breaking out the instruments

until we have heard him? Surely even you can appreciate such a basic

tenet of civil and canon law.

'

`The law has little to say out here, Time Lord. There is only the Church.'

Ì'm under the protection of the Church;

Cat asserted.

'

Father Julian

gave me sanctuary.

'

`Here, you enjoy my protection,'

said del Toro coldly.

A priest entered and approached the Grand Inquisitor.

He bowed

quickly, and said, '

The Patriarch is demanding to see you.

'

Del Toro scowled.

Èxcellent;

said the Doctor.

'

W e can all go:

They found the old man praying in one of the ship'

s many small chapels.

He turned when he saw them, and struggled to his feet.

Cat thought he

looked suddenly frail and frightened.

`Venerable Father, it'

s very good to see you on your feet again, but are

you sure it is wise?'

del Toro smarmed.

`Don'

t humour me, del Toro,'

the old man said wearily.

'

You hate me

and want me dead, and — may God forgive me — I desire the same of

you.

But for the moment we must unite against the common foe.

The

Antichrist walks among us!

I saw him!

A monk without a face!

'

Ì saw a monk!

'

Cat exclaimed.

'

I .

.

.

didn'

t see his face — his hood

was up.

'

Àny man — or woman — can hide beneath the monk'

s cowl: said the

Inquisitor.

'

W hat better disguise?'

Ànd you, usually so keen to detect the presence of the Evil One the

Patriarch snapped.

Then he fell to coughing violently, doubling up with

the strain.

`Venerable Father, you must not trouble yourself with all this until

you are well enough.

`No, indeed, the Doctor cut in.

'

If you decide to come with us, you

will have the j

ourney to convalesce!

`Journey?'

del Toro snapped.

Às I understand it, we stand accused of the murder of a Cardinal at

the altar of his cathedral.

'

`You wish to confess?'

A faint smile flickered across the Doctor'

s face.

'

I wish to have the

case heard by the proper authority.

This isn'

t a matter of doctrine — the

charge could hardly be more grave.

This must be tried by the Pope in

Rome.'

Patriarch Julian let out a guffaw, then began to cough again.

`You claim a privilege of the faithful!

'

snapped del Toro.

`The girl'

s a Catholic;

said the Patriarch.

Ànd I am an honorary dean of W estminster Abbey:

said the Doctor.

`The Venerable Bede himself put me up.

'

`Time Lord trickery:

del Toro snarled.

`But correct on a point of law,'

chuckled the old Patriarch.

`But the Pope might even now be dead! Unless you'

re suggesting we go

to the heretic back in Old Rome.

Or that abomination in the Magellanic

Clouds.

`No, we shall go to Rome and hope that the conclave allows itself to

be guided for once by the Holy Spirit:

`W e can'

t get to Rome!

'

del Toro snapped.

'

This half of the galaxy is

on the brink of war.

The Magellanic hoards are poised only a few solar

systems from here.

'

`Nonsense, nonsense,'

retorted the Patriarch.

'

Poor Runciman was

going himself, before he was struck down.

And who would stop a ship

of the Holy Inquisition?'

The Inquisitor was silent, staring at the floor, looking thunderous.

The Patriarch rubbed his hands together.

'

So many years since I was

in Rome:

he said with a mix of nostalgia and anticipation.

'

I doubt I

shall recognise the place.

restricted areas or any specific prohibitions from me or from one of my

holy brethren.

You may find what comfort you may down here.

Eminence, you will, of course, be housed in my quarters.

I shall find

alternative accommodation.

Do not be afraid to ask for anything you

need.

You will find we are quite well provided for in the service of the

Lord.'

Ì know, replied the Patriarch.

'

Booty.

'

Still, he allowed himself to be led away.

`W hat now?'

Cat asked the Doctor when they were alone.

`W e relax and enj

oy the hospitality of the Church, said the Doctor.

The lower decks seemed to consist entirely of pokey, empty cells and

locked rooms containing equipment the precise purpose of which Cat

didn'

t want to know.

She peered through barred windows at the torture

instruments, and shuddered.

The ship was throbbing as the power built up in preparation for its

departure. The Doctor had settled himself in a corner and started playing

around with the many sets of manacles that hung about the walls.

He

seemed quite undisturbed by his surroundings, or by recent events.

Ì still can'

t get used to people being killed,'

she said quietly.

`You will, I'

m afraid;

the Doctor said gently.

'

I suppose you can get

used to anything, over time:

He rattled the links.

'

Perhaps even milord

Grand Inquisitor had sleepless nights in the past:

`W hat'

s he going to do to us?'

`Hopefully nothing, until we reach Rome:

Ànd then what?'

`W e take advantage of the confusion and slip away.

'

The Doctor

shuddered.

'

I have no desire to get tied up in another papal conclave.

'

Guii del Toro sipped his wine and watched a servant take the half-full

plate away from his esteemed guest.

Ì must thank you, del Toro.

You eat too heartily for me here.

'

Òut here among the backworlds we try to recapture a few of the

comforts of home, Venerable Father.

'

`Do they eat this well in Rome?'

The Inquisitor didn'

t reply.

'

Because

I hear it is a very different story on Earth.

'

`The people of Earth are schismatics.

Any other view is .

.

.

unwisely

expressed.

Even by a Patriarch.

'

The Patriarch sighed.

'

W e must pray that this conclave heals the many

breaches in the Holy Mother Church:

`W ill you be attending, Father?'

Ì am too old, del Toro.

I have long-since retired from the world of

Roman politics.

I have cleansed myself of the mud, and have no wish to

mire myself again:

Ònce it is known that you are in the Vatican, many will seek your

guidance.

You will come under great pressure to declare for one of the

candidates.

'

Ànd who would you have me support, del Toro? The Frenchman

Bonaventure? Once John Paul'

s lackey, now his embalmer?'

À loyal servant of the legitimate Pontiff.

'

The Patriarch shook his head impatiently.

`W hat of the other business? The murder.

You can'

t seriously intend

to bring the matter to Rome. Not at the present time. You had as well let

your prisoners go.

`Rome expects us, said del Toro flatly.

'

The spectacle might help

to .

.

.

focus the minds of the conclave.

And, of course, there may be

another possibility for the Papal chair .

.

.

'

The Patriarch'

s eyes narrowed.

`W hat do you .

.

.

? You? You would stand as a candidate?'

Del Toro smiled across the rim of his glass.

'

The Church needs firm

leadership, and time to heal.

I can offer both.

'

The Patriarch laughed gently.

'

And what makes you think anyone

will listen?'

Del Toro set his glass down on the table.

'

I will make them listen.

W ith the Time Lord as proof of my loyalty and commitment to the

Church.

Father Julian shook his head sadly.

'

They will rend him limb from

limb!

'

Agatho, by the Grace of God, Bishop of Braak, sponged his face with an

already-wet napkin and wished the workmen would get on with it.

Once

again they were shifting the Time Lord'

s transport — this time into the

cargo hold of the Holy Inquisition'

s ship, where he had wanted it to go

all along. The ship was nearly ready to leave. Agatho was glad — he always tried to keep the Holy Inquisition happy and at a distance, sent them

the reports from the confessionals and got on with the job of extorting

money from the local tradesmen.

His eyes flickered across the huge dark cross of the Inquisitor'

s

machine and shuddered.

As if on cue, del Toro swept into the chamber.

Agatho bowed.

`Your Grace.

As you see, the Devil-box is almost in place.

'

`Good, good.

You know, I'

m beginning to look forward to this trip.

'

`To Rome? At this time?'

`My plans have changed, Agatho.

Everything is in flux.

`W hat about the Good Shepherd Project?'

Del Toro passed a finger across his lips.

`Let us say that the Time Lord'

s arrival and His Eminence'

s tragic

murder have given us pause for thought.

'

`But what about me? W hat am I supposed to do? Braak is in uproar!

You must leave me some of your guard.

'

There was a rising bass rumbling somewhere deep beneath them.

`Get that thing into a stasis field,'

the Grand Inquisitor barked.

`W hat'

s happening? W e'

re taking off?'

`You'

re coming with us to Rome.

'

`Me? I can'

t go there!

'

`You'

re not reliable, Agatho.

You'

re a coward and a fool, and I want

you where I can see you.

'

The Bishop groaned and fell to his knees.

`Spare me, Grand Inquisitor!

'

he cried.

`Get up: said del Toro flatly. '

You sicken me.'

Days.

There was nothing to do.

The Doctor and Cat had chatted for a

long while.

He had talked about his past, his foes, his previous travelling

companions.

`W hat happened to them?'

Cat had asked.

`Most left:

the Doctor had replied.

'

Settled down to more .

.

.

stable

lives.'

`Do you ever see them?'

`Rarely.

You know me — chaos follows in my wake.

It hardly seems

fair to inflict all that on them again.

'

Ì bet they'

d love it.

'

The Doctor sighed.

'

Cat, some died.

'

Òh, I'

m sorry.

W ell, don'

t worry:

She placed a reassuring hand on

his shoulder.

'

I'

ll try to stay alive.

'

The Doctor smiled and patted her hand affectionately.

`Doctor, she asked after a while, '

can I ask you something? It'

s about

my life before I hooked up with you.

'

`Yes . . . '

Ìt'

s just .

.

.

there seem to be gaps.

Stuff I can'

t remember.

I mean.

.

.

what sort of a state was I in when we met? It'

s all kind of a blur.

'

Ì often have that effect on people:

said the Doctor, a frown dancing

across his brow.

'

W e need a holiday.

After we get out of this little

mess .

.

.

'

`Yes, but . . . '

`Cat:

the Doctor interrupted gently, '

try not to think about it.

I'

m

sure everything will come back to you once things .

.

.

settle down.

Now

I need to rest for a while.

'

And with that he had closed his eyes and — as far as Cat could see —

gone straight to sleep.

Cat had wandered the blank, dim corridors, peered in pokey cells at

nightmarish equipment and felt grateful that there appeared to be (with

the possible exception of themselves) no one to torture.

She'

d found a lift, but it wasn'

t working.

She doubted there'

d be

anybody down to fix it in a hurry.

Apart from herself and the Doctor,

the occasional silent priest, passing like a ghost, and the guard who

brought their food, the deck was deserted.

Or so Cat had assumed.

Now she wasn'

t so sure.

Sometimes, at the

furthest extremity of the ship, out beyond the rows of tiny cells, she

thought she could hear the grinding of machinery, accompanied by

long, high screams.

She put the barely audible clamour down to her imagination working

overtime in the silence and stillness.

But, still, at certain times and in

certain parts of the ship.

.

.

The Doctor was no use.

He never stirred.

He was breathing, and

looked peaceful, if uncomfortable.

She wondered how anyone could sit

cross-legged for so long.

She wondered if the ship was haunted. The tormented spirits of those

tortured to death on del Toro'

s machines .

.

.

Father Julian'

s faceless

monk .

.

.

the Doctor floating like a cloud through the cathedral .

.

.

She'

d seen enough recently to convince herself that ghosts were real.

She shook her head — what was it about the Church and death, and

what happened after death? Everything here seemed to revolve around

it.

It surprised her that she had once believed it all. She suddenly recalled

being asked, as a little girl, what she wanted to be when she grew up.

Her reply had been instant — a nun.

Had she lost it all? The belief? Had she ever really believed it? She

remembered it now as fact, not as faith, and it didn'

t seem to suit her at

all.

She wished Father Julian would come and visit.

Finally her boredom overcame her fear of the dark and she plunged

into the gloom.

Every slight shift or groan of the ship in flight set Cat'

s nerves on edge.

She strained to hear the terrible sounds of torture.

Nothing.

She went further, deeper into the bowels and workings of the ship.

`Hello?'

she called out timidly.

'

Is anybody down here?'

They must be going through some sort of turbulence.

The distant

clang of the hull sounded to Cat like ripping metal.

Like the roaring of

some great machine.

Screams carried on the wind .

.

.

She froze. That was it — the sound.

She edged out around a bend in the corridor.

She wasn'

t sure she

could go any further.

A scream again;

chilling, more of a drawn-out whine of agony.

It

didn'

t sound human.

And then, over the industrial grind and the unearthly screams,

another voice.

Human.

Male.

And singing.

Àl

l

t

hings bright

and beaut

if

ul

.

.

.

'

Accompanied by a low groan of pain and despair.

Cat felt sick.

She forced herself forward into the gloom, following the nightmare

sounds.

Àl

l

creat

ures great

and smal

l

.

.

.

'

The corridor ended in a door — not locked.

Slowly she turned the

handle, inched open the door and peered into the black slit.

Àl

l

t

hings wise and wonderf

ul

.

.

.

'

It was the hold. The cacophony was coming from the back, up towards

the roof.

As Cat walked slowly forward, the tumult died down, collapsing into

a dying groan of machinery that drowned out everything else.

`The Lord God .

.

.

'

Cat could see light at the back of the room.

A grille, set near the

ceiling.

She could see a pair of feet through it.

. . . made . . . '

She edged forward in the sudden, unnerving silence.

On the far wall

of the cavernous chamber hung a cross, huge and black, wires and tubes

snaking down from it through the deck-plates of the ship.

Cat stared

up at the cross, goosebumps on her skin.

There was something not right

here.

Something twisted.

Eyes on the cross and not on her feet, Cat tripped on one of the plastic

container crates that littered the dark room.

The box tipped, spilling

out its loose consignment of chains.

`W ho'

s there?'

A light — a torch — shone through the grille, and into Cat'

s eyes. She

froze.

`W ho are you?'

a man'

s voice asked.

She didn'

t reply.

Ìt'

s all right, I'

m not going to hurt you.

'

Ì'm Cat Broome,'

she said timidly.

She could just make out a young man clad in blue overalls, squatting,

peering down at her.

Àctually, we'

ve met before,'

he said.

`W e have?'

Ìn Saint Saviour'

s Cathedral, in Braak.

You were asking me about

Father Julian.

'

`That'

s right!

But you were dressed as a priest then.

'

Ì am a priest,'

he said.

'

But there are other ways to serve God, off

one'

s knees.

'

`W hat are you doing up there?'

`Repairs.

Maintenance.

W hen we met in the cathedral, I was merely

visiting — as a tourist, you might say.

I'

ve been wanting to see Saint.

Saviour'

s for years. I remembered you because of the question you asked

me about Patriarchs.

I used to get confused about them as a child.

'

`Really!

'

exclaimed Cat.

`Me too!

I sort of used to mix them up with

the — '

'

— Old Testament Patriarchs;

the priest cut in.

`Yes!

'

exclaimed Cat.

'

How did you know?'

`Me too,'

he grinned. '

I'

m Father O'

Hearne. But please call me Paddy.

Are you a prisoner?'

Ì suppose so.

They'

re calling me a witch.

'

Òh dear,'

said Paddy.

Ì'm not, though.

'

Paddy leaned forward, his face close to the grille.

`Between you and me, I'

m not sure I believe in witches.

'

In an undistinguished chapel on one of the lower decks, a man knelt at

prayer.

He was further from home than he had ever dreamed of being,

in the presence of sorcery and murder and the Holy Inquisition.

He

was being taken to Rome to publicly accuse a witch, and he was terrified.

Philippo had not left the chapel since the ship had taken off, although

he had been allotted quarters larger and more comfortable than his

whole family'

s hut in Braak.

He had touched none of the food provided

for him.

He was fasting.

W ho would mind the stall? His wife had to look after the babies.

W ho would feed and groom the kreekg? W ho would fetch the supplies?

W orry had given way to fear, and then to despair.

A servant of the Inquisition had talked to him on the first day.

Terrified, he had lashed out, demanded to be taken home, threatened

the man'

s life, may God forgive him!

After that they had left him to his

mortifications.

He had never been further than the Prax Hills, where the pa-arteks

grazed.

Now he was travelling through space.

He thought he was going

mad.

He asked God over and over again why he had been torn from his life

so suddenly.

He continually begged the Blessed Virgin to intervene on

his behalf, to take him home.

He heard footsteps behind him.

`My Lord Bishop!

'

he exclaimed, rising to his feet.

`Get out said Agatho.

'

I wish to pray.

'

`Hear my confession, Your Grace! How have I sinned? I don'

t want to

die out here!

'

`Find someone else to hear your confession!

'

Agatho snapped.

`Then send me a priest!

'

Agatho seemed to hesitate.

Ì will hear your confession,'

he said.

'

But who will hear mine?'

Philippo fell again to his knees and grasped the Bishop'

s robes.

`Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.

It has been three days since my

last confession.

Father .

.

.

where are we?'

`W e are in hell, Philipp,'

the Bishop replied.

`So why did you become a priest?'

Cat asked her new friend, with more

than a hint of regret in her voice.

Father Paddy thought for a moment, and shrugged his shoulders.

'

I

think the Holy Spirit must have called me very hastily, he said.

'

I have

no recollection of being particularly devout as a child.

My mother, yes,

but not the rest of us.

I used to duck off church to go swimming in the

summer.

'

`Me too!

'

Cat cried.

'

Blundell Sands!

'

`Yes!'

`W e probably met there as children!'

Cat clapped her hands in sudden,

childlike delight, then corrected herself.

'

No, silly.

W e can'

t have.

'

There was the little matter of a few centuries in between his time and

hers. It was strange — she felt she knew him. Perhaps he reminded her a

bit of her brother.

Not in his face, but his mannerisms.

In his body

language.

`My brother'

s a priest:

she suddenly blurted out.

Her brother was a priest.

W hy hadn'

t she remembered that before?

`Father .

.

.

uh .

.

.

'

`Paddy, please.'

`Paddy .

.

.

I think I'

m going crazy.

I keep forgetting things.

Or

remembering things I'

d forgotten.

Really big things.

'

She shuddered.

`There was this old boy — my great, great uncle or something — who

couldn'

t hold the last five minutes in his head .

.

.

but at least he was

old.

'

She swallowed hard.

'

I swore I'

d top myself if I ever started to lose

my marbles.

At least in heaven you'

d get them back.

'

`Heaven is not for suicides:

said Paddy sadly.

'

Life is God'

s most

precious gift to us, and to lay it down needlessly is an abomination.

.

.

though of course to lay it down selflessly — for one'

s fellow men .

.

.

'

Ànd what about those not in his image?'

Paddy looked at her blankly.

'

I'

m not sure that I .

.

.

'

`W hat about creatures other than man?'

Cat leaned forward, her brow

furrowing.

'

I'

ve seen creatures so different, so alien that they were barely

recognisable as life;

creatures composed of drifting gas, of crystal and

rock, of light and sound;

creatures that were so small that their entire

race could fit in the palm of my hand.

So many different types .

.

.

'

She looked up at Paddy, despair in her eyes

`Before we came here, I saved the Doctor'

s life.

Used dozens of tiny

robots to help us escape. And I left them behind, sacrificed them so that

we could leave.

I killed them!

W hat kind of person does that make me?'

Tut a robot is j

ust a tool.

'

`But these were more than that!

'

Cat'

s voice was urgent.

'

They had

intelligence, artificial intelligence;

they could think and learn and adapt.

Each one of them was individual, unique.

Surely that'

s what it means to

be alive? Surely they deserved to be treated as more than tools!

'

Paddy shook his head.

'

The computer that runs this ship knows the

needs of each of us and reacts accordingly.

It is intelligent, but it is not

alive.

'

`Have you ever heard of the Cybermen?'

asked Cat.

Paddy shook his head.

`W e ran into a group of them in the Prenadene asteroid belt.

Huge,

silver creatures.

Terrifying.

They nearly killed us.

'

Ì'm told the universe is full of such monsters:

`But what makes them monsters? The Doctor told me that they were

people once.

People like you and me.

But they removed their humanity.

They took out their hearts and lungs and organs and replaced them

with machines.

They replaced their brains with computers.

They gave

up their emotion .

.

.

'

Paddy gave a deep sigh. '

So many in this universe turn to the extremes

of science for their answers when they should turn towards God:

`Do you know why they did that to themselves?'

Cat'

s voice trembled

with emotion.

'

Because they wanted to live!

Because their planet was

turning more hostile towards them every day and they wanted to live.

They didn'

t want to just lie down and trust in God.

They made a choice

not to die, not to take the easy, painless way out, and yet you tell me that with every cut of the scalpel, they damned themselves!

'

Paddy said nothing.

Cat closed her eyes.

'

I'

m sorry.

I don'

t mean to take it out on you:

Paddy smiled at her.

'

You can take it out on me all you want, if it

takes your mind off suicide:

Cat shook her head.

'

I didn'

t mean that.

I don'

t honestly think I'

m

capable of it.

'

She smiled back.

'

Let'

s talk about something else .

.

.

'

`Cat? Cat!

'

How long had she been gone? The Doctor consulted his pocket-watch.

Had he really been away that long?

He had been deep inside himself, deep in equilibrium, allowing his

personality to reassemble itself after his ordeal at the hands of the Grand Inquisitor.

He should have given more thought to Cat.

She could be anywhere.

`Cat!'

he barked. He was conscious of the edge in his voice. Foolish —

the guards could come for them at any time. She was as safe on her own

as she was with him.

Cat would look after herself. He had some serious talking to do. Even

on the fringes of papal politics, the Doctor knew, one needed both

information and allies, and he intended to garner both.

Cat returned over an hour later, feeling by turns elated and confused.

Her head was full of her new friend.

He had, of course, refused to try to

let her out — clearly he wouldn'

t do anything to defy del Toro — but just

to hear another civil human voice, to have a proper conversation rather

than answer questions and accusations .

.

.

Besides — it was uncanny —

they had so much in common.

He'

d j

ogged so many memories.

.

.

Too many. That was the trouble. It was as if she was remembering for

the first time who she was .

.

.

who she'

d really been before the Doctor

had appeared.

W as she recovering from some form of amnesia? Or going mad?

The Doctor would help her.

She'

d wake him if she had to.

The Doctor wasn'

t there.

Pinned to the makeshift cushion where he had

been sitting for the past three days was a note: '

Gone to see the Patriarch:

`His Eminence will be joining us shortly,'

said Guii del Toro.

'

He asked

for this meeting, but in the interests of doctrinal security, he has agreed to allow me to be present.

'

`Very kind of you, said the Doctor.

'

In the meantime, may I ask you a

question?'

`Certainly,'

said the Grand Inquisitor.

`W hy do I get the feeling I am being dragged into something much

bigger than a simple murder?'

`W hat do you mean, Doctor?'

`Papal politics, more virulent than any I have seen since the days of

the Borgias:

Ì am a mere teacher of the truth.

I am far from the politics of Rome.

'

Òut here hunting witches.

In the 28th Century!

It'

s medieval,

superstitious and barbaric!

'

`Superstition.

The old battle cry of the rationalists.

And yet, as

mankind has crossed the star-lanes, all the prejudices of the secular world have broken down.

W itchcraft does exist, out here among the stars.

'

`Science, Grand Inquisitor.

Science that you persecute because you

don'

t understand it.

Alien science.

'

Àlien science, alien religion, practices so hideous, so inimical to the

Gospels . . . W hen the monks began preaching to primitive species, some

monstrous ideas from the backworlds began to creep into Catholic space.

Some of the new bishops out here on the rimworlds began accepting

beast sacrifices to the Lord!

One authorised a depiction of Christ as a

non-human — a crucified alien!

'

Òh, how monstrous!

'

sneered the Doctor.

`There was worse to come.

The question of the baptism of non-

humanoid species split the Church in two.

Did they or did they not

have souls?'

The Doctor rolled his eyes.

`There were riots, civil wars, governments became embroiled and

secular authority also fragmented. Fearing for his safety, Pope Athanasius

finally left Earth for Rome.

'

Ì'm sorry?'

the Doctor cut in.

'

W here is Rome, if not on Earth?'

`Doctor, Rome is where the Pope is.

'

`Meaning what, exactly?'

Del Toro approached the altar and, genuflecting, touched one of a

discreet row of buttons set into its surface.

A wide, thin screen floated

down from the ceiling.

The Inquisitor touched another button, and an

image filled the screen.

It was a ship — of sorts. It looked more like a small moon, but entirely

man-made, every inch covered in buildings or immense, shallow glass

domes, under which the Doctor could see trees and parklands.

`This,'

said del Toro proudly, '

is Rome.

Is she not a marvel?'

Ànd this is where the Pope — one of the Popes — now rules from?'

Del Toro touched another button and the image was enlarged.

Under

a huge dome that appeared to consist of a single sheet of thin glass, the

Doct

or

coul

d

see

Sai

nt

Pet

er'

s.

Exact

l

y

as

i

t

was

on

Eart

h.

`Vat

i

can

Ci

t

y,

Doct

or.

A

st

one-by-st

one

repl

i

ca

of

t

he

ori

gi

nal

:

`Very

impressive.

'

Ànd

now,

wherever

t

he

Hol

y

Fat

her

wi

shes

t

o

go,

Rome

goes

wi

t

h

hi

m,

secure

from

at

t

ack.

'

Ànd

f

r

om

pr

oper

scr

ut

i

ny,

I

woul

d

i

magi

ne:

sai

d

t

he

Doct

or

.

'

A

government

on

t

he

run

i

s

no

government

:

`You

sound

l

i

ke

a

schi

smat

i

c,

Doct

or.

Back

on

Eart

h,

t

hey

refer

t

o

t

he

new

Rome

as

Avi

gnon.

The

new

Babyl

oni

an

capt

i

vi

t

y.

They

el

ect

ed

a

ri

val

Pope,

back

i

n

Ol

d

Rome.

Of

course,

he

cal

l

ed

hi

msel

f

Urban

IX;

and

t

hose

who

have

succeeded

hi

m

as

ant

i

pope

have

al

so

t

aken

t

he

name.

Swi

ne!'

Ànd

now

t

he

Pope

i

n

t

hi

s

new

Rome

i

s

dyi

ng.

'

`John

Paul

XXIII,

yes.

At

a

t

i

me

when

we

desperat

el

y

need

l

eader-

shi

p

.

.

.

A

year

ago,

a

Scart

hi

an

bandi

t

chi

ef

cal

l

ed

Brot

ak

managed

t

o

uni

t

e

most

of

t

he

pl

anet

s

i

n

t

he

M agel

l

ani

c

Syst

em

under

hi

s

aut

hori

t

y.

He

convert

ed

t

o

Roman

Cat

hol

i

ci

sm,

accl

ai

med

hi

msel

f

Tsar

of

al

l

t

he

M agel

l

ani

c

Cl

ouds,

and,

cl

ai

mi

ng

di

rect

aut

hori

t

y

from

t

he

great

Con-

st

ant

i

ne,

appoi

nt

ed

hi

s

own

.

.

.

creat

ure

.

.

.

i

n

mockery

of

t

he

Pope:

`Creat

ure?'

`The

Abbot

Brrt

eet

'

k.

He

cal

l

s

hi

msel

f

Cel

est

i

ne

VI.

'

Del

Toro'

s

voi

ce

rang

wi

t

h

di

sgust

.

'

He'

s

from

one

of

t

he

new

monast

eri

es.

'

`Not

one

of

t

he

ol

d

boy

net

work,

eh?'

`Doct

or,

Cel

est

i

ne

VI

i

s

a

hi

ghl

y

evol

ved

dol

phi

n

from

beyond

t

he

Rakash

Nebul

a!

A

dol

phi

n,

el

evat

ed

t

o

t

he

t

hrone

of

Sai

nt

Pet

er!

A

wret

ched

fi

sh!'

`They'

re

mammal

s:

sai

d

t

he

Doct

or.

`Pope

John

Paul

has

made

i

t

an

art

i

cl

e

of

fai

t

h

t

hat

dol

phi

ns

are

fi

sh:

t

he

Inqui

si

t

or

spat

.

`W ho

knows,

'

sai

d

t

he

Pat

ri

arch

from

t

he

doorway,

'

perhaps

a

pi

ous

dol

phi

n

mi

ght

serve

t

he

Lord

bet

t

er

t

han

an

unwort

hy

man.

'

Fat

her

Jul

i

an

wal

ked

t

o

a

chai

r

and

set

t

l

ed

i

nt

o

i

t

,

noddi

ng

at

t

he

Doct

or

i

n

greet

i

ng.

'

W e

have

l

ong

ago

l

earned

not

t

o

confuse

t

he

shape

of

t

he

body

wi

t

h

t

he

shape

of

t

he

soul

:

he

cont

i

nued.

'

The

fai

rest

of

face

can

be

t

he

most

monst

r

ous

of

spi

r

i

t

,

as

wi

t

h

Luci

f

er

hi

msel

f

—

t

he

bri

ght

est

of

God'

s

angel

s

before

hi

s

fal

l

.

'

`Celestine'

s actions are far fouler than his appearance,'

said del Toro.

`He stole a fortune from his own abbey, then bribed and murdered his

way into the Magellanic Tsar'

s inner circle.

The whole idea of a rival

papacy was Celestine'

s, and he paid the Tsar to support it:

`Don'

t worry, Grand Inquisitor,'

assured the Patriarch.

'

I shall not

speak a word in favour of the dolphin.

He turned to the Doctor.

'

How

are you? It is a pleasure to meet you properly.

Young Catherine spoke a

great deal about you.

Is she not with you?'

No, she'

s gone on one of her walks:

`Forgive me for not seeing you sooner.

The exertions of the last few

days took their toll and I was forced to take to bed.

I trust they are

treating you well.

'

Ì haven'

t really noticed,'

said the Doctor.

'

I haven'

t been quite myself

either.

'

He shot a withering glance at del Toro. His time in the ship'

s dungeons,

his semi-trance, had allowed vague memories of the experience to wash

around and solidify, but still he could remember little about the murder.

There was something odd, he vaguely recalled, about the monk.

.

.

`Do you feel able to talk about what happened in Braak Cathedral?'

the Doctor asked the Patriarch.

`The murder.

'

Father Julian shivered.

'

Poor Runciman:

`Yes. Is there anyone who might have wanted to see the Cardinal dead?'

Del Toro laughed aloud.

'

About half of Christendom, Doctor.

The

other half would willingly have died for him.

Such are the times we live

in.

'

The Patriarch nodded his agreement.

'

A great and true servant of the

Holy Spirit and a political genius, Doctor.

He'

d have caused some

fireworks at the conclave, I have no doubt:

`You say you saw the murderer, Father?'

queried the Doctor.

`Yes.

'

The old man grew suddenly agitated.

'

It was the Antichrist.

A

faceless monk, Doctor!

'

`Did you see either Cat or me there?'

`No. I

I.

.

.

became aware of Catherine later.

She was holding my head

and calling for help.

'

Òr trying to falsely establish her innocence;

interj

ected del Toro.

Èasier than making an escape, perhaps:

`This monk — '

pressed the Doctor.

`W hat if the Sublime Patriarch did see a faceless monk?'

del Toro

impatiently cut in.

'

You could easily have conjured some spirit up from

hell, clothed in the conveniently concealing garb of a monk.

W e have

already witnessed your powers, Doctor, when you sent your spirit from

your body at the late Cardinal'

s mass.

That alone is enough to condemn

you to death.

'

`Then why drag me all the way to Rome?'

The Patriarch slapped his palm impatiently on the altar-rail and began

to cough.

`Yes, we must leave these matters for Rome,'

said the Inquisitor

soothingly.

'

Venerable Father, you must return to your bed.

You are still

far from well.

'

The Patriarch nodded, trying to catch his breath.

A young priest entered the chapel and whispered something in the

Inquisitor'

s ear.

The Inquisitor nodded solemnly and the young priest

left.

`Gentlemen:

del Toro said.

'

His Holiness Pope John Paul is dead.

'

Ì thought he'

d died some time ago, said the Doctor.

Del Toro scowled at the Time Lord.

`Doctor,'

the old Patriarch chided, '

whatever one'

s opinions of the

man, a legitimate pontiff has been gathered to God. It is not an occasion

for sarcasm.

Now you must excuse me.

I have to go and pray for the

Holy Father'

s soul. You, del Toro, should do likewise.'

He began to shuffle

towards the exit.

'

Doctor, you are free to come and see me at any time

he said between coughs.

'

Catherine too.

I trust that milord del Toro will

make the appropriate arrangements.

'

Òf course:

said the Inquisitor stiffly, scowling.

`Thank you,'

said the Doctor.

They waited in silence until the old man had gone.

`You will burn, Doctor:

del Toro snarled.

'

I swear before the Blessed

Virgin, you will burn.

'

That night (assuming in their dungeon that it was night), the Doctor

and Cat dined uncomfortably but well, courtesy of Father Julian, who

had sent down a large hamper from the Grand Inquisitor'

s table.

Cold

meats, hot dishes flavoured with strange spices, wine .

.

.

Cat ate heartily.

She was starving.

She talked incessantly between

mouthfuls, and more after a glass or two of wine, recounting her twilight

rendezvous with Father O'

Hearne.

Paddy.

Ìt'

s weird.

He'

s also from Liverpool.

His dad also worked for W irral

Borough Council.

W e have so much in common.

'

`Separated only by eight hundred years, said the Doctor, teasing gently.

Cat didn'

t laugh.

'

At first I thought it was fun, but now it'

s starting to

scare me:

`Scare you?'

`Doctor — '

Cat put down her glass `— if you'

d asked me a week ago

what religion I was, I'

d swear I couldn'

t have told you.

There'

s stuff I

still can'

t remember. Like when I was in London — what was I doing? It'

s

all a blank!

'

Ì wonder why all this is coming to you now?'

the Doctor mused to

himself.

Ì think I'

m going mad!

W as I on drugs? That'

s the only thing that

would make any sense'

`No,'

said the Doctor firmly. '

You weren'

t.'

He flashed a brief, sad smile at her.

Cat tried to smile back.

W as she really losing it?

She was scared.

She wanted a hug, like her dad used to .

.

.

Her dad .

.

.

Did she remember her dad? Yes.

She did now.

She was really scared.

And yet still comforted by the memory.

She wanted the Doctor to

hug her like that.

She'

d never hugged the Doctor.

Ànd yet now,'

said the Doctor, '

if I asked, you would tell me with

assurance that you'

re a good Roman Catholic girl — a bit lapsed perhaps.

I think they might be proj

ecting false memories into you:

There was no conviction in the Doctor'

s voice.

Cat stared at him

blankly.

'

W hy?'

The Doctor shrugged '

Evangelism?'

Cat shook her head.

The theory made no sense, and the Doctor knew

it.

They were interrupted by a gentle knocking on the bulkhead.

A priest

was there.

`The Venerable Patriarch asks if you wish for anything else:

`No, thank you:

said the Doctor.

Cat looked up briefly from examining her wine glass — as if the content

might hold the clue.

Her face lit up when she saw who the visitor was.

`Paddy!

'

exclaimed Cat.

Ì'm sorry?'

`Paddy!

'

`Have we met?'

Òf course we'

ve met! Only a couple of hours ago! And before that in

the cathedral!

'

Ì'm sorry, you must be mistaken.

If there is nothing else .

.

.

'

He turned and left.

`W hat was that about? That was Paddy!

The priest I was telling you

about!

'

Cat could hear the panic in her voice.

The Doctor was scowling.

'

I don'

t know .

.

.

'

he said pensively.

Mass came to an end, and the ship'

s complement of priests and soldiers

and those crew and servants who were not on duty filed out of the

main chapel.

Soon only Grand Inquisitor del Toro, Patriarch Julian and

Bishop Agatho were left.

`You look unwell:

the Patriarch said to Agatho.

`His Grace doesn'

t like space travel, said del Toro with a malicious

smile.

`You shouldn'

t have made me come: whined the Bishop. '

I have work

to do back on Haven.

The papal conclave means nothing to me.

I am a

humble servant of whoever holds Saint Peter'

s keys.

'

`None of us enjoys such a luxury nowadays: retorted del Toro. '

W e all

have to make difficult choices. The conclave has begun, and I have heard

that Urban XII has left Earth.

He feels strong enough to go to Rome

and assert his claim in person.

The Magellanic Tsar is bound to react.

The choice that is made in Rome might cost us our lives.

'

Ì shouldn'

t be a part of this!

'

Agatho protested.

'

I was brought here

against my will!

I had no choice!

'

`You made your choice years ago, Agatho.

You sell your loyalty to

whoever offers you the greatest advantage for it.

You will love Rome:

Even after her meal, Cat could barely sleep.

She felt hurt and confused,

and angry with herself for it.

The Doctor was so distant sometimes.

He'

d sort it out, she had no doubt, but that didn'

t make it any easier for

her to cope with what was happening in her mind.

A word of comfort

was what she needed, not an assessment of their situation.

And then

Paddy .

.

.

Just a glimmer of recognition would have been something.

Perhaps he wasn'

t allowed to talk to prisoners. Perhaps he had already

been reprimanded for talking to her.

But to deny ever having met her

seemed childish.

Then again, round here, they still burned witches.

Perhaps Paddy'

d lost his marbles too.

Another thing they had in

common.

It was no good. She got up from her makeshift bed — a large, folded-

up sheet of tarpaulin — and rubbed her eyes.

The Doctor was nowhere

to be seen.

She wondered whether Father Julian would be up at this time of night,

then corrected herself:

she had no idea what time was being observed

on the rest of the ship, and the dungeon deck was stuck in perpetual

twilight.

She set off to find a guard.

`Hello .

.

.

'

she called.

She remembered the lift.

Maybe now.

.

.

She found it and pressed the button.

The machinery hummed into

life, and the doors slid open.

There was a guard inside.

Ì want to see the Patriarch;

she said, trying to sound as authoritative

as possible.

'

He told your boss to organise it.

'

To her surprise, the guard stepped aside and let her j

oin him in the

lift.

He punched a button, the doors shut and they began to rise.

Three

floors later she emerged to see another guard waiting.

`This way, miss:

the guard said, courteously.

The Doctor was worrying about Cat.

It was foolish, he knew.

He was

used to pulling his friends out of far more dangerous situations than

this.

It was almost a routine with him.

It didn'

t always work, of course.

He thought of Adric, dead for being

a hero, an obstinate intellectual to the end.

Katarina, so frightened and

so brave .

.

.

So many had left him, and he'

d let them go in peace.

He thought of Jo Grant'

s wedding.

Another situation he'

d wanted to

pull her out of — selfish, of course, but it had hurt him at the time.

He

thought of Tegan, fiery, brave, but always appalled by the destruction,

always torn, whether to stay or whether to go.

Loyalty versus sanity.

W as that the choice he offered his friends?

And of course, Ace.

There was never any doubt with her — it was

loyalty every time.

Perhaps — who knew? — she'

d been too dependent.

Perhaps one of them had .

.

.

And yet he'

d put her through hell.

He'

d once performed an autopsy

on her corpse.

But the loneliness when she'

d left him — he could not

have believed the loneliness.

Once, in a previous incarnation, he had

been happy to travel alone, but now .

.

.

he was a different person, with

different needs.

Cat filled that void;

she was the companion and friend

that he needed to be there.

He forced himself to focus on the j

ob in hand.

All he had to do was

give his escort the slip before they reached the Patriarch'

s quarters.

He

tried a quick bit of hypnotism, but the guard was unresponsive. It tended

to have differing results on different cultures in different ages. He needed an aide de mesmer .. .

A second guard hurried around the corner and beckoned to his escort.

The pair huddled into a whisper.

The Doctor'

s hand sneaked to a door

in the bulkhead.

It was open, and as the guards were talking animatedly,

the Doctor slipped inside.

He was in some sort of robing room.

Priests'

vestments hung in rows

along the back wall.

It might work.

.

.

No time to undress — he snatched up a generous gown and slipped it

over his head.

He'

d only j

ust got the collar attached when his escort

found him.

The guard looked at his new outfit, his expression one of

confusion and uncertainty.

Ì am not the man you are looking for the Doctor said with deep

authority.

'

I am a priest.

You owe me your obedience.

You no longer

need to worry about the prisoner:

`Father.

'

The guard executed a hasty bow and left the room.

The Doctor exited after him.

There were soldiers, ship'

s crew and

priests scuttling about, muttering together, and a distinct sense of tension in the air.

He intended to make for where he thought the bridge ought

to be.

He encountered no opposition — some of the ship'

s crew even

nodded or greeted him as '

Father'

as he passed them.

He moved about

the ship with ease.

Something was definitely up. He decided to brief himself before going

any further.

He hailed a passing crewman.

Èxcuse me, what'

s happening?'

he asked.

`Haven'

t you heard, Father? Pope Urban — '

`W e are in a crisis, Doctor:

Del Toro was standing behind the Doctor.

He was flanked by guards.

`The Magellanic Tsar has invaded the outer systems in support of the

blasphemous claims of the devil-fish Brrteet'

k who calls himself Celestine

VI.

W e are in the middle of a war zone.

'

He took a pistol from somewhere inside his vestments.

`This ship is directly under threat, and the last thing I need is a Time

Lord criminal running about my decks dressed as a priest.

Take those

robes of

The Doctor did as he was told. Del Toro raised the gun to the Doctor'

s

head.

`Consider this a summary execution;

he said.

to his quarters opened.

'

How are you, my dear?'

Ì'm all right, Father Julian.

How are you?'

`Just old, my dear.

Come in, come in.

'

The old man ushered her in

and closed the door.

'

How are they treating you? Did you get the food?'

`Yes. Thank you, Father.'

Ì tried to get del Toro to move you from the prisoners'

quarters, but

I cannot persuade him, I'

m afraid:

Ìt'

s OK, Father.

It'

s not the dungeon, it'

s .

.

.

me.

The Doctor thinks

they'

re doing something to my mind — my memories — to make me a

Catholic.

The old man rubbed his chin and blinked sympathetically.

Ìf it is possible:

he mused, '

I don'

t know .

.

.

but if it were, then

certainly I should rely upon del Toro to do it.

Nobody in Rome would

stop him.

'

Cat bit her lip.

`My poor child .

.

.

'

He placed a light, cold hand upon her cheek.

It felt frail, and

trembled slightly, but Cat sensed the warmth with which the gesture

was meant.

`Guess I'

ll have to hope the Doctor gets it together. He'

s a bit flaky at

the moment.

'

`From my limited understanding,'

said the old man, '

his soul has been

through a great trauma.

W e humans can but imagine what it must be

like to have thirteen souls.

'

Ìs that what the Doctor has?'

`So Saint Yxtryl of Mars taught. He was burned as a heretic, of course,

but subsequently canonised.

Quite where he stands now, I'

m not sure.

`Thirteen .

.

.

Sometimes it seems hard to cope with one.

'

Cat sat down heavily on the old man'

s bed.

`W hen I first joined the Doctor, he took me to a place where billions

of creatures swirled around a newborn star in a huge crystal cloud,

singing with a single voice.

He told me that it was a gestalt — a single

being made up of billions of different parts.

Billions of souls .

.

.

'

She

looked up at the Patriarch in confusion.

'

Or one soul with billions of

bodies?'

Father Julian gave a shrug.

'

I'

m no expert on the xenomorph

theology.

'

`The priests, back home, they used to tell me that pets didn'

t go to

heaven.

All the cats and dogs and fish and budgies, they had no souls:

`They are j

ust animals.

'

`Yes, but they were alive, brimming with life, and over the last few

years I have seen so much life — in so many different forms!

'

Cat leaned

forward. '

Just before we came here, the Doctor and I met a race of insects

called the W ierdarbi.

Apparently that'

s all they were once — insects,

mindless and primitive. But someone, some higher being, changed them,

gave them speech and intelligence, turned them into something new,

made them more than j

ust animals.

In doing that, did he give them

souls as well? Did he become God in doing so?'

Cat sank her head into her hands.

'

I j

ust don'

t know any more.

.

.

Everything is so confused!

'

`You should lay the burden before the Lord.

Become as a child in his

sight, believe now as you believed when a child.

W here was the burden

back then, eh?'

`W hat do you think happens when you die, Father?'

Òne hopes to ascend through purgatory, carried forward on a life

led in the bosom of Christ, spurred on by the intercessions of the Blessed

Virgin and the Saints, and ultimately to enter the Gates of Saint Peter

and dwell alongside He who died for our sins:

Ì don'

t know if I believe that.

It sounds nice, but then, there'

s the

other place.

'

`Hell?'

The old man smiled.

'

Unlike many, I do not believe the

dungeons of the Evil One are overflowing.

I fear he has little to occupy

him down there, which perhaps explains his persisting presence on this

plane.

'

Àll right — what if there'

s no hell.

W hat if there'

s .

.

.

just nothing.

I

think that would be worse. I mean . . . there was nothing before we were

born, right?'

`So the Church holds — though some contend that our souls were

with Jesus before we were born.

W e burn these as heretics:

Òh . . . '

The Patriarch smiled.

'

You may speak freely to me, child.

I'

m not

sure I would know what a heretic was any more.

`So .

.

.

if there was nothing before, why should we believe there'

ll be

anything after?'

`Because it is promised:

the old man said, '

and that promise has been

the foundation and guide to my hundred and forty-odd years on this

plane.

I would hate to think of them as wasted years.

'

Ì haven'

t been to church in years.

'

Ìt doesn'

t matter,'

said the old man.

No amount of Hail Marys and

unleavened bread can make up for a soul that is filled with hate.

Our

Lord taught that love opens the gates to paradise, nothing else.

'

`Love of God.'

Ànd love of man.

'

The old man smiled.

'

Believe it or not, I used to

write love poetry in my youth.

All theoretical, of course .

.

.

or shall we

say unrequited?'

`Do priests fall in love, Father?'

Òf course! W e feel anger and greed and envy — we are as prey to sin

as any other man, child, and as prone to love.

God can satisfy most of

that love, but rarely all.

'

Ì'

ve never been in love.

'

Cat shuffled uncomfortably.

W as this the

sort of conversation she should be having with a man of the cloth?

`There is no rush.

'

The old man was smiling at her.

'

You are young

and pretty .

.

.

There is plenty of time for you to meet the right person.

Someone special .

.

.

'

Ì met a man today.

In the hold.

A priest.

W e talked.

He was .

.

.

nice.

'

The old Patriach gave a coughing laugh.

'

A priest, indeed.

I'

m afraid

your .

.

.

attentions may have to be directed elsewhere.

And I doubt the

Grand Inquisitor would appreciate your straying too far. My dispensation

on this ship has its limits, I'

m afraid.

'

`W e got on really well. And then later he just blanked me. Cat frowned,

replaying their second encounter in her head.

'

He pretended we'

d never

met.

Might the Inquisitor have made him do that?'

`Quite possibly.

People nowadays are used to believing what they are

told, because to do otherwise would be to attract unwanted attention.

'

They were interrupted by the sounds of running feet, and an urgent

knocking on the door.

A squad of guards stood outside.

`The ship is under attack, Father,'

stated the guard leader.

'

You must

stay in your quarters until the all-clear is given:

W ith that, the squad

headed off along the corridor.

`W ait:

called the Patriarch.

'

W hat is going on?'

The captain of the guards glanced back without breaking step, but

didn'

t answer.

Ì must go:

the Patriarch said.

'

Something is wrong.

You may remain

in my quarters until I return.

'

He hastened off after the guards.

Cat watched the old man depart,

then left his quarters and set off in the other direction, towards the hold.

She wanted to find Paddy.

The Doctor was talking for his life, and he could tell that Guii del Toro

was becoming impatient.

`You can claim all the ancient church privileges you wish, Doctor.

W hatever involvement you might have had with our forebears hundreds

of years ago is irrelevant.

Here, my authority is absolute:

The ship suddenly lurched.

`W e seem to be under fire,'

said the Doctor.

'

Shouldn'

t you be some-

where else?'

Ìndeed:

said del Toro.

Then, to a captain of the guards, '

Kill him.

'

`No!'

Patriarch Julian was hurrying — as best he could — in their direction.

The guards seemed to hesitate.

Òbey my order!

'

shouted del Toro.

'

I am in command here.

He has

abj

ured the world!

He'

s no one!

'

Still the guards didn'

t move. The ship lurched again. Del Toro cursed.

`Bring them!

'

he barked and marched off.

`Thank you;

the Doctor said to the Patriarch.

The Doctor and Father Julian were hustled after the Grand Inquisitor,

onto the ship'

s bridge.

The atmosphere in the room was one of near-

panic, with pilots and technicians struggling to keep the vessel stable

under an increasing barrage of fire.

`W hat'

s wrong? Return fire!

'

del Toro shouted.

`Sire: replied one of the ship'

s officers, executing a hasty bow, '

they'

ve

knocked out our weapons systems.

There are a dozen ships out there.

There'

s nothing we can do.

The massive screen that dominated the bridge suddenly sprang into

life.

A huge, scarred, semi-humanoid alien clad in modern battle-armour

surmounted with furs, grinned at them from the screen.

`The peace of God be with you, the figure said, smirking. Ì am General

Grigg of the Grand Army of the pious Brotak, supreme among species,

Tsar of all the Magellanic Clouds, God'

s vice- gerent in space.

Surrender

your ship.

'

`No:

said del Toro in a tone of low defiance.

'

You know who I am?'

`No,'

said Grigg. '

But I want your ship.'

`Burn in hell, barbarian!

'

snarled del Toro.

`Then you leave me no choice but to take it said General Grigg, and

the screen went blank.

Cat was aware of the lurching of the ship, and hoped that things weren'

t

getting too bad.

She found her way to the hold again with ease — it was

too big to miss, and everyone she passed seemed too preoccupied to

challenge her.

There seemed to be some sort of argument going on inside. She could

hear a number of voices, some raised, one sobbing.

She opened the

door and went in.

Kneeling on the floor before the huge black cross was the peasant

who had seen the TARDIS arrive in Braak.

He was naked to the waist,

and was beating his back with a thin, vicious looking stick, scoring great

wheals in his own flesh, drawing blood and sobbing loudly.

Àll gone .

.

.

'

he sobbed.

'

My family, my home .

.

.

now my faith .

.

.

W hy? Why did you show me?'

He was screaming now.

`You stole my hope of salvation!'

He was kneeling in front of an open crate.

The other voices seemed

to be coming from within the crate.

Ègo to absolve: one of them constantly repeated.

`No!

'

another shouted.

'

He must burn!

All Greeks must burn!

'

A third voice seemed to be singing quietly in Latin.

Cat recognised

the tune — it was part of the mass for the dead that she had recently

attended in Braak cathedral.

The kneeling man hadn'

t noticed Cat.

She edged behind him.

Inside the crate, sitting amongst shreds of packaging, were three

disembodied heads.

Two were gleaming and translucent, and Cat could

make out a delicate filigree of wires inside the black skulls.

The third

was nothing more than wires and miniscule tubes, set vaguely in the

shape of a skull.

Their dead eyes were all looking around, and the two

that had mouths were chanting in Latin and ranting about the Greeks

respectively.

The third was the source of the singing.

`Save yourself, if you can, Philippo:

another voice rang out across the

cavernous hold.

'

There is no salvation to be found in the Church any

more

Cat looked up.

It was the Bishop, Agatho, standing over by the

goldfish-bowl control for del Toro'

s machine.

At his feet lay the body of

one of the priests.

`You!

'

Agatho narrowed his eyes as Cat approached.

`W hat'

s going on?'

asked Cat, moving closer so that she could get a

better look at the body. She looked at the face of the corpse. She stopped, feeling suddenly ice-cold.

`Paddy .

.

.

'

she whispered.

`They'

ve cut into the hull on deck three, sire!

They'

re decimating the

guard!

'

`They'

re using gas weapons:

snarled del Toro.

`Do you have protective suits?'

`No, Doctor. There has been no need since his Holiness outlawed the

use of such weapons:

`They follow the dolphin Celestine, said the Patriarch archly. '

Perhaps

he disagrees with the ban.

'

`Listen, old man:

snarled del Toro, '

you may be venerated for sitting

on your arse in your cloister mumbling mystical nonsense for twenty

years, but this is the reality of God'

s creation.

It'

s a mess!

'

He turned to an officer who had j

ust run in.

The side of the young

man'

s face was badly burned .

.

.

`How many of the guard are left?'

asked del Toro.

`Hardly any, sire. Those that haven'

t been shot are starting to get sick.

The gas.'

`You'

ll have to abandon ship,'

said the Doctor.

`How?'

sneered del Toro.

'

They'

d blast the escape modules out of the

sky.'

Ì take it my TARDIS is aboard? If we can get to it — '

`W e have nothing to hold the enemy back with del Toro interrupted.

`Send the robots:

said the Doctor.

`Robots?'

The Doctor crossed the bridge to a young, anxious-looking priest.

`Hello:

he said.

'

It'

s Father Paddy, isn'

t it?'

Ì'm sorry?'

queried the priest.

'

I'

m Father James Creggan:

The Doctor reached up to the priest, then suddenly gripped his ear

and pulled, hard.

His face peeled away in the Doctor'

s hand, revealing a

featureless, translucent, black head-shaped shell.

`W hen did the Church start using robots as priests?'

the Doctor

asked.

Del Toro hesitated, then at last he spoke. '

It is an experimental project

that the Inquisition is carrying out under the direct authority of the

late Pope.

Highly secret, of course.

'

`Scandalous!

'

exclaimed the Patriarch.

`Necessary, said the Grand Inquisitor. '

Orthodoxy can be programmed

in. No more rogue prelates wandering the backworlds spreading heresies

and blasphemies.

'

Ànd I suppose it'

s more efficient than bugging confessionals?'

said

the Patriarch.

'

I know what you and Agatho have been up to:

`The Good Shepherd proj

ect has not been a great success,'

said del

Toro.

'

W e ordered the robots in kit form.

The manufacturers sent us

duplicate faces for a number of them:

`Stock memory-implants, too,'

commented the Doctor.

`Quite.

Two priests believed they were actually the same man.

The

Chief Executive of the company is currently in our custody.

'

`How many robots are aboard?'

Àbout fifty.

Most of them are out there.

'

Ànd in here?'

`Six:

`Then send them out there, man!

'

`They'

re not programmed to fight, Doctor.

'

Ànd yet a robot killed Cardinal Runciman.

I knew there was some-

thing strange about the faceless monk.

W hen I was .

.

.

disembodied .

.

.

everybody was giving off some sort of energy signature — an aura.

Everybody except the monk.

He was a robot, wasn'

t he?'

`That was Agatho'

s doing:

Agatho? W hy?'

`To stop Runciman getting to Rome, no doubt;

Julian cut in.

'

You

have been stirring trouble in the backworlds for months, del Toro, trying

to tie the Cardinal'

s hands, prevent him from attending the conclave:

Ì told Agatho that he had to be stopped as a matter of extreme

urgency,'

said del Toro.

'

I never told him to kill Runciman.

The man'

s

unhinged:

`W hat did you do to him?'

Cat backed away from the fat, trembling cleric.

Ì don'

t know.

I was trying to erase his memory? Agatho replied.

'

He'

s

not human, do you see?'

`W hat'

s going on?'

Ì'm trying to save my skin,'

said Agatho.

'

I'

ve only ever done what

the Grand Inquisitor asked of me!

I won'

t go to Rome to be accused of

murder!

'

Ì doubt we'

ll get to Rome,'

said Cat.

'

Can'

t you feel what'

s happening

to the ship? Something'

s wrong:

She started to make for the door.

'

I

need to find the Doctor.

'

Òh no, my dear.

I can'

t let you go now, do you see? You'

ve seen too

much:

He moved to intercept her.

`Get out of my way:

`Forgive me, Lord,'

said the Bishop, and his podgy hands extended

towards Cat'

s throat.

A row of fresh-faced young priests loaded down with heavy weaponry

prepared to break from the bridge and engage the enemies of God, whose

gunfire could now be heard through the bulkheads.

Reprogramming them had been simple — the Doctor had been

familiar with the type.

'

That should do it said the Time Lord, patting

the last in line on the head.

'

W here are our visitors now?'

He turned to the giant screen, now displaying the images from hundreds

of internal cameras, like a giant chessboard.

Most of the corridors were

silent and empty.

Some were littered with the twisted or burned corpses

of those who had got in the way of the invading forces.

The guard had been brave, but had no defence against the sheer

destructive force of the attack. The invaders had blasted their way forward with gas grenades, sending searing, corrosive clouds of vapour sweeping

down the corridors.

Those guards that had managed to claw their way

out of the choking fog had been cut to pieces with knives and axes, their

blasters useless in the unexpected hand-to-hand melee.

The guards had fought to the last man.

The secular arm of the Holy

Inquisition was severed and broken.

The Doctor suspected that, apart from those remaining on the bridge,

there could be few of del Toro'

s forces left alive on the ship.

Down other corridors ran a host of warriors, protected within gas-

suits that had been daubed with rough and gaudy religious symbols

and hung with the trophies of earlier battles — ears, scalps, the occasional entire head, grimacing in death.

They carried an eclectic armoury of

heavy proj

ectile and plasma-beam weapons, hand-blasters and exotic

blade weapons from all over the galaxy.

A barbarian horde.

`W e should get the robots into position, said the Doctor.

The Grand Inquisitor nodded.

At this signal, the doors slid silently

apart and the priests filed swiftly through.

The Doctor had programmed

them all with a simple battle plan.

Just enough to pin the enemy down,

allowing them time to slip past and out to the storage bays.

`W e should be ready to go soon:

said the Doctor.

`Good luck, Doctor:

said Patriarch Julian, '

and may God bless you'

`W hat do you mean?'

Del Toro'

s eyes narrowed.

`Don'

t worry, Grand Inquisitor, I'

m not hatching some plot.

I leave

that to you.

I'

m simply not coming with you:

`You can'

t possibly survive here,'

said the Doctor. '

But you know that,

don'

t you?'

Ì am an old man, Doctor, and sometimes the ideas and beliefs that

one accumulates over a lifetime can blind one to the fundamentals of

one'

s faith and to the truths of the present.

I told Catherine she should

be as a child before God, and I must do the same.

The Church is in

turmoil and I have turned my back on it, when I should be asking what

any good child would ask — how can I help?'

`You can do nothing!

'

snapped del Toro.

'

Look around you!

All is

chaos!

'

Ànd the Holy Inquisition thrives on chaos.

John Paul did nothing to

check you, and now you can'

t risk the conclave uniting behind a single

Pope with the power to stop you. Instead, you desire to be Pope yourself,

at which point no one will be able to stop you.

W hen did you realise the

opportunity that the Doctor and I inadvertently afforded you? Before I

did, I'

ll wager. A Time Lord — one of the witches of Haven — accused of

murdering a beloved Cardinal, brought to a conclave already riven by

fear and paranoia.

The place would have erupted!

'

`The conclave doesn'

t need my intervention:

sneered del Toro.

'

It'

s

quite capable of falling apart on its own.

I am the only one who can

reunite it'

`W e shall see:

said the Patriarch.

'

Open a communication channel to

Rome'

Cat had backed up just about as far as she could go. She'

d dodged around

crates and machinery, working her way towards the door.

`Philippor the Bishop had shouted.

'

Shut the doors!

'

The flagellant had ignored the Bishop, who had then broken off the

chase to go over and kick him, hard, in the back.

Thus spurred into

action, the man had scampered to his feet, crossed to the entrance and

hit a button. As the door slid shut, he turned and placed his back against

it, his fists clenched in defiance.

`Hey, c'

mon,'

said Cat. '

I'

m just a girl and he'

s a Bishop, and he'

s trying

to kill me!

That can'

t be right, can it?'

`Don'

t talk to the witch!

'

the Bishop panted.

Ì can keep this up longer than you she taunted.

'

You'

re three times

my age and about twenty times my weight.

You'

ll give yourself a heart

attack!

'

Agatho lunged, and stumbled. Cat sprinted across the hold. She passed

the corpse .

.

.

or whatever it was .

.

.

of Paddy, and looked away.

Crates

were lined in j

umbled rows against the far wall, towering towards the

ceiling.

Cat ducked into the maze, looking around for a way out, or

somewhere to hide.

She darted between the towering stacks and skidded to a halt.

She couldn'

t believe her luck — the TARDIS!

She ran across to it,

fumbling for the key the Doctor had given her.

'

If you get into trouble

and I'

m not there, try to get back to the TARDIS'

— that'

s what he

always said.

Somehow things never seemed to work out that way.

.

.

until now.

It was covered in some sort of shiny, translucent sheet.

She tried to

grasp it, to find an opening — and her hands bounced off.

She hugged

her tingling fingers to her chest.

It felt like she'

d just had a mild electric

shock.

She picked up a metal spar from the floor and poked at the

covering.

The pole bounced off and shuddered from her hand to the

deck.

It wasn'

t material covering the TARDIS, it was some sort of energy

field.

There had to be a way in .

.

.

Suddenly Agatho'

s hands closed around her throat.

His fingers bit

into her neck, then he twisted and forced her to the ground.

Ì'm sorry, my dear. You heard my confession. It does count, you know.

Anyone can be a priest.

It means nothing.

'

`You'

re barmy!

'

Cat choked.

`You are bound by the seal of the confessional,'

the Bishop continued.

`You must carry my words to the grave with you.

I must make sure that

you do.

Cat felt a pressure building up behind her eyes.

She felt hotter than

ever before.

Her vision began to blur and flicker, and then shut off.

The last thing she was aware of before she lost consciousness was

Agatho'

s grip relaxing, and his sudden, surprised, delighted laughter.

`Here they come .

.

.

'

The first of the Magellanic horde had appeared at the far end of the

main access corridor to the lift.

The Doctor, the prelates and the four

crewmen were peering from a private chapel set off the corridor.

The war-band had split into three main groups, and each was

advancing down one of the forward command deck'

s main corridors.

A fourth group — just three of them — was guarding the lift. It seemed as if, having largely scourged the other decks with fire, the main groups

had abandoned them.

The priests'

role was twofold.

Three of them would mount a swift

attack on the invaders, then disappear down a side-corridor, whereupon

they would split up, hopefully getting the invaders lost and unable to

return quickly to the main corridor.

The other three would then attack

the group guarding the lift.

It was risky — all the Doctor'

s hopes were

pinned on the Magellanic horde not being insane enough to use their

heavy weaponry this close to the bridge.

`Now, Fathers . . . '

On cue, three priests stepped out in front of the approaching horde,

raised their heavy blasters and fired straight into the advance.

The

front-runners were cut to pieces, then the next ragged rank, and then

the next.

The others fell back in disorder, howling beneath their gas-

masks.

The priests took flight.

It took the invaders seconds to recover them-

selves, and when they did, they charged, roaring, skidding and j

ostling

around the corner in pursuit of the robotic clerics.

W hen the last of the mob had disappeared from sight, a door slid

open and the other three priests emerged.

They sprinted down the

corridor, and the Doctor ushered his companions forward, out into the

corridor.

`W e must try to keep up with them: he said, setting off at a trot around

the gentle curve of the corridor.

The others followed.

They came up behind the priests to find them advancing slowly,

weapons raised, ready to take the guards by surprise.

The Doctor raised

his hand and stopped about fifty yards back.

`Be very quiet, he whispered.

The next sound was the swish of an opening door. Two of the invaders

were dragging a huge, jewel-covered cross into the corridor.

They were

behind the priests and saw them at once, dropped the cross and, with

rapier speed, unhooked their blade weapons.

One brought a heavy axe

down on a priest'

s head, cleaving it in two. The cleric staggered backward

and fell to the deck, sparking and twitching.

Another pierced a priest through the back with a viciously curved

scimitar, raising the flapping cleric into the air.

Slowly the priest slipped

down the blade, which rose through his chest like a shark'

s fin.

The third priest was set upon by the three lift-guards, who thundered

around the curving passage, tossed him to the deck and hacked him to

pieces.

Before the Doctor could react, del Toro had run forward, dropped to

his belly and seized the heavy machine-gun from the priest with the

split head.

Expertly, he raised the gun and opened fire on the savage

orgy.

Bullets ripped through invaders and robots alike.

By the time the

Grand Inquisitor stopped firing, none of them was moving.

`W ell done, said the Doctor dryly.

Del Toro got to his feet, somewhat breathless.

Ìf he wishes to progress, a priest of the Holy Inquisition must learn

many skills, Doctor,'

he said.

`To the death of God!'

And then the chink of bottles.

Cat tried to focus on what she was seeing.

They were back in front of

that massive black cross. Bishop Agatho was sitting lopsidedly on a crate,

wine dribbling down his chin and onto his robes.

Philippo was fumbling

drunkenly with a spherical control console.

Strange lights and nightmarish noises echoed around the hold.

Lightning flickered across the coal black arms of the cross.

Ah, you'

re back with us, my dear,'

Agatho called cheerfully.

'

W ould

you care for a drink? W e found the stock of communion wine.

There'

s

a veritable lake of it down here!

'

`W hy didn'

t you kill me?'

Agatho took another swig.

Ìn time, my dear.

There'

s a .

.

.

subtler way of dealing with you.

But

it will have to wait until I am sober.

Del Toro'

s machine is proving .

.

.

difficult to master:

He waggled an unsteady finger at her.

'

No matter.

W e have plenty of time;

nobody comes down here:

`No? Then who'

s that?'

She could hear hurried footfalls.

And the Doctor'

s voice!

`Hello, Cat.

W hy are you lying on the floor?'

Ìt'

s a long story, Doctor, but basically this creep tried to kill me, then

changed his mind:

Agatho attempted to stir from his crate, then gave up.

`G'

day day to you, Grand Inquisitor,'

he slurred.

`Get up, Agatho,'

snapped del Toro.

'

The ship'

s been boarded.

W e'

re

getting off!

'

Òff? How?'

Ìn the Time Lord'

s TARDIS:

`No!'

Philippo, hitherto silent, let out a howl.

I'

ll not get in a Devil-

box!

Never!

'

`Silence, imbecile,'

snapped del Toro.

`This is all your fault,'

Philippo said in a low snarl.

'

You, Grand

Inquisitor! You took me from Braak — took me right off Haven — '

Del Toro'

s hand swept across Philippo'

s face, striking the words from

his mouth.

A low, gurgling moan rose in Philippo'

s throat.

It became a scream

of rage and anger.

He launched himself at the Inquisitor, hands grasping

at his neck.

`You are no man of God!'

screamed the trader. '

You are an instrument

of evil!

You and all your kind:

Del Toro clawed savagely at Philippo'

s face, his breath gurgling

horribly in his throat.

His feet slipped on the slick deck-plates as he

found himself being forced remorselessly back towards the gaping chasm

beneath the cross.

The Doctor tried to wrestle the two men apart, but Philippo kicked

him savagely out of the way.

The Doctor crashed to the ground, hard.

Blood streamed from Philippo'

s face.

Del Toro scrabbled desperately

for the blaster hidden within his robes.

Philippo snatched the blaster from the Inquisitor'

s grasp and hurled

it aside.

It skittered across the deck and tumbled into the void beneath

the cross.

There was an angry clashing of gears, and sparks tore from

the void.

Del Toro whimpered in pain as blue lightning flickered around

him.

Inch by inch, Philippo pushed the struggling instrument of the Holy

Inquistitioin towards the machine.

He slammed his hand down on the

control globe.

A deep, resonating throb shook the hold.

Lights blazed

and a high, keening whine tore through the air.

Robotic arms whirred

into life, reaching out for the struggling men.

The Doctor tried to haul himself across the juddering deck, reaching

desperately for the control console.

`No, Philippo, no!'

Philippo shot him a look of total despair.

`Forgive me.

'

W ith superhuman effort, he launched himself and del

Toro into the void.

Cat screamed as trader and Inquisitor crashed into the base of the

huge basalt cross.

The grasping robotic arms caught hold of them, and

the two men were snatched high into the air and slammed against the

gleaming black machinery, wires and tubes snaking from the void to

embrace them Lightning ripped through their bodies, their skeletons

flashing like beacons through their flesh.

Cat saw the Doctor'

s face contort in anguish as the machine screamed

into life.

For a moment the two men hung there, del Toro struggling desperately

against the vice-like grip of the little Braakan trader.

Then there was a

noise like tearing paper and the two men'

s bodies .

.

.

blurred.

Cat watched in horror as features melted and swam, flesh became

like liquid flowing over their bones.

The lightning from the machine

became more and more intense, sending huge shadows dancing across

the hold.

Through the flickering light, Cat caught glimpses of nightmare shapes.

Bodies combining and recombining in impossible, horrible variety.

Above the noise of the machine, she could hear del Toro screaming.

And then it went horribly silent.

The Doctor hauled himself over to the side of the void and stared in

horror at the fused mass of flesh that hung on the steaming basalt cross.

`He wanted to live forever,'

he murmured. '

W anted a machine that could

endlessly regenerate him:

`W hat did it do to them?'

Cat was feeling sick.

The Doctor caught hold of Cat'

s arm, turning her away from the

mutated monstrosity.

Àll it could do.

Tried to change one body into another .

.

.

'

`My God!

'

came another voice.

'

W hat'

s happened?'

Cat'

s heart leaped.

Father Julian was limping across the room.

`Father,'

the Doctor greeted him, wearily.

'

How did you get past the

soldiers?'

`My position tends to overawe many of the new converts from less

developed worlds. I told them I wanted to come and pray over the bones

of saints.

'

Father Julian looked over at Cat.

'

How are you, my dear?'

Ì'm OK . . . I think.'

The Patriarch smiled.

'

The Doctor is good at what he puts his hearts

into — '

He paused and gripped a shelf, stooping and coughing.

`How do you feel?'

the Doctor asked.

`Dizzy, sick. I think I must have a fever, Doctor.'

Ìt'

s the gas,'

said the Doctor, worriedly stroking his chin. '

W here there

are fires burning, the levels are still building.

They'

ll soon reach lethal

levels.

'

The Patriarch hobbled up to where Agatho was slumped in a drunken

haze.

`Del Toro?'

the old man enquired.

`Gone the way of all flesh,'

giggled Agatho drunkenly. '

And you, Father.

Did your wisdom prevail?'

`Sadly not said the Patriarch.

'

Rome is besieged.

The papal guard

have rounded up anyone at the conclave who has expressed sympathy

for the dolphin Celestine. I had to plead over the communication channel

for their lives. To no avail, I fear.'

`Bonaventure?'

`Rethinking, I imagine.

Plotting.

In the meantime, we have been

offered sanctuary by Father Habemus Papem.

'

`W ho?'

slurred Agatho.

À monk from Baloosh Minor.'

Ì don'

t know him.

`Technically, the Doctor said, '

it'

s not a him.

The Balooshi have no

gender.

They'

re small strands of vegetable slime:

`That small strand of vegetable slime is a spiritual giant, Doctor:

the

Patriarch reprimanded gently.

There was a sudden, deep vibration somewhere overhead, followed

by others, and then a low groaning sound.

`W e'

ve got to leave now!

'

urged the Doctor.

'

Those maniacs are

discharging their heavy weapons close to the vital systems!

The ship

will break apart!

'

As he spoke, Cat felt the deck lurch and tilt.

`You want to get out in your ship?'

Agatho slurred.

`Yes, yes,'

the Doctor snapped.

`You can'

t.

It'

s held in a stasis field.

Del Toro had the deactivator:

He

belched obscenely '

The main controls are on the deck above:

The ship lurched again. Cat had to hold on to the Doctor for support.

The room began to tremble and shudder.

Ì was only following his orders,'

the Bishop sneered.

`How long have we got, Doctor?'

one of the crewmen asked.

Àbout ten minutes,'

the Doctor replied.

'

If that.

'

Not enough time, Agatho said. He seemed to be enjoying his prophet-

of-doom role.

'

Maybe time to get there, but never to get there and back.

Anyway, what was that you said about the gas? A robot could make it,

perhaps, but never a human.

'

The Doctor wasn'

t listening.

He was examining Paddy'

s corpse.

Ìf I could repair it .

.

.

but there'

s no time:

he muttered.

Àre there any more robots?'

Cat asked.

Àll destroyed,'

said the Doctor.

`Not all, Doctor,'

said Agatho.

'

There is one more:

His eyes darted between them.

He wore a drunken, eager grin.

Èh, Doctor?'

He winked at Cat.

Òh dear Lord, whispered Father Julian, his voice a mix of compassion

and despair.

`W hat'

s going on?'

Cat asked.

W hy were they all looking at her?

`W ell, Doctor,'

Agatho hiccupped, '

are you going to tell her, or shall

I?'

are wondering — that Companion Piece was devised and commissioned before the Doctor Who audio drama Death Comes To Time was written (although the latter made its public debut first), and it is pure coincidence that both feature a similar plot twist.

As anyone familiar with Doctor

Who will be aware, this is by no means the first time that two stories have coincidentally made use of similar ideas, and we hope that no one'

s

enj

oyment of the book has been marred.

South W ales, and it was in 1977, whilst they were at school (by coincidence, the same school as Russell T Davies, writer of the forthcoming new Doctor Who series) that they first met and started writing together.

They moved to London in the 1980s, Robert studying Law at the

London School of Economics, Mike taking the Theatre Design course

at Croydon College.

Since then, the two of them have pursued separate

careers in the media — Robert in a variety of roles, ranging from song-

writer and musician with prog rock outfit '

The Enid'

to story editor on

the BBC'

s long running soap opera EastEnders, and Mike as a technician

and designer with the BBC Special Effects Department, working on a

full range of television shows including cult favourites Red Dwarf and Doct

or Who.

The duo'

s writing credits include a number of short stories for Virgin

Publishing and BBC Books, the Doctor Who novels Illegal Alien, Matrix, St

orm Harvest

and Loving the Alien and, for Big Finish'

s range of Tomorrow

People CDs, the audio drama The Sign of Diolyx.

Individually, Robert has written scripts for Family Affairs and Is Harry on t

he Boat

,

whilst Mike has contributed solo novels and audio dramas

both to the Doctor Who and '

Bernice Summerfield'

ranges of books and

CDs.

He also co-authored the behind the scenes book Ace! with former

Doctor Who companion Sophie Aldred.

The two of them are currently developing a number of story ideas —

both scripts and books — for a variety of publishers and broadcasters,

and wondering how the last 25 years have gone past so quickly.