So only Nivet saw the gorecovered spider crush the receivers, their only link to the universe outside, with its great hanging gut as the creatures turned once more to face their prey.

'Out of the way,' Nivet shouted, pushing through the guards. It was his heel that finally broke through the ruined wall.

Using his gun butt to widen the gap further, Vozarti gestured to his frantic men. 'Through there. Go! Go!'

As the last guard vanished in a blur of red, Nivet swung his legs through the hole in the wall.

His last glimpse of the chamber was at a nightmare angle, all three of the repellent creatures skidding across the filthy floor to devour him.

A second later Vozarti was beside him again. Nivet braced himself, expecting some terrible impact from the spiders throwing themselves at the damaged wall, but there was nothing. All he could hear was the ragged panting of the group as they struggled to catch their breaths.

Nivet looked warily at the hole they'd pushed through, but now they'd left the chamber it seemed pitch black inside and deathly quiet.

He thought of Klenchron lying mutilated inside. They'd not been close, but Nivet had seen him around the labs most days, organising his tests and trials on the psychotropic weapons.

The War had seemed so abstract a concept when Nivet had joined the Military Elite, just a means of getting to do the really juicy research instead of rehashing driedout deadend experiments. That it could lead him into a situation so intrinsically violent ... It seemed somehow ridiculous.

Nivet wondered if this was what was meant by the word 'shock'. There was so little that shocked on Gallifrey.

He was in for another one when he turned. Wondering why Vozarti and his mob were so quiet, he found them staring out through a set of double doors in the wall opposite.

They seemed to open on to a wasteland of mud and gorse.

'To your left,' Eton whispered.

Ressadriand bit his lip to stop his teeth chattering, and turned to find a door in the wall. It was small, as if meant for a child. The crackling of chitinous limbs testing the way in the darkness was growing louder all the time.

'See what's through it,' Eton said. His voice was hoarse, as if he were fighting back tears.

Ressadriand crept closer and reached slowly for the handle. It turned stiffly. The hinges whinged in protest as the door began to open.

Light bled into the darkened tunnel and teased Ressadriand with a blurred snatch of vision.

For a moment he thought Eton had grown eight legs. Then he realised that something had crept so close to them it was ready to pounce.

Ressadriand screamed and scrambled through the doorway into whatever lay beyond.

Romana, her stirring speech ended, sat back to a resounding silence. Long faces lined the equally long table. She'd asked for their unanimous approval in storming the Edifice, reclaiming their lost personnel and the Type 102. Timon had seconded this course of action instantly, as always; but she felt now she might as well have been reciting her Vows of Reaffirmation at the others for all the enthusiasm they were displaying.

In a final attempt to win her Council over, Romana attempted to make a lingering eye contact with each of them in turn. Djarshar looked away awkwardly, unwilling to displease his President but unable to bring himself to face the Future that was his office, even if that meant abandoning his best technician. She shifted her stare to her Chancellor of Time Past, Fremest, who affected to be scrutinising the sleeve of his fine robe. Samax could meet her gaze, but doubtless only because the old fool was so shortsighted. Shortsighted indeed if he actually thought he'd been appointed Chancellor of Time Present for any skill he might possess, and not because she'd felt he'd be easy to manipulate. Finally, she turned to Branastigert, her Chancellor Parallel.

'I'm sorry, Lady President, but I must concur with my esteemed fellow Chancellors on this matter.' He smiled in apology; the expression didn't sit well on his pale, thin face. 'You've lost your Castellan, two of your science elite and our only easy means of breaching the Edifice.'

Romana took a shaky breath and leaned forward. 'What's lost can still be found. Vozarti and Nivet are still signalling, they're alive. For how much longer depends on the decisions you make today.'

'How many more lives will you risk in capricious pursuit of Gallifrey's alleged destiny, Lady President?' Fremest demanded, returning to his favourite theme. Whenever she experienced the slightest setback in her plans for the War, Fremest would seize on the terrible danger in which she was placing all Gallifrey. 'You authorise military research, you create a storehouse of the most barbaric weapons the universe can offer on our very doorstep -'

'These decisions are not in question here, Chancellor Past,' Romana said coolly. 'Please confine yourself to the matter in hand.'

'But that's just it!' Fremest said triumphantly. "The matter is well out of hand!'

He'd scored his point. Branastigert nodded in agreement, and so did Djarshar. 'I must concur with Chancellor Past,' the Chancellor of Time Future said. "The coming of the Edifice was not foretold; understanding its purpose from a safe distance transcends recovery and implementation of the Type 102.'

'Precisely, Chancellor Djarshar.' Fremest nodded sagely in agreement, his glasses slipping down his nose as he did so. "The appearance of the Edifice is a portent of change, of potent change. Before we can combat this anomaly in our skies we need empirical evidence, proof -'

Romana cut across him. "The probes have given us bankloads of data on the Edifice, most of it gibberish. So far there's no evidence to suggest what the thing is doing here.'

'It's affecting causality, that's what it's doing,' offered Samax stepping in with a neutral observation. 'Affecting it in a way that is utterly alien to all our science.'

'To all our science as we understand the term now,' Timon pointed out. 'Surely, Chancellor Future, if we are to counter its threat in years to come it is imperative we understand it in the present!'

'Well said, Timon,' Romana said, riding his coat tails and longing for a time when presidents held the rights of veto over their council. 'We have to act immediately! As I keep trying to make you see, that structure has been sent here by an unknown power and we have to discover why. There can be no more prevarication.'

'Prevarication? Nonsense!' Branastigert cleared his throat. 'I am searching for similar incidents in parallel universes for knowledge that could well prove vital.'

Romana shook her head. Typical of the hypothesising hypocrite, prioritising his pet realities while his own universe went up in smoke. 'With respect, my Chancellor Parallel,' she began, her tone glacier cold, 'no alternative realm can protect us from the destructive potential of the Edifice. Its grip on the timelines is tightening, its assault on local reality intensifying and we cannot maintain the energy levels required to hold it in check.'

'Tell us your suggested course of action, Madam President.' Timon looked at her expectantly, his gaunt figure swamped by his ceremonial robes. She rewarded him for the opportunity to state her case with a dazzling smile.

'We should be actively combating this peril, not expending energy on a battle we can't win.'

'You would have us storm the Edifice like barbarians,' Fremest tutted.

'I would have us breach its defences,' Romana snapped. 'Agreed, we don't know what's waiting for us inside but our impromptu spearhead has survived. With our remaining war TARDISes -'

'The Doctor is on board, Madam President; rasped Samax, licking his parchmentthin lips.

'His destructive power outstrips a dozen war TARDISes.'

Timon nodded thoughtfully. 'In ... times past, the Doctor has served Gallifrey well.'

Romana looked at him uncertainly. 'Your point?'

'It seems agreement round this table may not be reached.' Timon rubbed his hands in acquiescence as Romana glared at him, eyes warning him furiously to be silent. 'Surely this ... barbarian aspect that Fremest speaks of is the Doctor's forte? Let him serve us again. I barbarian aspect that Fremest speaks of is the Doctor's forte? Let him serve us again. I imagine he's already rooting out the cause of this inconvenient intrigue in our heavens.'

Romana felt her body temperature dip several degrees. Timon was offering the council a perfect way of evading the decision she needed them to take. "The Doctor is not the man he was, Lord Timon,' she stated. 'You know that.'

'He seems just as insufferable as ever he was,' huffed Branastigert.

'I agree, Madam President,' chirped Samax. 'I too feel it is wisest to wait.' He smiled happily. 'I've done nothing but wait all my life, and look at me now! A Chancellor of the High Council at last.'

Just you wait, thought Romana, narrowing her eyes at him. She rose to her feet and slammed her palms flat down on the table, then leaned forward, surveying her council through the dark fringe of her eyelashes. 'So. You all agree we are to do nothing at all?'

Djarshar squirmed in his seat under her withering look. 'In the circumstances, Madam President, given the lack of empirical knowledge -'

'Look at you all!' she snapped, shocking Djarshar into silence. She glared at each of them in turn. 'My council ... the protectorate of Gallifrey. Paralysed into indecision by superstitious fear.'

'Madam President, I -'

'No, Timon!' she ordered. 'You will hear me. Just as I have heard the rumours and the whispers that haunt every corner of the Capitol in the wake of the Edifice's arrival. May I remind you of what really matters? The War, gentlemen. The Enemy's forces are still coming no matter how hard you all pretend to yourselves they are not. It is our future, and we must be prepared!' She paused to let her words sink in, stringing out the uncomfortable silence.

'Unless, of course, you will allow the future to be taken from us?'

No one dared look her in the eye. When Fremest finally spoke, he addressed his remark to the polished black of the table top: 'Whose future would you be referring to, Madam President Gallifrey's, or your own?'

Romana stormed from the council chamber in disgust, the hem of her beaded black dress flapping around her ankles. The door slammed resoundingly shut behind her.

Chapter Twenty.

Everybody's got something to hide except me and my monkey

Dangling his legs into the chasm below, Fitz was determined to hum every song from the Beatles "White' album before deciding what to do next. He'd got as far as 'Revolution 9'.

Nothing took him back to those days in 1968 and his life with Maddy more than that song.

He'd already sung his repertoire of Sinatra songs and muttered the odd Skalen meditation to himself. The day had drifted on in a haze of selfpity and lost love. In the absence of other options, Fitz was doing what he did best: feeling incredibly sorry for himself.

He was on the edge of a small plain high up in the mountains. He'd left the crappy old house on the mountainside and decided to climb to see if he could spot some kind of sanctuary from above. Nope. So there was nothing for it other than to show some skin to the sun and dream of earlier, easier, kinder times. What came after 'Revolution 9'? 'Good Night', that was it.

Yeah, right. Following on from such a Good Day.

The back of his neck was stinging hot, but if he turned around to offer his front as a burnt offering to Gallifrey's sun it meant facing the vast, pale bulk of the Edifice. Even in broad daylight it was stealing the sky, and it gave him the creeps; as well as reminding him that he had no idea now if the Doctor was even alive. They'd been in tighter scrapes, he was sure, but even so ...

He heard a noise behind him and turned, nearly slipping off his ledge in the process.

'Careful, Fitz!' Tarra called in alarm.

Fitz relaxed a little. The breeze was blowing strands of her fine dark hair over her cute pale face. Those cheekbones were to die for. Well, almost, he decided, pulling himself away from the precipice. Tarra watched him, holding her hands demurely behind her back.

'So how have you been passing the day?' Fitz enquired languidly. 'Bit of knitting? Macrame, maybe? Oh, hang on, I know, you had a spot of lunch, then you summoned up the devil?'

Tana smiled, and Fitz had to remind himself he wasn't meant to be enjoying her company.

'We've created a new Greyjan.'

'How's he looking?'

'Just like he does on his biorecords of course. That's the image we projected on to the flesh in the remembrance tank.'

'Flesh?'

'Time Lord biomass. We've been collecting a little from everyone after each meeting. Soon regenerates itself.'

Fitz shuddered inwardly. It was as if his past was overtaking him, never mind catching up.

No matter how much he tried to pretend otherwise, a tank just like that one in the house was the place he was born. Not in 1936 in the Royal Free, Hampstead, the way it should've been, but in some back room of the Doctor's old TARDIS less than a year ago. The original Fitz Kreiner had been ... well, lost. The Doctor didn't like to talk about it, and Fitz himself wasn't about to encourage him. The way he saw it, while technically he may be more a descendant of the first Fitz Kreiner than the real thing, to all intents and purposes he was the one and only. Period.

To all his intents and purposes, anyway.

Fitz stared up into the salmon sky away from Tarra. 'If he's come out of that tank he's going to feel rough as hell, take it from me.'

'You're very perceptive.'

'My mum was Agatha Christie.'

Tarra must've got the message that mention of Greyjan and the remembrance tank was rattling Fitz's cage fit to burst; she changed the subject to one that might prompt some intelligible conversation. 'I went to Eton's place, too.'

'You have been busy.' Fitz paused, steeling himself to ask the next question. 'He wasn't there, was he?'

Tarra shook her head. 'I didn't think he would be. I went to pick up some texts.'

'That's nicking,' Fitz said. 'It's one thing stealing bioextracts from a matrix, but to pinch a bloke's paperbacks, that's really low ...' Tarra was watching him, puzzled. He sighed. He knew he was only babbling in order to put off asking the question that had been haunting him all day.

'Where do you think they went, Tarra? Eton and Ressadriand, I She sat down beside him.

'It's not important. They're not important.'

Fitz sighed. "The only thing that matters is Kellen and his glorious vision, huh?'

'Oh, no.' Tarra tutted. 'I wouldn't say that. There's you for instance.' She stroked the back of his sunburnt neck with a slender finger, and Fitz gritted his teeth. Her flesh was like ice against his hot skin. He looked at her, trying to act nonchalant, feeling heat rising all over his body even now he was in her shadow.

'I'm suddenly important, huh?'

'I think the man you can bring to us might be,' Tarra said, and her other arm snaked swiftly up his chest to pull open his shirt.

Fitz yelped twice in surprise, first from her touch, then as he felt metal puncture the skin above his collarbone. He watched disbelieving as Tarra pulled away what looked like a knuckle duster crossed with a hypodermic syringe. He could see a drop of his blood poised to drop from the tip of the needle.

'What a prick,' he muttered, closing his eyes before the fire rushing through his veins could do the job for him.

Chapter Twenty-one.