Doctor Who_ World Game - Doctor Who_ World Game Part 1
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Doctor Who_ World Game Part 1

WORLD GAME.

TERRANCE DICKS.

Prologue.

The following is an excerpt from the genuine and original summary record of the trial of the Doctor. The account with summary record of the trial of the Doctor. The account with which we were, until now, familiar was substantially re-edited which we were, until now, familiar was substantially re-edited for the public record. for the public record.

The true record has recently been released under the provisions of the Gallifreyan Freedom of Information Act. provisions of the Gallifreyan Freedom of Information Act.

In the High Court of the Time Lords a trial was coming to its end. The accused, a renegade Time Lord known as the Doctor, had already been found guilty. Now it was time for the sentence.

The Doctor looked very out of place standing amongst the Time Lords in their long white robes. To begin with, he was quite a small man. He wore an ancient black coat and a pair of check trousers. He had a gentle, rather comical face, and a shock of untidy black hair. But there was strength in the face too, and keen intelligence in the blue eyes.

A hush fell as the President of the Court rose and began to speak. 'Doctor, you have been found guilty of two serious offences against our laws. First, you stole a TARDIS and used it to roam through Time and Space as you pleased.'

'Nonsense,' said the Doctor indignantly. 'I didn't steal it.

Just borrowed it for a while.'

The President ignored the interruption. 'More importantly, you have repeatedly broken our most important law: interference in the affairs of other planets is a serious crime.'

Again the Doctor interrupted. 'I not only admit my interference, I am proud of it! You just observe the evil in the galaxies. I fight against it.'

'We have considered your plea, Doctor, that there is evil in the Universe which must be fought, and that you still have a part to play in that great struggle. It is a plea not without merit.' The President paused. Then he said heavily, 'Regrettably, the Court's hands are tied. The abstraction of an obsolete TARDIS is a relatively trivial matter, and might be pardoned. Temporal interference, however, prolonged and repeated temporal interference, is a far more serious matter.

It strikes at the root of our Time Lord policy of non-interference in the affairs of the cosmos. It draws attention to our very existence, and for many years our safety has lain in silence and secrecy. In short, aggravated temporal interference of this nature is a capital crime, and the sentence is mandatory.

'It is my painful duty, Doctor, to sentence you to death.'

Chapter One.

Opening Moves.

They were born in the same year, 1769, within months of each other.

One was English, or rather Anglo-Irish, born in Dublin to an influential, if hard-up, aristocratic family. His name was Wesley the Honourable Arthur Wesley, to be precise. Later the family name reverted to its original form, Wellesley. It was to change yet again in later life, when he became the Duke of Wellington.

The other was a native of Corsica, a small island that was an often-rebellious province of France. His parents too were aristocrats, part of the Corsican nobility, rulers of the island on behalf of the French. The family name was originally Buona Parte. In later years it was 'Frenchified', and Napoleone Buona Parte became Napoleon Bonaparte.

Both men attended a military academy in France, though not the same one, and both became soldiers. Both rose in their chosen profession, one more rapidly and far higher than the other.

By the time he was thirty-five, Wellesley Sir Arthur Wellesley by now was a major-general, returning to England after a long series of successful campaigns in India.

Napoleon Bonaparte was to become Napoleon the First, Hereditary Emperor of the French.

Wellington, of course, was well aware of Napoleon's meteoric rise, and had followed his campaigns with interest.

Napoleon, on the other hand, knew little of the man who was to be his most formidable opponent. What little he had heard failed to impress him. Wellington, he said dismissively, was merely a 'sepoy general', a commander whose only achievement was to lead native troops to easy victories against other native troops.

Neither knew that their lives were on a collision course, destined to meet a decade later in a clash that would determine the fate of Europe and much of the world.

The Duke of Wellington was destined to achieve a final fabulous victory on the battlefield of Waterloo, go on to become Prime Minister of England, and live into an honoured old age. Napoleon Bonaparte would die in his early fifties, a bitter and lonely exile.

At least, that was what was supposed to happen.

But what if there was... interference interference?

It was a difficult meeting, held in a security-sealed conference room just off Temporal Scanning HQ. The three Time Lords present were members of a special sub-committee of the High Council.

Their usual duties were to oversee the work of the Temporal Scanning Service. Normally this was a bureaucratic formality, which consisted of rubber-stamping the latest reports. Now, however, they had a real problem to deal with. And a problem which, horror of horrors, might actually require positive action.

They weren't happy about it.

Ragnar, the most senior, summed up their dilemma. Now nearing the end of his current incarnation, he was an elderly Prydonian, thin to the point of emaciation in his orange and scarlet robes. But if his body was frail, his mind was still sharp and his will was strong. In some ways he was the most effective of the group.

'The evidence is clear. There has been temporal interference prolonged and repeated temporal interference.

So far it is relatively trivial. Potentially, however, it is highly dangerous. It risks endangering the very fabric of time. It can no longer be tolerated. Those responsible must be tracked down and identified. Once that has been done they must be neutralised.'

Milvo, the second member of the sub-committee, nodded thoughtfully. He was a green-robed Arcalian, plump, round-faced, sleek-haired, with an air of bland cheerfulness. 'That may be so. However, we ourselves cannot be seen to interfere. Such action runs contrary to all our most cherished principles...Our reputation for detachment, for non-interference, cannot be compromised. ' He paused thoughtfully. 'Particularly at a time when we are about to put a renegade Time Lord to death for precisely that same reason! It would be most embarrassing to be found committing exactly the same offence ourselves!'

Ragnar frowned. He found Milvo's habit of treating everything as a kind of intellectual joke intensely irritating.

'Nevertheless, something must be done,' he said irritably.

'Action must be taken. We are all agreed on that, I believe.

And we achieve nothing by idly spinning phrases!'

The third member of the sub-committee was nondescript. Medium height, medium build, grey-haired and grey-robed, he had a facility for blending into the background any background. His name was Sardon.

'I might, perhaps, be able to offer a solution,' he said mildly.

The other two looked warily at him. Sardon's origins were obscure, perhaps even humble. He was certainly not a member of any of the great Chapters, those powerful political and family groups that ruled and contended endlessly for power in Time Lord society. His demeanour towards his more distinguished colleagues was respectful and unassuming. Nevertheless, he carried a subtle aura with him the aura of secret power. Sardon was an extremely influential member of the committee possibly the most influential. He was the representative of the powerful Celestial Intervention Agency, that vast and shadowy organisation that underpinned the formal respectability of Time Lord rule.

The Agency wasn't afraid of getting its hands dirty. Some said they were never clean.

Sardon registered his colleagues' worried reaction and smiled. They talked and talked, these aristocratic Time Lords, but in the end it was Sardon and his kind who provided effective sometimes brutally effective solutions and cleaned up the mess.

'In my humble opinion, you are right,' he said soothingly.

'Which of us?' snapped Ragnar.

'Both of you.'

'Since we seem to hold diametrically opposed opinions,'

murmured Milvo, 'it is difficult to see...'

'Not at all,' said Sardon. He nodded towards Ragnar. 'You are right the situation is urgent and action must be taken.'

He turned to Milvo. 'However, you are also right the Time Lords cannot be seen to take it.'

'You speak in paradoxes,' protested Milvo. 'How can we act and not act?'

'I did not say we could not act. I said we must not be seen seen to act.' to act.'

'Then how ?'

'We must use an agent. Someone we can control, and if necessary, disown.'

Ragnar looked dubious. 'The task is both delicate and dangerous. It will require a person of great intelligence, courage and ability. It will require many kinds of skills, diplomatic and scientific, not to mention a considerable amount of low cunning. All in all, it calls for a person of truly exceptional quality. Do you have such an agent at your command?'

'I have one in mind.'

'Can he be trusted?' asked Milvo.

'I think so,' said Sardon. 'His life is in my hands.'

'How so?' snapped Ragnar.

'He has just been condemned to death.'

The Doctor, now in his first, and what looked very like being his last, regenerated form his second body stretched out on a comfortably upholstered couch in a luxuriously furnished chamber and contemplated his future...such as it was. Unless his luck changed very considerably, there wasn't going to be much more of it.

Idly he gazed around him. The big room was decorated, or rather over-decorated, in authentic Time Lord style. It was fussy, ornate, elaborate; awash with over-stuffed furniture ornamental tables, lamps, drapes, tapestries, paintings and pieces of sculpture everything from a formal bust of an idealised Rassilon to abstract shapes filled, no doubt, with symbolic significance.

There was a food and drink dispenser, discreetly disguised as an elegant ormolu cabinet a device which would provide gourmet food and drink from a hundred planets. There was an entertainment centre with an ample supply of music and holovids, and even the facility to provide holographic representations of live performance.

A.

variety of doors led to luxurious sleeping accommodation, and a variety of elaborate baths, showers and saunas. The suite provided everything anyone could possibly need. It was the perfect place to live or die.

The Doctor contrasted strangely with his opulent surroundings. He made a shabby, inconspicuous figure in his old black coat and disreputable check trousers. The gentle, humorous face, topped by the mop of untidy black hair, was calm and peaceful, despite the peril of his position.

For all the luxury of his surroundings, the Doctor knew he was in an oubliette, a superior Time Lord cell for important prisoners. He knew too that he might be left there to rot for endless days left indeed until he either regenerated or died of natural causes. On the other hand, he might be taken out for execution at any moment.

On the whole though, Time Lord justice moved slowly, and no doubt they were still deliberating his mode of dispatch. He rather hoped they would spare him temporal dissolution, the sentence passed on those who had organised the War Games. 'Bad enough not to exist any more,' thought the Doctor. 'But never to have existed at all...'

His mind went back over his recent past, the seemingly endless struggle with the ruthless alien War Lords. In pursuit of a lunatic scheme of galactic conquest, they had kidnapped soldiers from different time periods of Earth and used them as human pawns in a series of war games. Their ultimate aim was to mould the survivors into an all-conquering army of super-warriors.

The cumbersome plan was already beginning to collapse of its own accord by the time the Doctor arrived on the scene.

At least some of the brainwashed human victims had shaken off their conditioning and come to realise their true situation.

A resistance organisation had formed, and with the aid of this movement, and of his two human companions, Jamie and Zoe, the Doctor had brought about the defeat of the War Lords.

Then had come the final agonising decision. To achieve true victory it was necessary to return the kidnapped soldiers to their own time zones, and this was beyond the Doctor's powers.

It could only be achieved with the help of his own people, the Time Lords and to the Time Lords the Doctor was a wanted fugitive. To ask for their help would mean almost certain capture.

The Doctor frowned, recalling the strangest part of the whole adventure. At the moment of victory, he had been visited by a manifestation of his future self. And not for the first time. It had happened once before, in a jungle on prehistoric Earth. Claiming to be the Eighth Doctor, this future self had interfered as the Doctor was contemplating and only only contemplating, he thought indignantly drastic but effective action to deal with a wounded cave man, who was hindering his escape and that of his companions. contemplating, he thought indignantly drastic but effective action to deal with a wounded cave man, who was hindering his escape and that of his companions.

On his second appearance, this irritatingly young and handsome figure had once again taken a high moral tone, urging the Doctor to sacrifice himself for the good of the kidnapped human victims.

'Do the right thing,' he'd urged. 'Whatever the risk it's one we've both got to take.'

All very well for him, thought the Doctor. He's not the one condemned to death! Except, of course, he was. He'd pointed it out at the time. If the Second Doctor ceased to exist, so would the Eighth.

On the other hand, the Eighth Doctor had maintained that his his existence proved that the Second Doctor must have survived his capture. existence proved that the Second Doctor must have survived his capture.

Which of them was right?