Doctor Who_ Head Games Part 32

'The loyalty of the trained soldier.'

'She understands, that's all.'

'And Chris? What about him? Can he forgive me?'

Bernice walked over and leant on the console. She chose her words carefully. 'He's had a bad time. It had to happen eventually - occupational hazard, you know. But I think he understands why you did what you did. He'll get over it. We all do.'

The Doctor nodded, but the haunted look didn't leave him.

made such a mess of things with you and Ace. I was dedicated to my mission, intent on untangling the timelines, on fulfilling my duties. I became so engrossed in that that I neglected the interpersonal dimension. I asked you to understand me but I never tried to understand you, or to even see what you were going through.' He looked away so that shadows masked his face. 'Ever since Ace left, since I had to replace her, I've known it could all happen again. Accusations, confrontations, distrust. I wanted to avoid it. That's why I didn't tell them about Detrios, even though I thought I could have made them understand. I can't afford to lose them.'

Bernice had followed his words in silence. It wasn't often Ile unburdened himself, and never like this. When he concluded, however, she bristled almost automatically. 'Why can't you 247 afford it? Because you value their friendship? Or is it just that they're important? To your mission, your games?'

'My games are important.'

'And you do what you have to. I know.'

'And do you understand?'

She didn't answer. She wasn't sure that she could.

The Doctor shook himself and returned to the controls. 'What we need now,' he mused, his voice brighter (but forced, Benny thought), 'is a vacation. Some rest and relaxation on Florana. Or maybe a trip to the Eye of Orion.' He glanced up and Benny was pleased to see a twinkle in his eye. 'We could visit Avalone, get the whole joint popping again.'

She reached and guided his hand from the console. 'I've a better idea. Why not a simple adventure for once? Run through your Great Plan, you must have an easy one lined up somewhere. We could find an injustice, put together a rebel army, lead the people against an unfair system and make sure that Good wins.'

'And they all live happily ever after?'

'How about it?'

The Doctor smiled, more genuinely now, and began to work again. 'I'm laying in random coordinates. I think that's best, don't you?'

She smiled back, understanding.

'Wherever we land,' he said, 'whatever we find . . . we'll do what's right.'

And finally, the Doctor slept: a rare occurrence, but he felt it was necessary. He took control of his dreams and strolled around the landscape of his psyche. He talked to his other selves: the librarian, the ferryman, even the one he had once crucified on the cross of his insensitivity. And they were worried. As worried as he was.

The remaining six gathered around the barrier. It had darkened to black but it still pulsed hatefully. They concentrated, pooling their minds and strengthening its substance, layer upon layer. They ignored the shouts of the one within; his threats that, one day, when the body's strength was 248 at its lowest, he would reach out from the recesses of the subconscious and seize it.

More than ever, it was imperative that the seventh Doctor should survive. A regeneration crisis might serve to free him.

The Doctor woke. It took a moment to reorient his senses, to remember that he was floating in the Zero Room's null-gravity environment. He lay still for a while and probed his own mind tentatively, to see if the danger had pa.s.sed. It had, for now.

There were still cracks in the barrier. That was inevitable. It was too late to repair them completely, but he could do something. There were still some ways to stave off the guilt, to begin to sew up some of the fractures.

The TARDIS was silent as he walked its corridors. Its occupants, he imagined, were sleeping off the hurts he had inflicted upon them. He remembered the confrontation in the crystal and he found it hard to deny the accusations which had been put.

He remembered his past self, transforming as they battled.

The body lying face-up, features lengthening, clothes darkening. His greatest fear made real before him. A possible future which, in the Doctor's arrogance, he had thought had been denied forever.

For all his intentions and all his games, he was still capable of becoming the Valeyard.

It was a contemplative Doctor who arrived in the console room. His thoughts had turned to Kadiatu Lethbridge-Stewart.

He hadn't made his decision about her Yet, and he knew that his companions might take issue when he did. He might have to hurt them all over again.

He couldn't let that matter. Nor could he avoid his duties any longer. He had to deal with the situation.

'I'm truly sorry,' he said, the apology directed towards them all in their absence. He reset the coordinates. 'But my duty must take precedence after all.'

249.

Head End

Jason woke up and it had all been a dream.

He lay there uncertainly for a while, brain churning as though full of thoughts he couldn't access.

He was on his bed, fully clothed in his customary jeans and T-shirt and black boots. A draught found its way around the window frame as it always did and he heard the sound of thumping music from next door. It seemed that nothing was different, and yet he knew somewhere in the recesses of his subconscious mind that it was.

He thought he had to do something today. Write something.

Something important. It had fled from his grasp though and he couldn't quite catch it.

He wondered what he was doing with his life.

He hadn't expected to think that. He chased the question around for a few minutes, turned it over and looked at it from all sides. Did he have any ambitions? Well, he'd always wanted to work in the media. Perhaps he should do something about that. Today. And look up his parents. And consider a new place to live.

Jason saw his whole life stretching ahead of him.

He climbed up oil the bed, deep in thought, and absentmindedly began to gather the screwed-up b.a.l.l.s of paper which littered the carpet. He dropped them into the wicker waste bin, then reached to pull the last one from the roller of his typewriter.

He paused and looked at it.

It seemed to be a short story which Jason didn't remember writing. A story about himself and about the stranger who had 250 come to visit him one evening and taken him into a series of new adventures.

He read the story through three times, brow furrowing in confusion. He stared for an especially long time at the closing seven words.

And they all lived happily ever after.

Jason struggled to cling onto the memories which swam through his head.

251.