Doctor Who_ The Tomorrow Windows Part 1

THE TOMORROW WINDOWS.

JONATHAN MORRIS.

Prologue.

The Story of Easter.

Imagine you are on an island. The ocean lazes out before you, a stretch of gla.s.s-glinting blue, The sky is clear and the overhead sun bakes your skin.

Palm trees rustle in the breeze and the gra.s.s plains ripple like a second sea.

The people of the island are thriving. The trees offer syrup, the ground provides cane and the ocean provides porpoise. You gaze out over the cliff-drop and watch as a canoe lunges on to the beach. Its crew leap out, shouting, hauling the vessel and their laden nets. Around them, children run and splash in excitement.

The islanders' huts rest in the shade of forest. There are barely half a dozen buildings, constructed of woven-together wood, fragile but functional.

Time pa.s.ses. Over the years, the population grows. Huts become villages and palm trees are felled. Squinting out to sea, you make out twenty boats or more.

Black clouds thicken on the horizon. The wind s.n.a.t.c.hes at your cheeks.

Thunder grumbles and cracks. Day turns to night and the ocean seethes like a snake nest. Waves explode into foam and boats smash upon the rocks. Crops are ripped from the earth. Huts fold and collapse.

The day after the hurricane, the people of the island decide to build a G.o.d.

It takes them many months to carve the G.o.d. It has the face of an islander, with almond eyes and narrow cheeks. To bring the G.o.d to the cliff top, the islanders lop down more trees and create runways, the statue trundling upon trunks slick with sap. More trunks lever the statue on to its platform. The ingenuity of the engineering is awe-inspiring.

More years pa.s.s, and another cold breeze snaps against your skin. Another death-black cloud scrubs out the sun. The seas rip and crash. More canoes are lost, more fishermen, more huts, more crops.

The islanders realise their folly. Their G.o.d has not failed them they have failed their G.o.d. To make amends, they must build a second G.o.d.

Night becomes day becomes years and the statue is joined by another, and another and another. They appear, popping into existence along the cliff, one by one. They stand in a silent chorus, each facing the rising sun.

1.Still the storms come. The islanders split into opposing tribes, each blaming the others for their G.o.ds' failure. Each faction creates its own G.o.d, and another and another. Each one is bigger than the last and requires more resources.

More trees are felled. The quarry is hollowed out.

Your attention turns inland, and you are surprised to see that where once there was forest there now stand a few skeletal palms. The huts that remain are battered. The people's bodies are wasted, their skin seeping with disease.

Another year pa.s.ses and the forest is reduced to one lone tree. The other palms have been cut down, to repair the huts, to replace the lost canoes, to trundle yet more G.o.ds to the cliffs. The people have become desperate. They weave canoes of gra.s.s and reed but they prove too fragile. Without the shelter of the forest, the village is abandoned.

The tribes split and split again, and wars rage. They fight and what they kill they cannibalise. You hear a crackling fire and smell sweet roast. Glistening meat is sc.r.a.ped from a charred skull and devoured.

A blink of an eye and the final tree has vanished. Where did it go? To forge spears, to transport a G.o.d, to build a canoe? You stare in disbelief. Surely it should have been obvious that by destroying the forest, they were destroying their means of food, of shelter, of survival, of escape, of salvation? What madness must have possessed them?

The tribes fight until there are few left. And those that remain turn their anger on their G.o.ds. They smash out the eyes, demolish the platforms, they topple the statues. The island that remains is scorched and barren.

You stand and stare out to sea where two hundred statues once stood. Now the idols are half buried among the gra.s.ses that ripple. The islanders have gone.

Now stop imagining. You are on an island.

2.

Gadrahadradon.

Astrabel Zar caterpillared his way out of his sleeping bag and clicked on his torch. He sat upright, his head sc.r.a.ping against canvas, tugged on his jeans and laced up his boots. Bottles tlink-tlinked as he crawled to the flap. The sound disturbed his snoring companion, Sheabley McMung, but as Sheabley had spent the evening necking Absynthzo Absynthzo like a gill-glott, he responded merely by moaning an indignant burst of song. like a gill-glott, he responded merely by moaning an indignant burst of song.

Astrabel had also been gill-glotting the Absynthzo Absynthzo. It had seemed very agree-able at the time but now a difference of opinion had arisen. His mouth felt like the inside of a vacuum-cleaner and his brain had delegated all responsibilities to his bladder because it seemed the more lucid part of his anatomy. It knew what it wanted, and it wanted it now.

He struggled out into the grim blackness. Above him, c.u.mulonimbus steamrolled across the sky like apocalyptic icebergs. Thunder tolled. Astrabel clambered to his feet and waved his torch around him. Its wraithlike glow illuminated a gloopy trail down to the ruins. Astrabel closed the tent, b.u.t.toned his coat and tripped over a guy-rope.

It hadn't been his idea to come here for a holiday.

He'd only said 'yes' to Zoberly Chesterfield because he couldn't make 'no'

sounds in the vicinity of her cleavage. She was irresistible cherry lips, a habit of laughing at everything she said and b.r.e.a.s.t.s that seemed to be formulating an escape attempt from her bra.s.siere. The next thing Astrabel knew, he'd landed face down in a puddle of mud with half a tent around his left leg.

Disententing himself, Astrabel ambled down the path, following the dancing halo of his torchlight. He was busting, but he wouldn't be able to relax if he was within sight of the camp. He felt like he was being watched. So instead, he waded through the bracken and ducked beneath the dead trees.

And all the time, he did his best to ignore the grey ghosts that drifted around him.

The path toppled into the columnated ruins of an abbey and Astrabel half slipped, half plunged down the steps. The monastery walls had crumbled, leaving high archways.

The question as to why anyone should come to Gadrahadradon for a holiday weighed upon Astrabel's thoughts. He remembered leafing through a brochure: 3.'Gadrahadradon The most haunted planet in the galaxy.'

It certainly was haunted. In the derelict central hall, Astrabel found himself amid a congregation of ghosts. They were composed of thin mist, one moment coalescing into recognisable bodies and faces, the next rippling away like reflections in a pebble-struck pool. They opened and closed their mouths, but made no sound.

Astrabel watched the figures. A family in pseudo-Victoriana whooshed by.

A man cloaked in funereal black lifted a box camera. Three fat businessmen appeared for an instant, and then a breeze caught them and they dispersed, their bodies swirling through each other. The planet was a Damogran Circus of ghosts, thousands of them, flitting in and out of existence as though reality were a double-exposed film.

To begin with, it had been very unnerving. Astrabel had used up several jmegs on photos of Sheabley and Zoberly pulling mock-terrified expressions as the phantoms pa.s.sed through them. After a week, though, and the wind, and the cold and the rain, Astrabel was b.l.o.o.d.y sick of the ghosts. They never did did anything. They just floated about, chatting silently among themselves. anything. They just floated about, chatting silently among themselves.

Astrabel gripped his torch and made his way down to the crypt. The most well-preserved part of the ruin, it offered shelter from the storm. The thunder faded as Astrabel stepped into the cobweb-draped darkness.

Thankfully, there were no ghosts here. Astrabel pocketed his torch, unb.u.t.toned his trousers and, with a thankful groan, began to empty his bladder against the wall. A liquid not far removed from Absynthzo Absynthzo pitter-pattered upon stone. pitter-pattered upon stone.

Relieved of distractions, Astrabel's mind wandered through the events of the past months. He remembered sitting his Theoretical Ultraphysics exam.

Sixteen hours of reading questions where he only understood one word in four.

As he shook away the last drops, Astrabel's thoughts turned to the future.

He didn't have one. His life would, he decided, be a bitter journey to an unmourned grave.

Astrabel zipped up, turned to go, and his life changed for ever.

4.

Froom-Upon-Harpwick.

The b.a.s.t.a.r.ds were all sitting down. Prubert Gastridge swore under his breath as he took his bow. Under the spotlight his forehead p.r.i.c.kled and droplets dripped to the stage. He counted to three and heaved himself upright, dabbed his eyebrows with his handkerchief and beamed at the audience. Their applause rang in his ears, a roaring, whooping monster of sound. Sod that, thought Prubert, I deserve a standing ovation.

He'd given them everything tonight. He'd finessed every finesse. He had nuances coming out of his ears. Every gland he possessed had served the performance. It had been the best Captain Hook of his career.

Prubert's thoughts turned, as always, to the bottle of Lochmoff's Ultrablend Lochmoff's Ultrablend that would be waiting for him in his dressing room. After a couple of gla.s.ses, he wouldn't be capable of either receiving or giving a standing ovation. that would be waiting for him in his dressing room. After a couple of gla.s.ses, he wouldn't be capable of either receiving or giving a standing ovation.

Down came the curtain and down came Prubert's smile. This was hardly the acme of his career, was it? Panto. b.l.o.o.d.y Peter Pan Peter Pan. b.l.o.o.d.y Peter Pan Peter Pan at the at the Princess Shevaun Princess Shevaun. A theatre that could do with a complete renovation or, even better, a wrecking ball. Peter Pan Peter Pan at the end of a star-pier in orbit around the seaside resort of Froom-Upon-Harpwick. Seaside resort? Hospice, more like. at the end of a star-pier in orbit around the seaside resort of Froom-Upon-Harpwick. Seaside resort? Hospice, more like.

'Did you see that wobbly on the front row?' gasped Tinkerbell to everyone in particular. 'Eyes glued to me knicks. Thought he was going to have a coronary.'

'Don't say that,' muttered Smee. 'Makes a change when we don't don't have any casualties. Once we came back after the interval to half a house.' have any casualties. Once we came back after the interval to half a house.'

Prubert followed Peter down the bulb-lit corridor to their dressing rooms.

As she closed her door, she shot Prubert a black look for gazing at her un-dercarriage during her flight to Neverland. Prubert gave her his most affable smile. He had no notion of her name. Apparently she'd appeared in a soap opera from one of the Antipodean systems. For her, this would be as good as it got. 'Gather ye photo spreads while ye may.' In a few years her looks would fade and she'd discover she had nothing to fall back on except her voluminous backside. The backside that had once opened doors for her wouldn't be able to make it through doorways.

Prubert was on the way down, he just didn't know how much further he had to fall. He'd been in the holo-movies. He was Vargo, king of the Buzzardmen, 5 in Zap Daniel Zap Daniel. He still got letters about it.

Vargo had been his big hit, if wearing a Viking helmet, giant wings and leather codpiece const.i.tuted a success. Some of his lines from Zap Zap had been sampled in a recent chart hit by Pakafroon Wabster and he'd been obliged to reprise them for the panto. They always brought the house down, though it had taken some contrivance to work 'What do you mean, Daniel's had been sampled in a recent chart hit by Pakafroon Wabster and he'd been obliged to reprise them for the panto. They always brought the house down, though it had taken some contrivance to work 'What do you mean, Daniel's not dead not dead?'

into Peter Pan Peter Pan. They'd had to call the crocodile Daniel.

There it was, the Lochmoff's Lochmoff's. Prubert secured his dressing-room door, unscrewed his hook, degirded his pantaloons, tossed aside his wig and poured himself a generous double.

Through the bottom of the tumbler, Prubert noticed an envelope on his dressing table. Green handwriting and an Outer Spiral Arm postmark. He leaned back into his chair and inspected the envelope's contents. A letter from the president of the Zap Daniel Information Service Zap Daniel Information Service. Did he want to go to their convention? Not for that money. Did he want to reprise his role in a series of Vargo Vargo spin-off audios? No he'd done a commentary for the spin-off audios? No he'd done a commentary for the Zap Zap Daniel Daniel H-DVD, hadn't that been enough? H-DVD, hadn't that been enough?

It was only his voice-over work that kept Prubert in alimony. He'd spent months in that booth, eulogising over everything from Stena Hoverbouts Stena Hoverbouts to to Algol Gold Algol Gold credit cards. He'd voiced Zagreus for that interactive cartoon thing, and narrated credit cards. He'd voiced Zagreus for that interactive cartoon thing, and narrated The Dalek War In Colour The Dalek War In Colour.

Prubert screwed up the letter. Letter, let me introduce you to bin. Bin, letter.

Letter, bin. Lochmoff's Lochmoff's, gla.s.s.

His best work was still ahead of him. He had so much more to give. He wanted the big roles; huge, weighty parts that required presence, vigour. And lots of shouting. He might not have been the greatest actor of his generation, but he was undoubtedly the loudest.

Prubert heard a rap at the door. He slid his tumbler behind a photo and lit a cigarette. 'Enter.'

It was his agent. An inane little man that put Prubert in mind of a dog he'd like to kick. He stroked the back of Prubert's chair. 'Pru, tonight you were divine!'

'I know I b.l.o.o.d.y was. I was superb superb.' Prubert's eyes did not move from his tired, grease-faced reflection. 'Drinky?'

'Too kind, but no.' His agent glanced around the room. It was a nervous tic he'd developed from years spent looking for someone more important to talk to.

'Then what,' said Prubert, picking up his Lochmoff's tumbler, 'do you want?'

'I have been approached by someone who requires your services. . . '

'Really?'

'Really.'

6.Prubert considered. 'I won't crawl out of my coffin for less than twenty thousand.'

'A hundred thousand.'

Prubert's flabber was gasted. 'A year?'

'A month.'

Prubert doubled up and coughed. He could retire on that sort of money. 'A month? What the h.e.l.l's mother's teeth is it?'

'It's an. . . unconventional role. But very substantial.'

'Big part, is it?'

'Biggest.'

'Meaty?'

'Bratwurst.'

'Does it involve '

'Shouting?' said his agent. 'Lots of it. Nothing but. It's shouting, shouting, shouting. Shouting till the Dryrths come home.'

Prubert swung his chair round. 'Tell me more.'

7.

Shardybarn.

The crowflies flocked like a swirling cape in the twilight. Twin suns wobbled on the horizon, setting alight the flowing seams of cloud and casting an auburn glow across the outhouses. Distant bells pealed.

The market bristled with life. Grunts rotated on spits, their meat crisp and sweaty. Traders announced their Grunt-hide boots, Grunt-hair jerkins and Grunt-calf soups. Ruddy women wielded baskets of smoked Grunt. Children played Grunt rides. Mandolinists crooned Grunt ballads. Men spat chobacco and gambled on Grunt fights.

His heart heavy with antic.i.p.ation, Moop picked his way through the crowd, past stalls draped with tapestries of Grunt hunts, past ta.s.selled Grunt-shaped cushions and past flagons of Grunt wine. The wine wasn't actually made out of Grunt, but had been called Grunt wine to avoid confusion.