Doctor Who_ Theatre Of War Part 26

Ace snorted. 'Oh yeah whose control? Benny say not to worry anyway, the whole thing will be a non*event.'

The Doctor looked hurt. 'She said that?'

Ace nodded.

'She should know better. It will be superb.'

'Ancient Greek dialogue, Doctor no action. Boring.'

'Ah.' The Doctor looked round as if checking to see if anyone was trying to overhear. 'You know a bit about the theatre history of the twenty*third century, then?'

'A bit. Recently acquired knowledge.'

'Well,' here's some more, something long forgotten. Something the people here don't yet appreciate. Osterling wrote poor dialogue convuluted and pompous. And The Good Soldiers The Good Soldiers is a rotten play.' is a rotten play.'

'So why all the fuss?'

The Doctor shrugged. 'Reputation.'

'Yes, but something has to lead to a reputation in the first place.'

'Innovation. Osterling changed the course of theatre history, though as I said, that's long forgotten by now lost with his play.' He leaned even closer, his voice getting quieter. 'That was the whole point. Osterling's innovation a stroke of genius really. Can't think where he got the idea. In Osterling's time, the action all happened off*stage and was then reported. An interesting but archaic dramatic convention, largely left over from the leaner years of theatrical parsimony.'

Ace's stomach suddenly felt empty. Her hands were clenched on the arms of the seat and there was a tightness in the muscles in her calves. 'So what did he do? What was the innovation?'

The Doctor grinned. 'He wrote a play this play, in fact where the final action was an invasion. A group of people in a fortress are ma.s.sacred by an army of robots. But unlike the other plays of his era, even his own plays, the action happened on stage the action happened on stage.'

Ace could feel the colour draining from her face as she strained at the straps and the lights began to dim.

'At the end of the play, an army of robots burst on to stage. The audience saw the invasion first*hand. Actually witnessed the ma.s.sacre.' He settled back into his seat and clicked his tongue in appreciation.'

'Doctor!' Ace's voice was almost a shout. She heard the guard flick off the safety features on his disruptor and clamped her mouth shut. She bit her lip and strain towards the Doctor as a red glow paled into existence the stage in front of them, resolving itself into the banqueting hall of a fortress.

Just as the last of the light in the auditorium faded, the Doctor turned back towards Ace, He winked and put his finger to his lips to signal for silence. Then he turned his attention back to the stage, resting his elbows on the arms of the seat and his chin on his steepled fingers. And the performance began.

Source Doc.u.ment 17 Bolvadin's retelling of The Good Soldiers The Good Soldiers.

From Stories from the Theatre Stories from the Theatre, first published 2294 Braxiatel Collection Catalogue Number of surviving first edition: 002CH Far, far away, both in s.p.a.ce and time, there is a town called Limlough. On a hill overlooking the town stands a mighty fortress. And then one day the war comes to Limlough.

As the armies approach, it becomes clear that there will be a great battle. The townspeople flee in fear for their lives and the soldiers camp around the town in readiness for the battle. In one of the camps of the Ragussan army, six comrades banquet together on the eve of the battle: Jorvik, Remek, Spidler, Prator, Freppon and Teel.

They are looking forward to the fight and boasting of what they will accomplish. Only Jorvik is quiet and philosophical.

The next day the battle is fought. The robot armies of the Samrong destroy the men of Ragussa, and the defeated survivors retreat to the fortress of'Limlough. The Samrong lay siege to the fortress and many of the survivors die trying to escape or send for help and supplies.

Two months later, with the outer wall of the fortress penetrated by the enemy, the six comrades meet up again, survivors all now trapped in the fortress, the last bastion of their empire. They share stories of old times and of their heroism in the battle as the enemy comes ever closer to their door. They are all boastful, apart from the tall, imposing figure of Jorvik.

During the night, as they feast, they watch a play arranged by Jorvik. The play concerns five comrades who meet and share a banquet before a great battle, and who die during or shortly after it. So, in this play a character called Kemer mirrors the real Remek, and dies in the battlefront; Teel is appalled as the character Leet is executed as a war criminal. At the climax of the play, the enemy an army of robots wins through.

Then the players reveal that under their costumes they are themselves soldiers of Samrong. At the same moment, the Samrong robots break through the final defence the fortress of Limlough.

Jorvik's speech as the robots attack makes it clear that in fact all the 'good soldiers' were deserters: they never got to the battle of Limlough. The exception is Jorvik and he is a traitor. The players, smuggled in by him, attack the comrades from the rear.

The soldiers defend themselves, and are killed according to their scenes in the play. Jorvik sides with the enemy robots with whom he was always allied, as anyone who was at Limlough would have known.

And so, as the Samrong robots achieve their final victory, only Jorvik the traitor survives still true to his beliefs, however misguided.

Chapter 17.

The Good Soldiers Hamartia is not, as many think, a tragic flaw. It is rather a character trait which happens, under certain circ.u.mstances, to lead to the downfall of the character. Oth.e.l.lo's jealous disposition would be of little note were it not for the circ.u.mstances under which it comes to the fore. is not, as many think, a tragic flaw. It is rather a character trait which happens, under certain circ.u.mstances, to lead to the downfall of the character. Oth.e.l.lo's jealous disposition would be of little note were it not for the circ.u.mstances under which it comes to the fore.Similarly, the states of anagnorisis and perepeteia need explanation before we can continue. Perepeteia is the moment at which the hamartia leads to the character's downfall. For Oedipus, the moment of perepeteia is when he kills an old man on the road. Recognition that this was his perepeteia comes much later. In fact things seem to be going his way he discovers the old man was a king and Oedipus now replaces him. What is more, he gets to marry the former queen.Recognition of the fall, when it comes, is anagnorisis. And it comes late to Oedipus. The recognition that his impulsive character has been his downfall is dependent on a simple piece of information missing in the first instance: that the old man he met was his father, and the queen he has married is therefore his mother.When the audience realizes the perepeteia achieves anagnorisis before the character, then we have the makings of dramatic irony. When hamartia leads to perepeteia and then (inevitably) to anagnorisis, we have tragedy. They are dramatic notions which will drive a man to murder a loving wife, or to gouge out his own eyes.The Greeks had a Play about It Peter Hinton, 2012 Peter Hinton, 2012 Ace could tell that the audience was loving it. She could see the Doctor's point though the dialogue was stilted and opaque, and the plot seemed extremely simple. Six characters left over from a battle they had lost, holed up in a castle boasting and starting to watch a play. Ace was finding it boring, and her left leg had already fallen asleep.

There had been one interval, and the Doctor had disappeared before she could talk to him. He had returned with a drink which he held up to her mouth, since she could not move her arms. The liquid tasted of overripe melons mixed with brandy. She had not drunk much of it.

'It's a winner so far,' she told the Doctor as she tried to push the beaker away from her mouth. 'Can't wait for the film.'

The Doctor muttered something about Philistines handed the remains of the drink to the surprised guard who had been watching them intently, and sat down again in the seat next to Ace.

'How do you like it in there?' the Doctor asked without looking at her, and without seeming to move his lips.

'Not at all. I'm getting cramp,' she whispered back.

'It livens up a bit in the second half. We may need to leave in a bit of a hurry towards the end.'

Ace laughed out loud, and the Doctor risked a warning glare at her. But the guard was busily trying to drain a last drop from his melon brandy. 'Flex your muscles a bit. Get yourself ready just in case.'

Ace was about to protest: she could hardly flex a finger. But then she realized that there did seem to be more play in the straps round her ankles. She shifted her leg experimentally and found its movement unrestricted. She looked down at her wrists and saw that the cords still lay across them but they were unfastened positioned rather than tied. She frowned at the Doctor and he smiled back.

Before she could question how he had managed it, the lights dimmed again and the characters frozen on the stage jerked suddenly back into life, picking up the script at the moment they had abandoned it.

'You'll enjoy this act,' the Doctor said to her, ignoring the angry shh*ing from the row behind.

Ace tried to pay a bit attention during the second half. Now that it was dark she also flexed her hands and legs. She did not dare to move her hands too far the guard was too close to risk it, even though he seemed intent on the stage.

The Doctor was right, it was picking up a little. Complications in the plot arose when it became clear that the main characters were beginning to recognize themselves in the play as their counterpart characters were killed. As Benny had told her, this happened off*stage. A cloaked figure called Jorvik described to the audience both on the stage and in the auditorium.

Jorvik was the most interesting of the characters. The rest were hardly more than two*dimensional. But Jorvik was a philosopher who pondered the validity of war and the virtues of heroism. He was also something of an eccentric, judging by the way he kept his wide*brimmed hat on, his face perpetually in shadow. He seemed to dominate the play, organizing and chiding the other characters, despite his seemingly unimposing nature and his diminutive stature. His comrades all stood at least a head higher than he did, but still they seemed to shrink away in fear as he described the deaths of their counterparts in the play within a play.

The Spirit of Samarra Spirit of Samarra reports another three Rippearean cruisers closing on the Alterberg Gap.' The operator listened for a few moments longer, scrawling notes on a clip*pak. 'That's confirmed by the reports another three Rippearean cruisers closing on the Alterberg Gap.' The operator listened for a few moments longer, scrawling notes on a clip*pak. 'That's confirmed by the Repercussion Repercussion.'

Petralona didn't like the sound of it at all. She had only started duty a couple of hours previously, and it had been relatively quiet then. Now everything was happening at once. 'How many ships is that so far?' she asked the technician entering the information onto the main display.

He checked his notes and counted off the transponders already marked. 'Ninety six. Almost two*thirds of the Rippearean fleet are now concentrated round the Gap and the sectors bordering it.'

'Where are the others?'

'We don't know the only ships we have contact with are those near the Gap.'

'So they could be on their way as well.'

The technician nodded. 'Could well be, We won't know till one of our ships or a sat*station makes contact.'

'Great. Let's hope they're just regrouping. At least the kill*sats will keep the Gap secure.' Petralona was not in a position to take much counteraction. The commanders in the field would have more up*to*date information and would be co*ordinating their response through the local net. Only the Exec or the Manact could send a direct order.

'Another two,' the com*net operator called across. 'One of them is a mine destroyer.'

'S'blood. They're going for the Gap.'

'But the kill*sats are proimity devices, a destroyer won't get close enough to wipe them,' the technician pointed out. 'And if it sends probes the sats will trace them back to the parent vessel and take it out anyway. The mines would have to be deactivated before they could clear a path through.'

'That may be,' Petralona told him, 'but there's no other explanation.'

'Then we should tell the Manact,' the operator said.

'Who asked you?' Petralona was beginning to panic. It didn't help that the rest of the staff in the war room were paying close attention to what was happening by the situation display.

'What else can we do?'

'He'd kill us,' the technicians said, and he meant it.

Petrolona agreed. If they interrupted the all*important performance of The Good Soldiers The Good Soldiers with some vague notion that the Rippeareans might be about to risk two*thirds of their fleet by driving it through a minefield, he might very well execute them all for their trouble. But if the Rippeareans were about to deactivate the field somehow, and they did not raise the alarm... with some vague notion that the Rippeareans might be about to risk two*thirds of their fleet by driving it through a minefield, he might very well execute them all for their trouble. But if the Rippeareans were about to deactivate the field somehow, and they did not raise the alarm...

She made her decision. 'The field commanders will handle it. Have their communications relayed direct through the net. We'll lag behind, but we should get warning of what's happening if anything goes wrong. Warn the fleet protagonist of our concerns, and monitor the status of the sats positioned within the Gap. If anything more happens, I'll contact the Manact.'

'If anything more happens?' The operator was on his feet, headset abandoned at his station. 'What more are you waiting for an advance in force? Never mind trying to hold them on the perimeter and forcing them to take months negotiating a path round the Surralian system, if they come through the Gap they'll be here in hours.'

'Sit down,' Petrolona shouted. She could feel a nerve ticking by her right eye. 'The field commanders will handle it. They're just regrouping all right?' She looked up at the status display. Another three transponders joined the ma.s.s on the other side of the Gap. The area was almost whited out with their tiny lights. 'They're just regrouping,' she repeated. 'They can't get through.'

The communications suite was a relatively small room off the same corridor as the war room. All that happened there was that messages to and from the war room were relayed through a booster and directed to or received from the appropriate satellite orbiting Heletia. The process was automatic and computer*controlled. As with all automatic processes, it required the presence of someone to monitor it and ensure that everything work.

That someone was at the moment Junior Technician Cha.s.sada. He was not yet eighteen, and had just completed training. He was due for a posting any time now but was hoping the war would be over before he got to it. They were talking months rather than years in the barracks, but even so he would probably still see action. If he was lucky he would live to regret it.

The door behind him opened and he turned to see who it was. He was not due to be relieved for another few hours yet. It was a woman: tall, slim, with short dark hair and a wide smile.

'h.e.l.lo,' she said. 'I'm fascinated by technology. Mind if I sit in?'

Cha.s.sada was at a loss for words as he pulled up the spare chair and joined him beside the main monitor. 'I'm not sure you should be here,' he eventually managed to say. And he quickly checked his disruptor was in its holster on his hip.

'Oh nonsense.' She leaned forwards and pointed at an area of the screen in front of them. 'What does this do?' she asked. The womans's chest was perilously close to his face as she leaned across, and he could not help but notice that the top few b.u.t.tons of her brushed denim jumpsuit were undone.

Cha.s.sada had to lean round her to see what she was pointing at. Strangely it seemed to be a blank area of the screen. He was confused and distracted, so did not immediately appreciate the significance of the slight tug at his waistband as the woman smiled warmly a him.

He recalled just too late that his holster was on the same side as the woman, and in a sudden panic he reached for his side*arm. His holster was empty. For a split*second he wondered where his disruptor had gone. Then it hit him.

The play had finished. The actors were taking their bow. They still wore their masks and cloaks. In may ways they presented a similar profile to Jorvik, except that all the players were tall and well*built. Jorvik was slight and noticeably shorter.

The reaction from the six comrades was mixed. Jorvik clapped loudly and stood up to join the players as they faced the other survivors of Limlough. But his comrades were less appreciative. Teel and Spidler exchanged glum looks. Prator and Freppon clapped without enthusiasm. Remek sat staring at the stage. He made no attempt to applaud, his face was emotionless.

Jorvik held up his hands for silence, and the desultory applause died out. 'My friends,' he said, arms outstretched open and giving and his face still hidden in the shadow of his hooded cloak. 'The final act.' And he stepped out of the way of the makeshift stage.

In a single movement the players pulled off their masks, threw off their cloaks. The comrades leapt to their feet, Teel already running towards the door. Only Remek remained seated, nodding sadly as Jorvik's laughter rang round the great hall of the fortress of Limlough and the Samrong robots who had performed the play stepped from the stage. Prator drew his sword and sliced at the nearest of the robots. The blade splintered on the robot's metal frame and Prator staggered back, his arms ringing from the blow. The robot advanced on him, the heavy pike it carried lowered and ready to strike.

Teel reached the door just as it gave way. The heavy wood split across and crashed to the floor. He staggered to a halt just short of the debris, his eyes widening as the Samrong warriors charged in at him, the firelight from the torches round the walls reflected off their burnished limbs.

Before he could get clear, the first two robots through the door grabbed his arms, twisting them up behind his back. His head was thrust forward over the back of a chair. Then, from the line of robots marching into the room, the executioner stepped forward. His eyes were burning holes in the metal skull as he raised the axe high above his head. Teel's screams echoed round the hall as the axe began to swing slowly towards him. For a moment it paused at its apogee, then gravity gave it one more little pull and the blade continued over and down. It gathered momentum as it went and slammed into his neck with a slapping squelch that echoed round the theatre, adding to the sound of Jorvik's laughter.

Ace almost rubbed the back of her neck in sympathy, but caught herself just in time. She need not have worried; the guard along with the rest of the audience was transfixed by the action on the stage.

In moments the ma.s.sacre was over. The Samrong robots gathered round Jorvik at the edge of the stage. The audience waited for Jorvik's famous soliloquy: many of them knew the first few sentences as reconstructed from Findlater's parody. But before he spoke, the Samrong robots who had performed the play stepped from the stage.

The guard near to Ace drew his disruptor, worried, and staggered back in surprise. The robot advanced on him, the heavy pike it carried lowered and ready to strike. The guard fired, but the energy bolt shattered and dispersed across the robot's metal frame.

Ace pulled free of her restraints; the audience behind her was already starting to panic. She could hear the sound of the people pushing along the rows of seats, trampling across each other trying to escape before she saw the chaos.

Through it all the Doctor sat calm and silent, watching the stage.

The guard turned to run but before he could get clear the first two robots off the stage grabbed his arms, twisting them up behind his back. His head was thrust forward over the edge of the stage. Then from the line of robots marching into the auditorium, the executioner stepped forward. His eyes were burning holes in the metal skull as he raised the axe high above his head. The guard's screams echoed round the theatre as the axe began to swing slowly towards him. For a moment it paused at its apogee, then Jorvik stepped to the edge of the stage and spoke.

'The play is spent; the act is done.'

The effect of his first words was immediate. The robots stopped their advance, staggered forward slightly and then swayed back. The few people still fighting to get out of the theatre stopped and listened to Jorvik's voice despite their panic. Some began to sit down again, believing the whole thing to be a clever staging technique, but most were already trying to put as much distance as possible between themselves and the theatre.

'Time makes honest brokers of us all. And Time in turn brings in his revenges. Now am I naked, my soul laid bare. My deeds are all confessed. Time has undone me as it destroys everything.'

The robots remained frozen. The small audience slowly calmed, the remaining people either returning to their seats or stopping where they were. Ace could hear several of those familiar with the reconstruction of the speech exchanging hushed whispers this was nothing like it should be.

A single spotlight illuminated Jorvik now. The shadow of the brim of his hat still hid his eyes, but his mouth was visible as his speech continued, a single area of pallidity in his dark figure.'

'Like the innocent and the beautiful, we have no enemy but Time. And we cannot call back yesterday, nor bid Time return. We talk of killing Time, while Time quietly kills us. Time watches from the shadows, antiquates antiquities; coughs when we would kiss. Time fells the mighty and quells the dragon's wrath.'

The theatre was silent apart from Jorvik's voice. His words were clear despite the slight slurr in his voice. The Samrong robots at the foot of the stage began to sway as if in time to his words. It seemed to Ace that as the speech went on they were getting older, their metal frames tarnishing. As she watched, a patch of rust began slowly to form on the shoulder of the robot nearest her. The executioner's axe, still held aloft poised at its highest point swayed and fell heavily to the floor. It buried itself in the fabric of a seat and the guard tore himself free of the two robots still holding his arms. He ran from the theatre, his disruptor clattering to the floor as he went.

n.o.body watched him go. They were entranced by Jorvik's words and enthralled by the effect they were having.