Prologue

 

     Standing atop a white-capped mountain peak, the Great Composer stood hard and motionless against the biting wind.  Long folds of her emerald green gown billowed behind her as her rich auburn hair was blown back by the powerful gusts.  A silhouette of defiance against the night sky, she raised her arms to the purple heavens.  Seemingly oblivious to the terrifying drop below here, she moved a step closer to the brink.

     She paused, briefly unnerved.  What awaited her was a being far more dangerous than any she had ever encountered.  His evil was legendary; the atrocities he had committed in his lifetime were without number.  She had been told that she was more than capable of dealing with him, but she still feared his power.  Was she really prepared to confront him? 

     The composer frowned, angry with herself for contemplating such things.  She could not allow herself the luxury of fear.  That would be a weakness her enemy could exploit.  With a new resolve to be on her guard at all times, she crushed the interfering emotion and returned to work.  It was time to create the dimensional tunnel.

     Her scarlet lips parted.  Flawless, enchanting strains of instrumental music rose from her throat.  The brilliant symphony resounded off the mountainsides, creating a natural harmony. Each note hung in the air long after it was played.  The tall woman then added a vocal to the instrumental masterpiece she composed.  Her operatic voice melted into the song and gave it even more substance.

     In an extreme contrast to the beautiful, peaceful music, a low wail was born in the sky around her and grew steadily louder.  It was a scream almost human in quality, as if the atmosphere were crying out in protest against her.  The protest would be well justified as the siren was assaulting the sky with her magical song.  An area just above her visibly buckled, as if some force were striking it with growing frequency.  Coalescing and intermingling with the space about it, the disturbance expanded in size with each passing second.  Just as the spatial tremors reached their apex, a large explosion of light burst forth.

     Her smile of satisfaction broadened.  The dimensional tunnel was complete.  From her side she could see through the doorway.   She observed the alien world from within the safety of her perch.  Blank and featureless, the landscape seemed to stretch on for infinity.  The only unique characteristic the land had was its absence of character.  No plants or wildlife could be seen for miles; only dry, dead earth.

     It was in spirit, as well as in function, a prison planet.

     Feeling no immediate danger, she stepped through the gateway into the foreign sky.  The moment her feet touched the alien soil, the portal closed behind her.  No sooner had it done this, then she tensed.  She felt the presence. 

     The man she had come for was here.  But he had seen her first.

     “Composer?”

     The voice was subdued, but chilling.  The Composer had to strain to fight down the fear welling up inside her.  She turned around and regarded the speaker coldly.

     **Yes, Celestial Toymaker?**

     Slender and lofty, the man she faced stood within the confines of a cylindrical, yellow force field that was so restrictive it barely afforded him enough room to sit down without wedging himself against its perimeters.  Despite the fact he was entrapped, he had an aloof and dignified manner.  His chestnut hair showed slight traces of silver and gray along the sides of his head; his eyes burned with a steady fire that belied the subdued manner in which he spoke.   Clad in the full regalia of a Chinese Mandarin, his apparel consisted of a robe encrusted with pearls, rubies, diamonds, and emeralds placed over the coiled figures of Chinese dragons.  A circular black hat embroidered with gold thread rested atop his head.

     The Celestial Toymaker peered intently at the arrival to verify her identity.  He recognized instantly the auburn tresses and the flowing green gown.  The intense gray eyes, the smooth features, and the sounds of the lovely music convinced him that he was correct.

     “It is you,” the Toymaker noted softly.  “I knew it was.”  He paused, slightly confused.  “But how is it I can speak?  My thoughts and actions are supposed to be trapped in a temporal causality loop, repeating endlessly.”

     The Composer communicated her response in music.  Her language was not made up of the short, unattractive sounds humans call words.  Communication came in the form of the same delicate, angelic music she sang before.

     **I have been able to temporarily hamper the effect of the time loop.**

     “You don’t know how wonderful it is to move on my own power again,” the Toymaker remarked.  “All the time I was trapped in the loop, I was…aware.  Only my consciousness was active.  It was horrible.  Almost a living death.”

     **I cannot imagine how torturous it must have been.**

     “It was.  Yet, it was difficult maintaining count of the years I have been imprisoned here.”

     **A hundred and forty years.**

     “Indeed?”  There was a silent rage in the undertones of the single word he spoke.

     **Luckily you are an Eternal and have not lost a large piece of your life.**

     “It matters nonetheless.  Why have you come here after all this time?”

     **I have been sent to retrieve you.**

     The Toymaker’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.  “Who sent you?”

     **The Tribunal.**

     The Toymaker chuckled softly.  “Then I will not be in any great hurry to accompany you.  In the best case scenario they will execute me for what I have done.”

     The Composer displayed no sympathy for the Toymaker, primarily because his manner displayed utter contempt for her and the Tribunal.  “You should have considered the consequences before you acted the way you did.**

     “Don’t get sanctimonious with me.  If you escort me home, you will be leading me to my own death.  In effect, you will be guilty of assisting in my murder.  Contemplate that first, then condemn me.”

     **Your fate was of your own making.**

     “How easy it is for you to wash your hands of all responsibility.”

     The insinuation piqued the Composer.  **What is it you want of me?”

     “My execution can be avoided if you’ll assist me.”

     The Composer looked doubtful.  **’Assist’ you?**

     “All you have to do is cripple this force field and I’ll be free.”

     **Yes,** the Composer nodded.  **Free.  Free to build another Toyroom.  Free to kidnap and manipulate innocents, forcing them into your servitude.  Free to coerce them into playing your deadly games.  Free to seek revenge against the Doctor, Kevin, and Peri.**

     “All true.”  The Toymaker shrugged, as if he were uncertain why she considered any of those things wrong.  “What is it you are trying to say?”

     **You are the most amoral, deceitful creature I have ever been unfortunate enough to encounter.  The Doctor did the universe a great service by imprisoning you here.  It will only be in releasing you that I am guilty of a crime against humanity.**

     The Toymaker shook his head like a teacher disappointed in his favorite student.  “Your conservative views of good and evil are as dated as they are narrow-minded.  I don’t recognize the existence of evil and neither should you.”

     **Then you are a fool.**

     The Toymaker knew there was no chance of rationalizing his release, so he opted for a different approach.  “If you release me,” he began slowly, “I may consider rewarding you.  Earning my gratitude is a great thing indeed.”

     She was unaffected by his suggestion.  **Nothing you could possibly offer me would be valuable enough to justify the loss of my self-respect.**

     There was now no question in her mind that he deserved execution.  If there was any chance of redemption for him, she would have released him, but she knew in her heart he was unwilling to even consider changing his ways.

     The Toymaker smirked.  “Sanctimonious, old-fashioned, narrow-minded.”

     **I am so glad to disappoint you.**

     The Toymaker sighed and shook his head.  “In any event, you have to release me in order to bring me back home.  This upright coffin I have been forced to endure is anchored in place.  The Doctor is the most intelligent Ephemeral I know.  He placed me in a very effective jail cell.”

     **He may be intelligent, ** the Composer sniffed.  **But then, so am I.  I can find a solution.**

     She closed her soft grey eyes and pressed the tips of her fingers together in front of her chest.   She fell into deep meditation, her mind probing the composition of the Doctor’s snare.  The Doctor had locked the force field in a loop with the Mandarin’s brain.  Lowering the field as it stood would, in effect, kill the Toymaker.  Although the Toymaker was an adept magician, destroying the cage without slaying himself in the process was a task beyond his ability.

     The Composer’s perceptions of reality now transcending the corporeal, she was able to detect exactly where the prison controls and the Mandarin’s mind were linked.  She reached out cautiously with her magic and disrupted the link.  The field around the Celestial Toymaker flickered, flashed brightly one final time, and then dissolved. 

     Considering it was his first taste of freedom in almost one-and-a-half centuries, the Toymaker had very little emotional reaction.  He stepped forward, out of the small plot of land he had been encompassed within, and chuckled in that very soft, low-pitched laugh of his.  He then held his hand up to his eyes, examining it as if it were the greatest marvel in the universe.  He watched, fascinated as he opened and closed his fists.  “I am once again a free entity.”  He then moved both hands behind his back and quietly tapped the sapphire ring on his left hand.

     The Composer had thought his behavior suspicious and scrutinized his every action.  That was why, despite the silence with which he acted, the Composer heard him touch the ring.  She knew the ring was the medium through which the Toymaster cast spells, much the same way singing was the outlet she had chosen.

     She whirled on him and fired twin sonic beams from her hands.  The sound struck the Mandarin’s body, hurling him to the ground.  The sonic energy crackled around him several seconds before solidifying.  It formed a tight web around him that effectively trapped him and cut off his powers.

     **Petty attempts at escape do little to enhance your already destroyed reputation, Toymaker.**

     The Mandarin growled at her from within his prison.  He knew using physical strength against the cell was futile, so he did not even bother pursuing that avenue of escape.  Time and again he strained his psychic power to the limit, and time and again he failed to breach the barrier about him.  He simply had to bide his time.  He swore at the Tribunal for sending so overqualified a psionic.  Well, that was what he got for not being more stealthy in his attempt to imprison the Composer in the same jail she had released him from.

     Angry at first with the affront of the attack, the Great Composer’s grey eyes now looked on her helpless Mandarin prisoner with amusement.

     **Weak, overconfident, incompetent,** she pronounced, imitating the Toymaker’s criticism of her.

     Her task completed, and the Toymaker in tow, she was ready to reopen the gateway home.  She raised her arms and started to sing, beginning the short transport spell.  She never had the chance to finish.  The Composer winced in pain.

     “What is the matter?”  the Toymaker asked.

     **Silence!**

     Out of nowhere, a swarm of terrible emotions assaulted her mind.  Holding her head to steady herself, the Composer looked up at the stars above the barren prison planet.  Something was calling her to them.  A disturbance.  The nature of the emergency was a mystery.  It was only a strong feeling of foreboding that she had to respond to.  With a concerto energizing her flight, she soared up into the air, carrying the Celestial Toymaker behind her.

     “Where are you taking me?”  the Toymaker demanded.

     The Composer did not feel the need to reply.

     As far as she knew, there was only one planet in the solar system with any sentient life.  She assumed that the planet, which was called Larzor by its inhabitants, was at the heart of the danger…whatever it was.

     Somewhat familiar with the planet, she pictured it in her mind.  The Larzorians were squat and ball-shaped beings who’s skin was covered in soft blue fur.  Extremely blissful  people, their society was so charitable and collective that they lived in perpetual harmony.  Any conflict was dealt with swiftly and peacefully so that it couldn’t disrupt their life of interdependency.

     It was the strong emotional state of the Larzorians that hurt her mind.  Something was wrong with their world.  A global state of frenzy was all that she could read from the peaceful planet.  Whatever threatened them must have been tremendous to expel them from their usual state of bliss.

     As she soared, unprotected, through the darkness of space, she could see Larzor encircling its native sun.  When she saw the sun, she realized what the problem was.  It was in the advanced stages of its evolvement.  The mass of the star’s outerlying layers had proven too much for it to withstand.  It was on the verge of a gravitational collapse; at any moment it would go supernova.  The Larzorians knew about it and were terrified.

     The Composer felt a mixture of fear for the Larzorians and exasperation at encountering one of the rarest but most destructive occurrences in the Galaxy.  She had to intervene if the planet were to be saved.

     “Are you mad?” the Toymaker shrieked when she continued her approach.  “What do you think you’re doing?”

    **Saving the planet,** she shot back in a harsh musical chord.  **Kindly remain silent and let me do my work.**

     “But that star!”

     The spectacular explosion occurred at the precise second the Composer was distracted by her charge.  A destructive force rushed outward.  It threatened to engulf the two beings and the planet that was in its path.  The Composer used every last ounce of her strength to counter the devastating might of the supernova.

     A psionic wall went up between the star and the Composer.  The wave of force crashed up against her defensive wall, slamming against it with a primal fury she had never felt before.  She grit her teeth, fighting the overpowering strain of keeping the deluge back.  Her face twisted under the exertion as beads of sweat rolled into her eyes.  Just when she thought she might collapse under the pressure, the wall endured, successfully managing to restrain the awesome power of nature.

     Now that she was out of immediate danger, she turned her attention to lulling the explosion.  Using psionics as a weapon wasn’t the best way to defuse a bomb but it was all she had.  Her shapely figure faded like an old photograph to virtual transparency.  Her spectral form glowed as brightly as the collapsing star.  The psionic power that emanated from her body was of such enormous intensity that it took on a shape and solidified.  Now a physical manifestation of the Composer’s powers, it engulfed the entire sun and entrapped the annihilating force given off by the collapse.

     The Toymaker looked on in shock as the Composer smothered the star with the powers of her mind alone.  To attack the sun, the Composer had dropped the force field that contained him.  He froze.  How could he even hope to stop her?  He didn’t even know it was possible for her powers to be used on such a scale.  As he watched, the sun became invisible behind the psionic wall.

     The Composer’s body regained its substance and the glow subsided.  The field that had enveloped the star dissipated into nothingness.  The departing energy revealed a perfectly stable, newborn sun.  Not only had she saved the planet, she gave the Larzorians a new sun.  The planet dwellers were fortunate enough to witness a space inferno being snuffed out like a candle and to survive the experience.

     The conflict left her drained.  If she were standing on solid matter, she would have collapsed at that moment.  Wearily, she turned to face the Toymaker.  He towered over her frail form with a mad gleam in his eyes and a slight smile played across his lips.  It was then that the full horror of her predicament dawned upon her.  The Composer was now tired and weak.  Her prisoner was free and at full power.

     Twin beams of searing energy burst forth from the Mandarin’s fingertips and struck the Composer.  Her screams of agony were music to his ears.  The energy surged throughout her body, convulsing her.  When it cut short, her body fell limp and drifted slowly back through space.  She was so weak that the beams were enough to render her unconscious.

     With a casual flick of his wrist, the Toymaker constructed a mobile prison around the woman.  He smirked at the irony of the reversal.  The most powerful opponent he had ever faced was now his prisoner.  He could own her forever if he wished, provided he held a constant restraint on her power and kept her permanently drained.

     Then he caught sight of the planet that had formerly served as his jail.  Reflecting a few moments, he decided that it would amuse him to transform his former prison into a Wellspring for power and vengeance.  It would be quite a change for the planet to go from being the source of all his pain to becoming the isle of his rebirth.  He nodded to nobody in particular.  It would do very nicely as a real home.

     With his would-be jailer in tow, the Toymaker began his return to the dead planet.

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                           Chapter One

 

     To this day, if a person asked Allene Varalla exactly when and how she died, she would not be able to give an honest answer.  The circumstances leading up to her death were all clear, but the actual passing on was foggy in her memory.  She, as the Lord President of the planet Gallifrey, had been involved in a crisis of global proportions, but that too was obscure in her mind.

     Allene remembered clearly practicing with her swords in her quarters during the few minutes before the event.  Castellan Spandrel had entered hoping to ask her advice on an administrative problem that she didn’t care to hear about at the moment.  Her wide blue eyes sparkled with mischief at the sight of him.  She cut him off and tossed him one of her silver ceremonial swords.

     The balding, obese man stared at the weapon incredulously.  “But Lord President – “

     “Castellan,” she chastised, “forget about work for one moment.  I want to see your fencing stance.”

     The Castellan shrugged and assumed what he supposed was the correct stance.  Allene unsheathed the sword’s twin and armed herself.  Her silver sword cut through the air and clanged against Castellan Spandrel’s.  The force of the blow drew Spandrel back.  “Lord President!” he cried.

     Allene lunged at the Castellan.  The room’s light reflected off her blade, giving it a sudden radiance.  The Castellan predicted the move.  He was ready and easily blocked the Lord President’s attack.

     Allene Varalla executed a sequence of thrusts, dodges, blocks, blows, swings, and moves she made up off the top of her head.  Castellan Spandrel was holding his own very well against her considering the physical advantage she had over him.  While he was short and overweight, she was tall, had a trim waist, and moved with the grace of a dancer and the speed and power of an athlete.

     President Varalla slashed her blade across the side of the Castellan’s sword.  She struck it with such force that she knocked it from his hand

     The Castellan’s mouth dropped open.  “Lord President, you are really quite unhinged.”

     Her delicate lips formed a bright smile.  She tossed her sword absently to the ground.  “Now, what is it you wished to annoy me about?”

     The Castellan had difficulty adjusting to the sudden changed from combat to business-as-usual.  “One moment, please.  I have to catch my breath.”

     The warship moved through space like a monstrous predatory animal.  A black, hulking thing, it watched with a sadistic eye for signs of its prey.  From the vertical saucer that was its mid-section rose two, bullet-shaped nacelles with four, shark-like fins sprouting from their ends.  For three miles across, its colossal shape blotted out the stars, casting a black shadow over Gallifrey.

     On a direct course for Gallifrey, it encountered its first obstacle, the Space Traffic Control Center.  A small, hexagonal-shaped space station that orbited Gallifrey, the Control Center didn’t represent much of an obstacle to speak of.  Looming before the helpless Control Center, it prepared for the kill.

     On the planet below, people scurried about their business.  Totally oblivious to the danger, they were deeply engaged in domestic chores, second-rate entertainment, and frivolous conversations.  One person in particular was engrossed totally in himself: Runcible, chief news gatherer for the Public Register Video of Gallifrey.

     The day had begun very excitedly for him.  It was to be one of the greatest of his entire career.  Not every reporter was invited to a private interview with Allene Varalla, the Lord President of Gallifrey.  It was very important to him to make an impression on the Lord President.  To him, his appearance during the interview would be of paramount importance.

     After a fully refreshing hour’s sleep, Runcible groomed himself excitedly in front of his bathroom mirror.  Sporting his best suit – a gaudy orange and yellow, robe-like affair with a red skullcap – he sucked in his chest and examined his profile.  Shaking his head, he removed the skullcap.  His “grey at the temples” look made him appear more stately.  It would be a mistake to go and cover such a noble head of hair.  He stared admiringly at the deep cleft in his chin.  It was his most attractive feature.  And what other reporter on Gallifrey had such a charming, aquiline nose?

     He cleared his throat and folded his hands behind his back.  It was time for a brief rehearsal.  He had to test out all his good lines and weed out all the refuse.  “’So, Madame President, sir’….”  Runcible shook his head.  “No, no, no.  That’s not right.  ‘Mister Lord President’, um, that is ‘Miss Lord President’.  That’s insulting.  I think.  Maybe it isn’t.  You never can tell with women.  Shall I call her ‘sir’ or ‘madam’, or just ‘madam sir’?”  He tilted his head and called out of his bathroom.  “Jesania! Jesania!  Come in here, please!”

     “What is it, Runcible?”

     “Just come in!”

     His wife, Jesania, appeared at the door.  She took one look at Runcible and sighed.  “Ooh! You look so regal.” 

     Runcible smirked.  “Do I?   Well, yes.  Of course, I do.”

     She adjusted Runcible’s collar, which was uneven.  “You’re just as handsome as when I first met you.”

     “I was wondering something, Jesania—“

     “Oh, my!  Look at my eyebrows!”  Jesania left his side and stared intently at her own reflection.  “They’re growing together.”

     “They are not growing together,” Runcible assured her. 

     “But they are!  Look!”  Jesania pointed excitedly at her eyebrows.  “I’m developing a uni-brow!  It’s very unattractive.”

     “You are developing a uni-brow!” Runcible snapped irritably.  “Now, if you’ll just listen to me a minute!”

     “Alright, alright.  What is it?”

     “How do I refer to the Lord President?”

     “What’s the matter with just calling her ‘Lord President’?” she asked as she brushed past him into their bedroom.

     “I suppose that’s alright.  But what do I call her that takes less time to say?”
     His wife sounded impatient.  “Do I have to think of everything, Runcible?”

     “No.  Never mind I asked,” Runcible snorted.  “Are you still having that banquet tonight?”

     “Yes, I am,” she called back.  “In fact, I’ve already set all the food out on the table.  I have quite a variety of cheeses and meats all laid out.”

     Runcible could hear her removing her casual clothing and preparing to slip into her dinner dress.  His frown deepened.  “Why are you dressing now?  The dinner isn’t until much later.”

     “I just want to look good.  These are important people coming here.”

     “Since when is Castellan Spandrel important?”

     “You’re just jealous.”

     Runcible rolled his eyes.  “Jealous!  I’m meeting with a very beautiful woman who just happens to be Lord President.  You’re entertaining a chubby old man in charge of security or whatever it is he does.  What does he do, anyway?”

     “I don’t know,” was the reply from the next room.

     “See what I mean?  The only thing I’m jealous of is the fact that I’ll never see a meal as good as the one you set up for a complete stranger.”

     “I don’t have to impress you.  You’re only my husband.” 

     “Not for long,” Runcible muttered.  He gave his suit one final brush down and strode out of the bathroom.

 

     The warship Vorkim cut its engines and hovered in space over Gallifrey.  The interior of the Vorkim, including the bridge, was cloaked in darkness.  Only a few vital controls were lit up by soft, florescent blue light.

     In the gloom of the bridge, a creature looked down on Gallifrey with two large, crimson eyes.  Unfettered hatred burned from within him.  At long last, he would avenge himself and his people against the Gallifreyans.  If not for the Time Lords of Gallifrey, he himself would not be the deformed creature he now was.  It was they who caused his people so much strife.  By destroying them now, not only could all further attacks be prevented, but all past ones corrected.

 

     The Great Composer was still singing a beautifully abominable song of woe from her cell, which delighted the Toymaker to no end.  “Enjoying yourself, my dear?”

     The Composer shot him a furious glance before continuing her efforts to ignore him.  Her music ceased.

     “You are very lovely, Composer.  So angelic.  So perfect.  Even your language is beautiful…when you aren’t speaking viciously, that is.  You really shouldn’t, you know.  It is unbecoming of a lady of your refinement.”

     **You give me ample reason to be vicious.**

     “Ah!  I knew I could provoke you into speaking.”

     The Composer turned away from him and said nothing.

     “You’re quite a treasure.  Stubborn and infuriating, but quite a treasure.  I’m so lucky to have you as one of my possessions.”

     The Toymaker gestured grandly about him, indicating his other goods.  They stood in one of the many rooms in the new realm he built on the abandoned planet.  This one was a simple, office-like affair used more for observing his opponents than actually playing out any campaigns in.  Murals done with lush colors in what resembled Italian High Renaissance style surrounded a huge computer terminal.

     “I know what will cheer you up, Composer.  You want to see the latest installment in the unfolding saga of my war against the Doctor, don’t you?”

     **No.**

     “Of course you do.”

     **I do not.  I wish you would just leave the poor man alone.**

     “’Poor man’,” the Toymaker mimicked.  “I’m sure the Doctor has been called many things in his lifetime, but I doubt anyone has ever described him as being a ‘poor man’ before.  Well, never mind.  If you don’t want to be entertained, then I’ll just watch the slaughter myself.”

     The Toymaker strode toward the huge screen dominating the wall.

     “Activate.”

     The screen flickered into life.  Simultaneously, a portion of the wall slid away to reveal a metal plating.  The plating emerged from the wall and rose smoothly to meet the Toymaker'’ outstretched hands.  Undistinguished and empty, the metallic plating served as a mental conductor to the Toymaker’s psionic powers.

     An image began to manifest on the viewscreen.  It was of a compact, domed room within the Gallifreyan traffic control station.  A starkly function room, it was made up primarily of control consoles and monitors.  Chairs were set up in front of each of these computers where technicians sat monitoring incoming and exiting flights.  At the moment, the station was filled to teeming with technicians running back and forth excitedly.

     “This should be good,” the Toymaker remarked.

    

     Since the Vorkim did not represent an immediate threat, traffic control officer Berit was not immediately concerned.  He attempted to communicate with the warship by sending out a greeting and requesting a destination.  The hail was ignored, so he attempted again, this time with more insistence.

     “Calling unidentified space craft.  This is Commander Berit requesting name and destination without delay.”

     Instead of replying, the Vorkim continued to move menacingly towards Gallifrey.

     Very agitated, Berit shouted over his shoulder, “Commander!”

     Kubris, his immediate superior, hurried over to his side.  “Something wrong, Berit?”

     “Yes!  There’s a tremendous warship on a direct course for Gallifrey.  It refuses to identify itself and is only two spans distance.”

     Kubris nodded.  “We’ve got to assume the worst.  Reinforce the transduction barrier.”

     Berit’s hands flew over the controls.  “Barrier reinforced, sir.”

     “Good.  Now that Gallifrey is protected, let’s look to our situation.”  The Commander looked over at the officer at the far end of the control room.  “Myler, raise our

deflectors.”

     Before Myler could act, one of the Vorkim’s gun turrets turned to face the space station and fired.  The shot sliced through a fin on the station’s rear, obliterating it.

     “Return fire!” Kubris shouted.  His nostrils were singed by the stench of smoke billowing from flash burned circuitry.

     The console in front of Berit exploded, sending razor sharp metal fragments into his body, killing him instantly.  Caught in the explosion, Kubris flew backwards, cracking his skull against the far wall.

     The Vorkim fired again, blowing apart a section of the station’s outer hull.  A chain of explosions rocked the center.  One final eruption tore apart the station and flames ate at the wreckage as it drifted, dead, through space.

 

     Commander Derlemont had been leading twenty-two other Scorpion fighters out on practice maneuvers when he saw the destruction of the traffic control station.  He knew that his unit of small, one-man fighters could do little against the might of the Vorkim, but he also knew that they were the closest opposition to the mysterious warship.  The fighters, shaped like giant scorpions, prepared for combat.  The hooked tail that swept up in an arc from the back of Derlemont’s ship sprouted two massive gun turrets from its “stinger”.  Ordering his command into attack formation, the claw thrusters of every ship kicked into maximum velocity.

     As the Gallifreyan crafts set upon the Vorkim, a port opened in the side of the warship, releasing a swarm of its own fighters.  They charged the Gallifreyans, firing as they went.

     “Incoming!” Derlemont shouted.  “Fire at will!” 

     Close misses jounced the Gallifreyans and more direct hits obliterated four of their fighters.  The immediate intensity of the engagement forced the Gallifreyans to break formation.  Lieutenants Crawnegger and Kylerwon attempted to pull a wide turn around the Vorkim and attack the enemy fighters from behind.  The effort was anticipated and countered as, out of nowhere, two opponents loomed up in front of them.  Both Gallifreyans barely managed to swerve out of the way as the ships opened up on them.  Not quick enough to break their speed in time, the ships shot by their targets.  They instantly began to compensate, discharging a fiery salvo as they whipped around to resume the assault.

     A band of dazzling light sizzled past Lieutenant Kylerwon, barely grazing his fighter’s underbelly.  He cursed, noting in his tracking computer that one of the enemy ships had managed to sweep around behind him.  He tilted the Scorpion’s nose diagonally up to avoid the continual barrage.  Just as he pulled up, the enemy fired another laser pulse.  The beam raced on, missing its intended target and heading instead towards Kylerwon’s wingman, Crawnegger.  The blast clipped Crawnegger’s claw thruster, sending his ship into an out of control corkscrew roll.  The second enemy fighter joined the first, and they merged their attack on Crawnegger.

     Inside the cockpit, Crawnegger’s console spat gusts of thick grey smoke.  His eyes stinging, he groped through the dark haze to relocate the controls.  As he fought desperately to end the spin, he was struck repeatedly by more enemy fire.  The  windshield cracked, and flames erupted in his cockpit.  Another burst of laser fire bombarded the hull until the Scorpion burst apart, killing Crawnegger instantly.  Several compact, razor sharp fragments from the obliterated ship struck another Scorpion and sent it spiraling out of control, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

     Kylerwon raised a gloved hand to his visor, shielding his eyes from the glare of the explosions.  When the searing light faded, Kylerwon roared in primal rage at the death of his friend.  Eager to avenge his comrade, Kylerwon continued to arc his Scorpion through space, making a tight loop that put him behind the first pursuer.  Once the target was in his line of fire, he let fly a hail of missiles that ripped it to shreds.  The target erupted into a cloud of flaming metal and was a threat no longer.

     Kylerwon flew through the veil of debris, closing in on the second adversary using ziz-zag evasive maneuvers to avoid its gunfire.  He fired relentlessly, bombarding it at point blank range.  The engine ignited, blasting the rear half of the ship to smitherines.

     Both of Crawnegger’s killers had been destroyed, but Kylerwon did not rejoice much in their deaths.  He felt strangely empty as he swung around to return to the center of the fighting.

     Meanwhile, Captain Derlemont was desperately trying to evade three enemy fighters.  Trying to trick his pursuers, Derlemont cut the forward velocity, breaking as hard and as fast as possible.  The three attackers were slow to compensate, shooting on past Derlemont and speeding right in front of his gun barrels.  Two of them did not survive to repeat the mistake.  A hail of energy beams leaped from his blasters, cutting them down before they could react.  The third was too fast for Derlemont.  It zipped past his discharge, and bombarded his ship relentlessly until it was nothing but a rain of metal splinters somersaulting through space.

      Kylerwon, the only surviving officer, took command of the battle instantly.  He saw that his men had managed to destroy all but two of the Vorkim’s fighters, while seven of his remained.  Under his direction, all seven stormed the surviving enemies and blew them out of space.  Kylerwon nodded.  Allof the smaller enemy ships were destroyed.  The warship stood alone.  It was time to engage the Vorkim.

     Kylerwon’s mouth hardened.  “Alright, this is it.  We approach in two-by-two formation flying in zif-zag patterns.  Tukman, you and your charges follow my lead.  Unyor, you and your men come in behind us.”

     Kylerwon accelerated his fighter, soaring towards the Vorkim with the remainder of the Gallifreyan squadron racing after him.  The Mother-ship, appearing to be a sitting target, made no attempt to defend itself as they strafed it with bolt after bolt of laser barrage.  Minor explosions damaged the Vorkim and still it did not move.

     Though pleased with the damage they were doing, Kylerwon anticipated a trap.  “Tuckman!  Break off the attack and swing around – “

     A beam of energy burst forth from the Vorkim’s gun turret, sweeping in a wide arc through space.  It sliced into Kylerwon’s craft, severing its right wing before continuing on, slashing through Tuckman and his wingman.  One by one, the arc cut down the Gallifreyan crafts.  Kylerwon tried to put his craft into a dive to avoid the deadly beam, but it didn’t react in time.  He too was struck by the sweeping laser.  Before he could realize what was happening, the core of his ship ruptured and was instantly incinerated.  It exploded in a tremendous spectacle of light.

     Kylerwon, and all the men with him, were killed instantly.

 

     “Attention!”  Chancellor Goth barked into the security link.  “We have a Red Alert situation.  Repeat, we are going to Red Alert.”

     Lord President Varalla burst into the security room with Castellan Spandrel in tow.  “Where is the warship now?”

     Goth spun on Varalla, his face red with anger.  “On the outskirts of the transduction barrier.  It has already destroyed our space station and over twenty of our fighters.”

     “Is the transduction barrier at full power?”  the President asked calmly.

     “It is.”

     “Good.  We must send out more of our forces to retaliate.”

     “We have over fifty cruisers on an intercept course.  We’re also preparing to open fire on it at a planetary level.  That new experimental fusion cannon is primed and ready.”

     “No!”  Spandrel’s face blanched.

     Goth turned quickly to face him.  “What’s wrong?”

     Spandrel pointed to the viewscreen on which they saw a huge representation of the Vorkim.  “It’s broken through the transduction barrier!”

     The President whirled on Goth.  “Fire the fusion cannon!”
     The fusion cannon bombarded the Vorkim from the ground, blasting away at it.  The continuous onslaught had no apparent affect.

     The President watched, as horrified as she was dumbfounded by the awesome strength of the enemy ship.  “I don’t understand. I’ve never seen anything so powerful.”

     Goth looked down at the main security panel.  “Our forces have engaged the warship.”

     “Fifty cruisers?” she asked.

     “Fifty.”

     “Have the fusion cannon reloaded and fire when ready.  I also want a quantity of validium prepared as a last resort.”

     Chancellor Goth sent the order down by computer and watched the battle displayed on screen.  “The vessel seems to be ignoring our cruisers.”  The surprise in his voice was unmistakable.

     They watched as several sections of the enemy ship were blown open by Gallifreyan firepower.

     “We’re winning!” the Castellan shouted.

     “No we aren’t,” Goth replied.  “They used the same trick with our fighters.  They’re up to something.”

     At that moment, the Vorkim fired on Gallifrey.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                                           Chapter Two

 

     “Now that was entertaining!”  The Toymaker clapped his hands shut and rubbed them together eagerly.  “I can’t wait to see what happens next.”  He strode over to the Composer’s cell and pointed an admonishing finger at her.  “You should have watched.”

     She was still silent.

     “If I were you,” the Toymaker said in a warning tone, “I would start being more polite.  One doesn’t know the real meaning of the word pain until one has experienced my Toyroom and its torments.”

     The Composer’s face darkened.  **What you have in store for me can’t possible be anywhere near as horrible as what I intend to do to you when I escape.**

     “If you escape,” the Toymaker corrected.

     **No,** she insisted.  **When I escape.  And you will rue the day you dared to humiliate me.**

     The Toymaker’s voice never rose in anger, but the full measure of his wrath could be discerned from his eyes.  “If you are intelligent, you will never threaten me again.”

     **I was not threatening.  I was merely stating a fact.  You no longer have to worry about the Tribunal executing you.  I will do it instead.**

 

     The Panopticon was a gigantic circular chamber with smooth emerald walls and a vast marble floor.  At the extreme end of the hall, a circular dais rose from the floor.  Behind it, a broad staircase led to the viewing galleries above.  Aside from the pillars and supports arcs that dotted the room, it was completely empty.

     The silence that filled the Panopticon was disrupted by a grinding, wheezing clamor.  A vertical, rectangular shape materialized.  It had double doors and two opaque windows set into it.  Faded turquoise paint was chipping off in numerous areas.  Along the top of the construction were inscribed the words:

 

                                                           PUBLIC

                                      POLICE                             BOX

                                                             CALL

 

     The TARDIS had arrived on Gallifrey.

    One of the twin doors opened and a tall, lanky man with an abundance of curly, chestnut hair stepped out.  The Doctor was dressed in spacious corduroy trousers, an unfastened flannel top, and a weather-beaten tweed coat.  In his right hand he clutched a wide-brimmed hat which he patted absently against his leg.  An elongated scarf decorated with muti-colored horizontal stripes wound around his torso three times.  Despite this, the ends still dragged on the floor as he walked.

     He was mildly surprised the TARDIS had taken him to the right destination.   En route to Gallifrey, It passed through some extreme force of “temporal turbulence”.  In the process, a swift, jarring motion had tilted the TARDIS totally to one side.  The Doctor was thrown about for some time until the TARDIS was able to right itself.

     The Doctor scratched the side of his nose thoughtfully.  “Wait a moment.  This isn’t right.  There should be somebody here.”

    Using long strides, he traversed the length of the Panopticon.  “Hello!  Is anyone about?”

     His voice echoes off the walls, but no reply came.

     All the hallways leading away from the Panopticon were equally devoid of life.  It was mid-afternoon, a time when those halls should have been teeming with activity.  Instead, the place was so empty that the Doctor conjured up visions of tumbleweed being blown by his feet.  His pace quickened as he traveled through five more deserted rooms.

     This particular section of the Citadel he traveled trough was supposed to be extremely well guarded.  Normally, one could barely walk a few yards without encountering a sentry. The Doctor anticipated being stopped repeatedly on his journey and had prepared in his mind several possible lies to use to talk his way out of any difficulty.  However, he encountered no guards along the way.

     He came upon a door marked “Weapons Store” and stared at it curiously.  It would have been absurd to leave a room such as that one unguarded; and yet, there it stood, completely defenseless, with no guard in sight.  Cautiously, he used one finger to unlatch the door and gently brushed it open.  All that greeted him were four blank walls and a musty stench.  The interior had been completely cleaned out.  Not one weapon remained within.

     “No civilians, no guards, no weapons.  Now, this is odd.”

     As he removed his hand from the door, he felt something come off on it.  He looked down to see dust covering his hands.  Another look at the door showed a clear imprint of his hand in the dust.

     “Cleaned out some time ago by the look of it.”

     Through force of habit, he closed the door and continued along the hallway.  He crossed by several more rooms that were supposed to be high security stations – the Archives, the Matrix room, and the cellblock –, which were totally abandoned.  Then he reached the residential area of the Capital and found it equally devoid of life.

     The contents of one apartment in particular sparked his interest.  Spread out upon a long dining table were the settings for a great feast, which appeared to have been abandoned shortly after it began.  The meals consisted of a fine assortment of moldy breads, rodent devoured cheeses, and blackened meats.  An array of half drunk containers of wine lined the table.  All the chairs were pushed away from the tables as if the diners merely rose and neglected to push them back under the table.

     The Doctor walked into the adjoining room, which happened to be the bedroom of the apartment.  The sheets on the bed were ruffled and unmade, the pillow lying in the middle of the floor.  Draped neatly over the bed was an elegant red dress, ready for wear.  Drawers were opened and garments were strewn about the floor.  For all appearances, a woman who was changing into a dress for the dinner simply stopped in the middle, leaving half her casual clothes behind.

     He would have assumed the place fell under attack, but there were no signs of violence, and no corpses within sight.  From what he discerned, the entire sum of the population of the Citadel merely forgot what they were doing and left.  But where did they go? Why?

     As he moved through the Citadel, he found other bizarre sights which included incomplete chess matches, money laying about in plain sight, laundry forever trapped in its washing receptacle, water running freely from faucets, and fire burning furiously at food which had long since turned to ash.

     Had there been some sort of emergency drill?  A sudden civilian evacuation called by the Lord President?  It would have had to be an incredible emergency for someone to rush out of her home half-naked.
     It became a mission for him to find anybody.  Now running through the Citadel, he stopped at each door to fling it open to see what was within.  He opened every locked door with his sonic screwdriver.  No one was hiding.  He looked in every alley, every closet, and under every table.  Not one soul was in the Capital.

     “Is anybody here?” he found himself endlessly shouting to no avail.

     At long last, the Doctor decided to abandon the futile search and returned to his time machine.  He flung the TARDIS doors open and rushed up to the main control console.  “Where did everybody rush off to?”

     He transposed a map of Gallifrey onto the main TARDIS scanner.  It displayed the Citadel, the wastelands, the gardens, and the Death Zone.  He ordered the TARDIS to pinpoint on the map all signs of life that registered a double heartbeat.  The Doctor’s spirits rose when he heard a high-pitched beeping sound.  Multitudes of life readings sprang up in the wasteland outside the Citadel.

     “The wasteland?  They’re in the wasteland?  Why are they there?”

     He checked the environmental readings on the TARDIS read-out.  “No evidence of radiation…no aberration in the atmosphere…no problems at all.  Then what is the entire population of Gallifrey doing in the wasteland?”

     The Doctor chose to make a short trip in the TARDIS to save himself the time of walking.  He was extremely anxious to find out exactly what was going on.  When the time rotor halted its smooth motion, the Time Lord opened the double doors.

     The wastelands, just as their name suggested, were dismal and desolate.  Queerly orange, the sky harbored many fierce clouds that hovered menacingly over the barren land.  The few silvery trees that dotted the horizon were the only landmarks for miles.  Brutal streaks of lightning assaulted the planet’s surface.

     Filling the Doctor’s vision was a line of Gallifreyans, all standing ramrod straight and staring dead ahead with empty expressions on their faces.  There were millions of Gallifreyans standing in the queue which stretched on for miles.  He was unable to see far enough ahead to tell where the line led.

     “God, this is worse than the line to get into Space Mountain at Disney World.”

     Spying Cardinal Borusa, his former teacher at the Academy, the Doctor waved his arms to get his mentor’s attention.  Borusa acknowledged his former student’s presence with a blank gaze.

     “Hello, Borusa.  I’ve just arrived, so I’m a little foggy on exactly why we’re all out here.”

     Borusa gave no reply.

     “What is the line for, anyway?  Did they find a High Council member with a clean record?”

     Borusa still did not speak.

     “Don’t you remember me?  I’m the Doctor.”

     Surprisingly enough, the Doctor was more interested in Borusa silent than he ever was when Borusa used to lecture.  The Doctor poled the person in front of Borusa on the line.  “Is he always like this?  He wasn’t when I last saw him.”

     The other man adamantly refused to speak as well.

     “Uncanny!  Silent Time Lords!”  His sparkling blue eyes tried hard to discern where the line ended.  Noting that it wasn’t as long as he initially thought, he decided to investigate what the wait was for.  After crossing four large sand dunes, his vision was no longer obscured.

     The queue terminated at the door to a tremendous metallic construct.  It was shaped like an enormous ring lying flat on the ground.  Recognition hit him.  The general shape was familiar.  He’d seen something like it before.  He stepped up to the building and examined its surface. It was made from a metal alloy used predominantly by one race in the known universe.  His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the words carved into the doorway.  “Cleansing Chamber: Entry with permission only”.  The Doctor instantly recognized the language the words were in.

     The Doctor stepped back and looked curiously at the first person in the line.  It was an elderly Prydonian woman who wore the bulky headgear of a Gallifreyan official.  The gear was bright red, and grew out of the shoulder pads into a graceful upsweep that framed the back of her head.  She was the picture of contentment; totally oblivious to the danger the Doctor suspected she was walking into.

     “Only a matter of minutes now,” she sighed.

     Her unexpected announcement startled the Doctor.  “You’re the first person who has said anything to me since I arrived.”

     “When was this?” she asked in a monotone.

     “Just now.  I landed my TARDIS in the Capital.  I had to hunt for a long time to find out where you’d all got to.”

     “Then you don’t know what the line if for.”

     “Correct.”

     “Neither do I.”

     The Doctor was taken aback.  “Does anyone?”

     “Nobody.”

     “If you don’t know what you’re waiting for, then why bother waiting?”

     “We were told to.”

     “By whom?”

     “I don’t know.”

     The Doctor frowned.  “I have a sneaking suspicion I do.”

     The door to the construct opened.  A grating, robotic voice invited the woman inside.  She accepted the offer.  Seeing the door starting to swing shut behind her, the Doctor seized his chance and managed to jump inside before it closed completely.

     Once within, the Doctor found himself enveloped in absolute darkness.  Placing one arm in front of his body to prevent any harm and the other against the wall as a guide, the Doctor walked off in the direction he saw the woman turn.

     The red eyes appeared in the darkness behind him.  They followed his progress with interest, radiating an eerie glow.  The creature had seen numerous other Time Lords enter the chamber, but this was the first it recognized.  It knew the Doctor.  It knew him well.  Obscured by shadow, the creature rose to its feet.  It skulked off after the Doctor in silent pursuit.

     The Doctor soon came to the end of the wall.  Feeling around the corner, the Doctor stepped into an anteroom that was softly lit by an incandescent blue light.  To his left, a rampway led to a catwalk overlooking the main floor.  A passage on his right led in the same direction, but was merely a lower route.  Having lost track of his Prydonian guide, the Doctor opted for the catwalk.  He followed the catwalk around a sharp turn that led to an adjacent room.

     The lighting was far better, so the Doctor could see his surroundings clearly.  Bolted to the floor in the center of the room was a cold, unfeeling slab of a table.  Next to the table was a tremendous square container that contained countless, nail-like devices.  They were long and sharp, and small lights on its surface flashed deep hues of green.

     From his vantagepoint, the Doctor could see the woman being stretched out on the table.  Her body was maneuvered into place by a cream colored, metal figure roundly cylindrical in shape. It had a stalk protruding from the top of its domed head, which held a robotic eye in place.  Surrounding the lower half of the creature were vertical rows of golden sense globes that were used to take environmental readings.  Where its left and right arms should have been were two projections.  On its left was a gun capable of completely scrambling the internal organs of its targets.  Directly opposite the gun, on the right side of the body, was a long rod with what appeared to be a large suction cup at the end of it.

     The Doctor’s mouth set in a grim line.  “A Dalek.  I hate it when I’m right.”

     As the Doctor observed the Dalek, totally absorbed in its actions, the creature stalking him was rapidly closing the distance between them.

     The Dalek used its suction appendage to secure the Prydonian with shackles.  Another Dalek appeared next to the first.  It looked exactly like the first, except this one had a claw appendage instead of a sucker arm.  It reached into the container and withdrew one of the glowing spikes.  The Dalek loomed over the helpless woman with the ominous looking device in its claw.

     The first Dalek made an incision behind the woman’s ear with its scalpel.  It indicated the incision and ordered the second Dalek to insert the device there.  Careful not to accidentally kill her, the second Dalek slid the rod into place behind her ear.  The first Dalek then produced a box-shaped object from within its tool kit.  It ran the object over the woman’s ear, closing the incision around the end of the device that was just inserted.

     “All injuries resulting from the operation have been healed,” it informed the second Dalek.

     The first Dalek unshackled the woman.  “You may rise.”
     With the speed and fluidity of an animated corpse, the Prydonian sat upright and slid off the operating table.  Not knowing what to do next, she glanced inquiringly at the Dalek.  “Orders, Master?”

     The Doctor ran his hand through his locks of curly brown hair.  Since the Time Lords were obviously already in a trance-like state to begin with, why was it necessary for the Daleks to surgically implant pacification devices?  Obviously, whatever hypnotized the Gallifreyans and forced them to line up like lambs to the slaughter had only a temporary effect.  But what power was capable of entrancing an entire planet, even for only a temporary period?  He never recalled encountering so dangerous a weapon before.

     The Doctor suddenly felt heavy breathing in his ear.  “Why aren’t you in line, Doctor?”

     The creature behind him lashed out with its twisted claws and struck the Doctor.  The Doctor suddenly felt a massive surge of power channeling through his body.  Fierce electrical energy washed over him.  Dark patches burnt into his jacket where the monster held him.  The Doctor struggled to break free of the grasp, but he was too weak from the shock and the grip was too strong.  He could smell smoke rising from singed lapels.  He fought valiantly to remain awake but seconds later passed out from the shock.

     The sounds of struggle alerted the two Daleks working below.  One swiveled its eyestalk into the air to investigate.  “What is happening?”

     The creature above looked down on his Dalek compatriots.  “I discovered a straggler.  Here you go.”  He hoisted the limp carcass in the air and thrust it over the railing of the catwalk.  It gave the monster a sense of true contentment watching the Doctor’s body crash to the ground.