Heroes dream in the language of prophecy. It rarely helps.

 This occurs in every Universe with a guiding principle, although less often in those sad lonely wastes beyond the borders of Certainty, where there are no heroes and things actually do happen at random. In warmer climes, where psi-powers breed and the timelines pay closer attention to what they're doing, events have Weight. The psychic disturbances caused by Events of Significance ripple out in every temporal direction, forwards, backwards, and sideways. Ripples which move forward result in flashbacks, deja vu, and remarkably accurate historical treatises. Ripples which move sideways result in fiction and... other things. Ripples which move backwards, well, you've probably guessed that one already, clever tykes that you are.

 Now imagine the ripples of Historical Inevitability intersecting the path of a machine that travels through the sea of time like a constructively-interfering sine wave (sometimes, there simply are no good metaphors; sad but true). Imagine now that the ship is powered by a thinking energy source, the mysterious "artron energy" -- a source of great psychic disturbance if misused. Now imagine that the crew and/or pas sengers of such a ship have practically been marinated in the stuff to the extent that they can instantly understand ninety-five percent of all spoken languages everywhere, everywhen, ever. Sleeping, resting, recovering their strength after the terrible events they've witnessed on Boodjoori, and all the while, their brains humming away like psychic tuning forks constantly vibrating an E flat diminished fifth. The only wonder would be if they didn't dream of the future as it barrels towards them like, well, a barrel, about to plunge over the precipice of a terrible churning waterfall.

 So they dream, as the TARDIS hurtles towards Miskaritic Otherversity, seat of learning for the whole Doji Peninsula of the Askartane Galaxy; and, because they're only human (at least two and a half of them, possibly more), they get it all wrong. It happens. Most dreams are just random synaptic sneezes, the result of the sleeping hippocampus stirring in the riverbanks of memory, raising alpha waves which wash silt upon the shores of consciousness to be forgotten upon awakening. Psychic flashes from the future attatch themselves to the images floating through the receptive brain and enslave them to their own purposes. Prophecy drapes itself in memory and rattles the chains of imagination.

 Which comes as little consolation to those who gaze upon the ashes of their home village, the bodies of their friends and families, all that they love in the world, only to hear the saviour of their world snap his/her/its fingers and mutter "Bugger, so that's what the screaming skull draped in red crepe paper meant."

 Horror and devastation is approaching the Doctor and his companions in signs and portents and visions of dancing lobsters, and there's not much that can be done about it. In the end, it's just one of those things. They dream.

 ...huddled in a defenseless foetal ball as the monster roams the castle corridors, shouting for him to come out.

 Why is it, he wonders, that wherever he goes he wishes he was somewhere else? Ever since he was born he'd felt he was in the wrong Universe, and now he really is, and it's worse than he'd ever imagined, because there's no way back home. (Home.) Except that *this* is his home, his dream, and it too is worse than he'd ever imagined (except obviously it isn't, or he wouldn't be dreaming this way, would he?)

 "The greatest thrashing of your life, young Fool!" the monster roars. He pulls himself back into the crevice of his crawlspace and gazes panic stricken at the roundels set into the walls. Perfect circles which nonetheless appear smeared, their dimensions changing while remaining the same. The value of pi is changing as he watches, and he knows that the Universe is changing with it -- and when all is as it should be he'll be the one to announce it. After all, Fools rush in where angles fear to tread.

 Until then he cowers, frightened to look ahead (how far ahead?) and see the shape of the thing coming towards him, draped in shades of red (that's too far.) and black, its stink filling his nostrils and making his ears bleed.

 (I thought travelling with the Doctor would be fun -- all I want to do is entertain!) But some people don't take well to being entertained, he knows that now. And he knows why, because he's seen the dark, and the dark has seen into him. He knew things could be bad, but never this bad, never this bad. How could they when the Doctor keeps smiling? Does he know something Wil doesn't? Probably.

 But now Wil is a part of the Doctor's world, and try as he might, he can't even dream of a way out. Gwilym Young, you've been a fool in every sense of the word. And it's time you grew up. Past time.

 "There," Dean Oltobanig said, freezing the replay. "Computer, enlarge representation of sector G-7, and replay three-microsecond flashframes, highlighting the path of the indeterminate particulate."

 The roiling shapes seemed to flow outwards as the computer zoomed in on the specific micro-dimensional co-ordinates of the experimental grid. For a moment all that could be seen within were a few sparks of light like a distant starscape, and then a streak of multicoloured luminescence drifted into frame like the wake of a fast-moving ship. Movement in the almost infinitely slower playback seemed leisurely as the speck of micro-matter collided with another of the specks of light, exploding in a shower of elementary particles.

 The computer promptly displayed a menu listing the particles by type and state of being--and Oltobanig pointed with a cry of triumph at four blinking green UNKNOWN symbols mixed in amongst the tetryons, iricons and other building blocks of Universal matter.

 "Again!" cried Dean Oltobanig. "This verifies all of our conclusions. Mark the date and time in the logs, boy! These streaks of energy are caused not only by a new type of subatomic particle, but by a new form of matter altogether! Something altogether alien to our understanding of the Universe! This is a momentous day for science," he sniffed, wiping a tear of pride from his eye. "I think I'll call them oltobanions. It's only to be expected."

 "You might not want to act too quickly," Icubanas muttered, and then realized he'd spoken out loud. "That is to say, there are several other tests to run. You certainly wouldn't want to rush into a precipitate announcement of your findings, would you? Remember what happened to Dean Vorceilar when he published his supposed proof of Prius' Next-to Last Theorem. Former Dean Vorceilar," he corrected himself.

 "Ah, Icubanas," the Dean sighed, "always the cautious one. But you're correct, quite correct, we must be certain, we must observe, continuously on the alert for further developments. I'm sure you'll be kind enough to collate these readings for me? I'd do it myself but, you understand, attendance at these faculty dinners is mandatory, inescapable--part of the responsibility of our position, you understand?"

 Icubanas smiled painfully. "Of course."

 The Dean patted him companionably on the shoulder. "Good lad. Shouldn't take you more than, oh, seven rels, six if you work fast. Don't know what I'd do without you. You did remember to send our preliminary findings to Archchancellor Denfisca, didn't you?"

 "Of course I did," Icubanas replied, sounding offended. In fact, he'd been very careful to hand-deliver the Dean's report to the Archchancellor himself, after carefully going over it with the latest, pirated copy of Forge-O-Matic v4.1, which he'd been given as a gift from a friend in the computer sciences department.

 As Oltobanig beamed vaguely in his direction and left the room, Icubanas smiled to himself at the thought of the Archchancellor's reaction upon reading the treatise, and twisted his fingers together while gazing at the streaks of alien matter in the cloudsphere. I think I'll call them icubanrions, he thought to himself.

 In the representative cloudsphere, the alien protomatter drifted into view again. If Icubanas had been the type to worry about things like this, rather than the type born to play the devious games of faculty politics, he might have noticed that--for subatomic particles--there certainly did seem to be a lot of this new stuff about lately. Quite a lot.

 ...sitting in class in the Rohm Dutt Memorial Building at the Guild of Personnel Relocation, while Professor Dek Veriyuon taps on the lightboard with his extruded pointy stick thing. "And can anybody tell me what Daur Helig meant by the process of syzygystic identification, anyone? Anyone? Bhuler? Anyone?"

 "Er," Jadi suggests, "that would be the process of psychoanalytic understanding of the subject, the attempt to get into his, or her, mind -- oh, hell, you know, figure out what makes 'em tick, so you can predict their moves and get there one step ahead of 'em."

 "You're on the right track, Mister Morok, but not quite close enough, I'm afraid. Can anyone elaborate on Morok's definition?"

 Klasvik Tirellan holds up his hand. "It's a much more thorough process, sir. The hunter must not only come to understand the subject, but in a metaphorical sense, must actually *become* the subject."

 "Hold on," Jadi objects. "That's not what he meant at all. If you identify too closely with your target then you're going to start sympathizing with them, and that's death to a hunter. You have to maintain your objectivity, keep your eyes wide open, or you'll get sucked into their world and you won't be able to get out again."

 "A good bounty hunter understands his subject," Veriyuon states firmly, "but he does *not* sympathise. All men are islands, ancient Terran poetry notwithstanding, and allowing yourself to perceive events from another's perspective is tantamount to entering an entirely different universe -- a dangerous proposal at best. Do you understand the significance of this discussion, Mister Morok?"

 "Oh yeah," Jadi says glumly, "I'm beginning to."

 Veriyuon slaps the extruded pointy stick thing onto Jadi's desk with a sound like a sudden thunderclap. "Mr Morok! Am I to understand that you have not only attended this session fully clothed, but having completed your studies and fully prepared for the discussion at hand? If you can't be bothered to follow even the basics of a nightmare situation, I honestly can't see the point in continuing this seminar any further!"

 ...and he woke up.

 Octogim Tradethas of the media department sat back in her chair with a sigh. "It's not filth," she said mildly. "It's a legitimate example of early surrealist two-dimensional image projection."

 "It's an eyeball being cut open with a razor! Nothing more!" The Archchancellor shuddered distastefully, his whitened cilia waving in protest. "Good heavens, madam, it's the most disturbing thing I've ever seen in my life, and I've lived much, *much* longer than you can possibly imagine..."

 "But the students haven't. That's the point." Tradethas leaned forward persuasively. "The image is meant to be disturbing, to provoke discussion, even discussion of the sort we're having now. That's the whole purpose of art--"

 "Art! You call this art!"

 "--yes, art, and the purpose is to provoke a response, whether emotional or intellectual--or, preferably, both."

 "For what purpose? It's gratuitous, disgusting, perverse...what do you plan to do next, for heavens' sake, show snuff films in theory class?"

 "Now you're going too far--" Tradethas paused, took a deep breath, and continued somewhat more calmly. "Do you see what you just did? You provoked a reaction from me. That's what I'm trying to do -- provoke a reaction, initiate a discussion, get our students *thinking* about what they're seeing. We're not here to teach by rote, we're here to teach our students how to learn -- we have to open their eyes and minds to the understanding of different perceptions, not keep them in the dark. It's vital that they understand why they're reacting the way they do, and analyse their own reactions. We have to trust them to use that understanding in a way that benefits all species."

 "Trust students?" the Archchanellor scoffed. "I've never heard such rubbish in all my life. Different perceptions indeed! What possible significance could the gratuitous destruction of an eyeball have to the everyday life of an ordinary citizen? No, my decision is final. This grotesque display will not be permitted in any of our campus' classrooms. This decision is *final*."

 Tradethas sat back, sighed, and looked at the Archchancellor with pity. "I hope you understand what you're doing," she whispered. "I really do."

 ...not dreaming, actually. But the implant in the back of her neck was humming like a power transformer in the desert, an eerie distant roar of potential that would have set the coyotes howling in terror if there had been any nearby.

 She twitched irritably in her sleep and scratched the back of her neck. The hum abated somewhat, and she woke up.

 Or, to put it another way: it's been said that those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it. What's not generally said, because it's far too depressing, is that those who remember the past are doomed to watch other people repeating it. And those who remember only the wrong parts of the past are... you get the idea.

 The com-unit was ringing beside the bed of Olf Gichzian, well-known in Miskaritic circles not only for his predilection for bedding young female freshers, but for his remarkably accurate historical treatises on the fall of Boodjoori and the extinction of the Rsand species. Fortunately or unfortunately, he and an impressionable and athletic youth had quite spent their creative energies when the call came in. If he'd still been occupied he would have ignored the call, and the events which followed would probably have turned out much better for all concerned. But he wasn't and he didn't and they didn't.

 It took his questing hand a moment to locate the receiver and bring it to his face. "Yes? Yes, well, you caught me at a difficult time, now what is it? This had better be important..."

 He listened for a moment, and his muscles slowly tensed as he realized the import of what he was being told. "Are you certain?" he asked quietly.

 His bedmate, Guiarin Sudjocz (winner of the Huistol Canabris scholarship for outstanding scholastic achievment in the field of history), blinked sleepily up at him, registering the change in his tone of voice. "Is something--"

 He waved her to silence, listening intently to the voice on the other end of the line. "How fast is this developing?... I see. Yes, that's probably wise. You *are* certain?" he asked hopelessly, listened for a moment, and then snapped back, "I still think they were wrong. And they used far too many capital letters. You do that, then." He slammed the com-unit back into place and snatched his hand away, cursing; he'd crushed one of his fingers between the receiver and the unit-rest.

 Sudjocz was sitting up in bed now, staring warily at him. "Something's really wrong, isn't it?"

 He forced a smile. "Something's come up," he said. "I'm going to have to go."

 She started to say something about that being a contradiction in terms a moment ago, but, on reflection, decided not to. "Is there anything I can do?" she asked, wondering what could possibly so important that it could drag a history tutor out of his bed at this time of the evening (his bed? She was sharing a university professor's bed, she reminded herself. Gosh, this made her feel so daring. Top that, Miss Czaristi Curhuin, Oovrian Upper School Class of '869).

 Gichzian paused in his dressing. "No. No, there's nothing..." he hesitated, then leaned forward and grabbed her by the shoulders. "Yes, you can go home. Go home right now and lock your doors. There's, well..." he laughed hollowly, "there's a certain historical inevitability about what's about to happen, let's just leave it at that for the moment."

 Sudjocz stared at him narrowly. "You're not just trying to get rid of me now you're finished, are you?" she accused him.

 Gichzian stared at her in shock. "No," he protested, and even he was surprised by the vehement honesty in his voice. "Not at all. Look..." he was yanking on his shirt and desperately tying his shoelaces at the same time as he spoke. "I'm sorry, I don't have time to explain, but I'm serious. Deadly serious. This should all blow over in a couple of days and I'll call you when it's safe. I mean it."

 It suddenly occurred to him as she stared back at him, frightened (but not nearly as terrified as he was), that he actually did feel tenderness towards the woman (Guiarin Sudjocz -- he always remembered their names). Perhaps it was because he knew what was coming for the University, knew the terrible peril they all faced, knew that the youth and beauty he saw before him was in grave danger of destruction.

 Or perhaps it was because there are some Universes where there are no heroes, there are no villains, and things actually do happen at random.

 ...nowhere at all, staring at the darkness as absent clouds roil into new and disturbing shapes and then break apart faster than the eye can see. Faster than the human eye, at any rate. The Doctor catches a glimpse of a dancing skinhead, and isn't terribly surprised; he's been expecting something of the sort.

 He sighs and wags his finger reproachfully at the nothing. "This simply isn't on," he scolded. "I've met you before, you can't be here now. You're tampering with the forces of continuity and risking the wrath of She Who Dare Not Be Named."

 But the whole point of a Chaotic, the nothing seems to suggest smugly, is that is not bound by rules of any kind.

 "A piddling loophole. I seem to recall that one of your other selves was a lawyer."

 The only loophole available to us now, Doctor, since his sacrifice of himself in a hospital room which no longer exists. You are me and we are you and we are both together--

 "--in an overrated Beatles lyric, I know. What do you want now? You must know there's no escape for you. We've bound ourselves together in a universe of our own, and the Cosmos remains safe from your meddling as long as I maintain my individuality against your worldview."

 But for how long, and which Universe? The Doctor should have known when he crossed from one to another that this would attract our attention. Uni-, from the Latin unus, meaning one. One Universe, encompassing all that is, was, or evermore shall be. How can there possibly be more than one Universe? It's a paradox, an impossibility, a way out--

 "A mistake. The word was coined before the existence of de Sitter space was even hypothesized, let alone proven. And don't think you can wriggle your way out of this etymologically. I'm a Time Lord, by breeding if not by nature, and I don't think in terms of Universes. We have words untranslatable into English."

 But you have passed between them. From one to another. And when you find your way back we will be watching, observing -- perhaps we will not act then, not right away, but soon, and inevitably, we will find the escape from this unworld of ours and Chaos will come again.

 "You're not even here now," the Doctor points out. "You're a dream image co-opted by psychotachyon particles to provide a source for symbols of the Future. There's more of the gravamen than the grave about you."

 Believe that if you will. But watch. Even in this stunted form we bring chaos to your life and actions. Watch and learn from what has already passed and what is to come--

 ...and he woke up.

 "Hello? What in the Seven Circles took you so long? It's... yes, it's important, damn you, the Otherlings are coming! The Four Travellers! Yes, I'm certain. Traces of extrauniversal protomatter have already started showing up in our cloudspheres, and the rate of manifestation is accelerating... It's impossible to tell with only legends to go by, no hard scientific analyses...but I'd say we've only got a couple of days, at best, before they're here. I've left Icubanas to collate the latest readings, he'll let me know the moment there's any change. Yes, of course I'm certain! I wouldn't be calling you if I wasn't! What price your Elements of Doubt now, eh? What do you think of the Science Prophets' predictions of Great Changes and the Inevitability of Apotheosis?... Look, if you're going to be sarcastic, I'm just going to hang up right now."

 Unfortunately, office and faculty politics are another, and Oltobanig had no idea that Icubanas had been altering the readings from the cloud sphere in an attempt to discredit him while secretly writing up his own grant application for the study of extrauniversal matter and its effects on the subatomic structure of this Universe.

 A couple of days, at best, Oltobanig had said. But as he waddled back into the faculty dinner to await the carving of the uignol-back, and as Icubanas vacated the laboratory to answer a call of nature, something was happening within the cloudsphere; explosions of colour deepening to blue as globules of protomatter combined with the newly discovered ele ments, as more and more of the new elements rushed into realspace with a sound like cats being strangled with piano wire. There were no eyes to see what was happening in the laboratory, but, in defiance of all laws of quantum physics, it was happening anyway.

 The TARDIS had arrived.

 To be Continued...