• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

– Spiked heels, she murmured. – Now I remember why I invented chukka boots.

‘I’ve come to reason with you,’ said the Doctor.

– You mean, you’ve come to talk Reason to me? The Carnival Queen looked vaguely disappointed, and put her hands over her ears. – I can’t hear you. Blah, blah, blah. Can’t hear you can’t hear you can’t hear you.

‘Stop it,’ said the Doctor.

She smiled, and turned towards the far horizon, taking her hands away from her ears and using them to shade her eyes. If the word ‘shade’ meant anything in a place that was made out of shadows.

– Impressive, isn’t it?

The Doctor followed her gaze. Framed against the black sun in the distance was the outline of what looked a city, built on huge cylindrical legs. The glowing shadow of the city slid uncomfortably across the desert as the sun began to set.

‘Hardly in keeping with the environment,’ mused the Doctor. ‘A city? You could almost call it rational.’

– Almost. The un-architect hasn’t quite got the idea yet.

The Doctor narrowed his eyes. ‘Chris.’

– And Chris is just the first of many, naturellement. The first born-again child of the new world disorder.

‘Please,’ said the Doctor. "Think about what you’re doing.

Think about the consequences.’

– Consequences aren’t my concern. I’m a magician, not a Doctor.

‘People are suffering.’ The Doctor’s voice sounded more irritated than angry. ‘Look at the town. The walls are falling.

The children are screaming. People are living in fear...’

– ... except for the ones who are starting to enjoy it. The Carnival begins again. Laughter and tears. C’est la vie.

‘History will be destroyed,’ insisted the Doctor.

– History. The word was hollow in the Carnival Queen’s mouth. – You tell me that people are suffering, then you try to defend history? If history was left to rule the world, how many of those people in the town would it kill? How much more horror would there be, and how long would the screaming last? Stop me, and the witches burn all over again. Stop me, and whole planets die by nuclear fire and atomic politics. You pretend to be the spanner in the works, Doctor, but you’re as much a part of the machine as the dictators and the bureaucrats. Part of the killing clockwork.

‘I have a responsibility,’ the Doctor insisted. It must have been strange for him, being accused of rationality in the first degree. After all, at least one major galactic power had wanted to get its cybernetic hands on him just because it thought he was entirely ir rational.

– Ah. Time’s Champion speaks. The man who refuses to interfere with history, unless ordered to by his superiors. Do you know the things they put into your DNA, Doctor, when you were born from the loom? Killing lessons that would even put the Shadow Directory to shame, woven right into your genes. Every Watchmaker is a walking weapon, designed to kill off Cacophony wherever I show my face. Don’t pretend you have a choice. You have to fight me. It’s in your blood.

‘A responsibility.’ His voice was high-pitched, pleading.

‘Do you understand what that means?’

– No.

The Doctor took a deep breath. Anyone watching him would have thought that he had something vital to say, but that he’d never said it before, perhaps never even thought about it.

At least not consciously.

‘Listen to me,’ he said. ‘I’ve toppled dictatorships, I’ve duelled with tyrants, I’ve arm-wrestled with the agents of pain and fury. I’ve fought ruthless militant jellyfish, murderous pot-plants, insane giant prawns, world-conquering crabs, killer confectionary, octopi with delusions of godhood, forces of destruction of every conceivable size and shape. I’ve done so much. Saved entire races whose names I can’t even remember.

And why? Because of reasons. Because of principles. Truth, love, and harmony. Peace and goodwill. The best of intentions.

‘Whatever I’ve done, I’ve done for these reasons. And there’s been a price to pay. Sacrifices. People close to me have died. Four of my companions, hundreds of the universe’s supporting cast.