Doctor Who_ Companion Piece - Mike Tucker [21]
`W ho's the old man?' she asked a young priest.
`That's Father Julian: the priest said. 'The Sublime and Venerable Patriarch of the Spinward Clusters. Or he was. He has abandoned the material world for that of the spirit. He lives as a simple Benedictine now.'
`A Patriarch . . . That's . . . quite high up, isn't it?'
She recalled as a young child always getting confused about who was who in the Church. The Pope she knew, of course . . . and God . . . but
all the bishops and cardinals and whatnot . . .
The priest smiled and pointed towards the ceiling.
`Higher than the cardinals: he said. 'In ancient times, they used to be thought co-equal with the Holy Father himself:
`W hat's he like?'
`Father Julian? Oh, he's a very great man,' said the young priest. 'He's retired now, of course, but he's been more revered than ever since he turned his back on the world and came to Haven. Even here, in this house of wonders, he is the brightest ornament.'
That gave Cat hope. He must be able to help the Doctor.
In place of the dead Time Lord, the Doctor was now pinned to the Grand Inquisitor's great crucifixion machine, shoulders, wrists and feet. W ires nipped and tubes bit under the skin of his neck, face and head, encouraged there by a variety of automated robotic arms.
Across from the Doctor, Guii del Toro stood at the goldfish-bowl control unit and rested his hands tantalisingly on a lever.
`Say goodbye to yourself, Time Lord, said del Toro, smiling. 'As my machine . . . encourages you to regenerate, so the data we record will be of immense use to me:
Three feet below the Doctor's dangling feet, wheels and cogs began to grind. He suddenly felt the wires in his skin bite. The skin of his head felt tight, stretched across his skull.
His skull seemed to be expanding. Memories crowded out — temporal flotsam, other selves, old friends, old enemies — and tumbled away into the sudden distance.
Behind him a voice whispered. 'Puccini...'
Future memories. They tugged at him.
The voice whispered again. It sounded youthful, warm — light, yet calm and reassuring. He could almost make out words.
He felt a warm breath on his neck.
So close . . .
He was fighting the urge to look around.
Through the chaos of his memories, he could see del Toro making adjustments to the machine.
W ith a jolt, he began to experience another, more alarming sensation.
It was as if the wires were sucking something out of him — and trying to force something else in.
He felt at the same time drained and stuffed to exploding with .. . himself. This machine was more than just a device of torture . . . much more.
He struggled to remain conscious. He had responsibilities. Cat . . . W hat would happen to her? W hat would the Inquisition do to her if they found her? He was vaguely aware of a guard approaching the Inquisitor.
`Lord, the Cardinal is here,' the guard said.
`Good; said the Inquisitor. 'He should see this. Bring him in.'
`The Cardinal is already in, milord del Toro.' Another voice, high and petulant and used to being obeyed. 'And he has no wish to see this, thank you. Turn that thing off.'
The Inquisitor paused. 'As your eminence commands; he said at last, bowing.
No longer able to see, the Doctor heard the sound of dying machinery. The dreadful tug of war that had threatened to rip his mind from his body began to subside.
He focused on the new arrival — tall, gaunt, old and proud looking, and dressed from head to foot in a cardinal's dazzling red.
`Is this the witch that you dragged me out here to see? I was on my way to Rome, man!'
`Eminence, this one is a Time Lord.'
`I see . . . '
`And on this planet, of all of them . . . '
`I know, I know . . . '
`His Holiness has commanded — '
`The man who styles himself John Paul XXIII has not issued a command or spoken a word since brain-death,'