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By Root 827 0

The armour was made from a soft, almost-leathery silver material that covered every square inch of their skin. They wore vast dome-shaped helmets. The Doctor wondered how they told each other apart. They must be able to, as combat was almost impossible without the ability to distinguish rank and position. They were all exactly the same height and build, the only distinguishing features at this stage being insignia on their collars and regimental motifs on their helmets. They didn’t wear medals, or other marks of past glory, but there were certain electronic devices clipped to their belts. No weapons, though, as had been agreed. All but three of the Sontarans stood in a rough circle, around – presumably –

their leader. They were scanning their surroundings, looking for traps, fearful of ambush. The remaining two were hoisting crates on their shoulders. The boxes were almost as big as they were, and presumably contained provisions and other equipment. Deep within the Citadel, a monitoring team would have scanned the contents, using techniques so subtle that the Sontarans weren’t even aware of the scientific principles involved, let alone the scan itself. If there were weapons in those crates, they would already have been quietly disarmed or removed.

‘Welcome,’ the Doctor said. ‘I am the Doctor.’

The Sontaran at the centre of the circle stepped forwards, his protective circle closing up behind him. He reached up to his helmet, removing it. As he did so, the others, except the two carrying the crates, did the same. All Sontarans shared the same toady face, smeared on a domed head the colour and texture of clay. There were traces of individuality there, though: facial hair, scars from past battles, even tattoos and traces of sunburn.

But behind the cosmetic differences, the face that every Sontaran wore was that of their leader. And the Doctor was astonished to discover that this was the man standing in front of him now. This Sontaran was wrinkled, the skin loose and fading into a sickly orange colour, the piggy eyes seemed even closer together. Tufts of crudely manicured hair sprouted from his ears, nose and chin.

‘General Sontar,’ the Doctor gasped.

He was the only old Sontaran. The history of the Sontaran race was obscured by the passing of time, and the rigorous reworking of propaganda, but most versions of events mentioned General Sontar. At some point around the declaration of war with the Rutans – no one could agree whether it had been just before or just after – the Supreme Council of the urSontaran Warburg realised that there was military advantage in cloning their finest warriors. Most renowned of all was Sontar, the mastermind behind the victory in the two-thousand‐year war with the Isari. He had been such a perfect warrior that before long every new soldier was a done of Sontar. Shortly after that there had been a military coup, and the population had been purged of all non-Sontarans. Either that had happened, or something completely different. The authorities couldn’t agree, and there was little point asking either the Sontarans or Rutans for an objective discussion of the matter.

This wasn’t the original General Sontar, of course, he had died millions of years ago. The natural Sontaran lifespan was about fifty years – but thanks to the war none reached that age except Sontar, safe on his Throneworld, surrounded by medics, bodyguards and energytasters. As Sontar drew the last breath into his dry, withered body, his consciousness was downloaded into a custom-made clone, and his immortality was assured. To an outsider, his perpetual cycle might resemble the way Time Lords regenerated. But there was every difference. With each regeneration, a Gallifreyan gained an entirely new body, with a new nervous system, a new appearance and a new personality. All but the most basic experiences had to be discovered anew. Regeneration brought fresh perspectives, removed the stagnation that developed with old age and staying the same for too long.

The process that General Sontar went through kept in place all the blinkers,