Doctor Who_ The Nightmare of Black Island - Mike Tucker [56]
reaches of time and space, eternally youthful. My own short span has had precious little youth, and the breadth of my wandering has been confined to this one small planet, but look at what we have created.’
He threw open the doors of the library.
‘Behold, the great Balor! Dark God of the Cynrog, Destroyer of Worlds!’
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The Doctor stepped into the crackling, electrically charged air of the library and gave a whistle of admiration.
‘Oh, now that’s impressive. Really, really impressive. I’m gonna give you eleven out of ten for that. Building a big monster in the library. A really big monster.’
He pulled out his glasses and perched them on the end of his nose, peering at the monstrosity that hung among the lightning flashes.
‘Doesn’t seem quite finished to me, though.
Lacking a few final
touches, hm?’
He paced slowly around the creature, squinting through the flickering light, watching as waves of energy rolled across it, modifying its form with every pass.
‘Can’t quite make your mind up on the details by the look of it. I mean, I know what it’s like choosing a body you’re happy with!’
He dived over to a cluster of silver machinery on one of the tables, hefting a bunch of cables in his hands.
‘Lot of power being channelled up here.’ He sniffed at the cable, then ran his tongue along it. ‘Mmm, psychomorphic radiation! Psychomorphic! Honestly! Anyone would think that you were trying to 135
manufacture a body.’
He dropped the cables with a bang.
‘That’s it, isn’t it? You’re building a body, but that’s all it is at the moment – a body, a shell, a vessel.’ He snapped his fingers at the creature. ‘Oil Big fella! Anyone home?’
The creature didn’t stir. The Doctor turned back to Morton thoughtfully.
‘A decidedly empty vessel.’
Morton clapped his hands slowly. ‘Bravo, Doctor, bravo.’
‘What’s it for, Morton?’
‘As you have correctly surmised, Doctor, it is – or rather, it nearly is
– a body manufactured for inhabitation by a new soul.’
‘But for whose soul?’ The Doctor cast a wary look at Peyne. ‘You mentioned the name Balor. I seem to remember a rather unpleasant figure from Cynrog mythology named Balor. Now, let me see if I’ve got this right. Balor, the general of the Cynrog hordes, left for dead after the battle of Grantran Prime, then revived through one of your questionable accelerated genetic-mutation experiments and revered as a god. Something like that anyway. I do hope you haven’t been having RE lessons from Miss Peyne here?’
Peyne hissed unpleasantly. ‘Be respectful in the way you refer to our god, Time Lord.’
‘You have been listening to Miss Peyne. That’s a great shame. . . ’
‘On the contrary, Doctor, Peyne has been a great comfort to me over the years.’
‘Nathaniel, listen to me,’ The Doctor’s voice was urgent now. ‘Whatever Peyne has told you, whatever she has promised you, the Cynrog are not to be trusted. They are vicious, brutal killers, they –’
‘They saved my life, Doctor! My life and the lives of all those in the ward!’
‘What?’ The Doctor eyed Peyne suspiciously. ‘What possible reason could you have for getting involved in human affairs? What are you doing with those people downstairs?’
‘You understand nothing, Doctor.’ There was contempt in the Cynrog commander’s voice. ‘You are so typical of your race, blundering in 136
with your high moral stance, acting as judge and jury to the universe. We are well rid of your kind.’
‘Doctor, listen to me!’ Morton’s voice was pleading now. ‘Listen to the reasons for this. Perhaps then you will have some understanding of what we have had to endure. Of what I have had to endure.’
The Doctor fixed Morton with a piercing gaze. ‘Tell me.’
Morton leaned back in his chair, his eyes misting with remembrance. ‘I was ten years old. My cousin had come to Ynys Du with my aunt and uncle, a holiday by the sea.’
The Doctor did a quick calculation. ‘The 1930s?’
‘It was 1935. A glorious summer. We were full of the joys of youth,