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Doctor Who Long Burrow

Doctor Who Long Burrow

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Published by Jeff
A classical Doctor Who.
A classical Doctor Who.

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Published by: Jeff on Mar 12, 2011
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial


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Lungbarrow - Prologue
Page 1
"How far, Doctor? How long have you lived? Your puny mind is powerless against the strength of Morbius. Back, back to your beginning..." The Brain of Morbius"But how is it that this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else in the dark backwarand abysm of time?" The Tempest, I , ii
Page 2
Time's roses are scented with memory. There was a garden where they once grew.Cuttings from thepast grafted on to the present. Perfumes that recalled things long gone or echoedmemories yet to come.Thorns that could tear like carrion beaks. Stems that could strangle and bind like theconstrictors in thefathomless pits of the Sepulchasm.The garden grew on the tallest summit of the Citadel, high above the frosty streets,clear of that endlesstelepathic commentary of gossip and gibble-gabble that marked out the thoughts of the Gallifreyanpeople. Sometimes a morass of countless random ideas, sometimes a single chorusunited by one urgentconviction. A hope or fear or death wish. But the days of the mob were numbered.The great mother was gone. The Pythia was dead, overthrown by her children. Andwith her died her people's fruitfulness. The Gallifreyans became a barren race. In the long aftershock of matricide, thecursed people learnt to keep thoughts and secrets to themselves. They discoveredprivacy andfurtiveness. They taught themselves loneliness. It made them angrier too.A pall of smoke drifted across Pazithi Gallifreya. The moonlit garden on the tower was furled indarkness. A new, harsher light came from below. There were fires in the city.From his place high on the crest of the Omega Memorial, a solitary figure watchedthe west district of the city go up in flames. The fire had started in the abandoned temple. He could hear 
the distant rattle of gunfire. Guards drafted in from the Chapterhouses were quelling the uprising.No good would come of it. The fleeing dissenters (Rassilon already called themrebels) had taken refugein the Pythia's temple. He had warned Rassilon a hundred times over. That oncesacred place must notbe violated. If violence was used against the dissenters, then he would up and leaveGallifrey to its owndevices. He would never be party to a massacre.
Page 3
Suddenly the box was back.It hovered in the air just below his vantage point. A flying coffin. One side indarkness, the other catching the glare of the distant fire. It clicked, whirred, gave a little whine and tiltedslightly to one sidein a crude anthropomorphic approximation of affection.'Shoo! Go away, you stupid...' He nearly called it 'brute', but that only reminded himof his long-runningdebate with Rassilon on the viability of artefactory life forms, and he was very wearyof arguing.The box was pining. It missed its creator. It was always breaking its bonds andescaping from its hangar,to skulk dejectedly around Omega's Memorial. For years it had done that. When theyrelocated thehangar, it only sat rumbling discontentedly on its servo-palette and then got out again.Rassilon worriedabout it, but it didn't really matter. For a quasi-aware remote stellar manipulator thatcould tear open thefurnaces of stars and dissect the angles of reality, it was fairly harmless. It just wasn'thouse-trained.Omega, despite his sacrifice, still had a hand in their affairs.It was rather a good joke, he thought, but Rassilon didn't find it funny at all. Onenight, they had stoodamong the roses on the tower and watched Omega's death again. The light of thedying star burnt outsuddenly in the constellation of Ao, nine point six years after they had watched it onthe monitor screensin the control chamber.Rassilon had wept again. Everything the man did was done for love. But sometimeslove wasremarkably short-sighted.
Page 4
The figure on the Memorial shuddered and drew his cloak about him. The splash of the supernova was
still clear in the sky above the city, or would have been were it not for the smoke.Lately the box, theHand of Omega as it was known, had taken a shine to him. It had started to followhim about, oftenappearing at the most inopportune moments. It disrupted his affairs and drewattention to privatebusiness that was better kept secret.Besides, he was bored, achingly bored, with manipulation and power. He longed to beaway, free of schemes and other people's ambitions, and, more than that, free of himself. He couldcast off this dark,brooding persona more easily than a serpent sloughs its skin. But if he did go, therewould be no wayback. And Rassilon would be left with absolute control. No checks, no balances.In frustration, he took off a shoe and threw it at the box. The Hand of Omega dodgedso fast that hisshoe seemed to travel straight through it. He stood with one stockinged foot out over the drop.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/doctorwho/ebooks/lungbarrow/prologue/printpage.html (3 of 10)09/11/2003 15:45:17BBC Cult - Doctor Who - Ebooks - Lungbarrow - Prologue
'Well? What will you do, eh, if I step off?'Pointless to ask really. The box would be there under his foot. Ready to catch him.So much for suicide.'Selfish brute!' he complained.Below, he could see figures skulking in the shadows around the Memorial. No rebelsthese, but agents of Rassilon sent to arrest him. He supposed he should feel flattered. Too good to lose,apparently.
Page 5
In the air he caught the scent of burning flesh. A decision had been made for him, butthere was much toprepare and a difficult farewell to make.Ignoring the box, he lowered himself down the stone curve of the Omega symbol anddropped to theground. The shadows came at him fast out of the dark. He was surprised by their knives.They were surprised by the bolts of energy that flung them like dolls out of his path.The box whirred inbeside him with that unnerving knack of seeming to move faster than its own shadow.He drew a cutbloom out of his cloak. The rose's milky scent reminded him of children and the lostfuture. He laid it atthe foot of the monument and bowed his head. The box, taking an uncharacteristicmoment to decide itscourse, settled down beside the flower. He knew it was watching as he hunted for his

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