A beautiful marble tile swayed atop a pile of wreckage. Taeron swept through the central archway, currents of air eddying about his brown robes. The tile slid to the ground, cracking loudly into four pieces. Taeron crossed hurriedly to the most undamaged of the six temporal monitor screens, pushing a burnt out Dalek casing aside as he did so. As he sat, a holographic representation of the Lord President appeared in the air beside him.

"Lord President Vandriede?" The aged Castellan's voice was hoarse and cracked.

"Well, Castellan Taeron? What news of the Doctor?" Taeron peered myopically at the screen. A tall, long haired man in a brown leather trenchcoat was half carrying, half dragging a little man into a blue box. Ruined Daleks smoked all about them. The screen zoomed in on the little man. His lined face was cracked and twisted, tousled hair white and crumbling, almost

petrified. Taeron sighed.

"He is dying, my lord. His one chance is a cellular regeneration." It was as much a request as a statement, and they both knew it. One glance at that face told them that the Doctor's body was already far too badly damaged for him to regenerate of his own accord- his body would simply crumble. Even with assistance, he might never fully recover.

Vandriede wanted to speak, to give the order with joy and gratitude, but the words froze upon his lips. The Doctor had saved them all, defeated the Dalek's invasion attempt and, perhaps, destroyed their battle fleet for all time, but at such a price... How many times had Gallifrey been harmed by the Doctor's critical status in the universe? Davros had attacked Gallifrey partly for its technology, but in truth more as a final blow in his feud with the Doctor. Even if Davros was still alive, he was no threat now, but how many more were there? How many more had the Doctor angered? How many more would come to Gallifrey to seek their revenge? He hesitated. Though it was almost beyond the capabilities of Gallifreyan science to give additional regenerations- the field had only begun to be investigated towards the end of Borusa’s administration, barely over two centuries ago, the technology to assist regeneration was available. All that was needed was for a few volunteers to donate individually minute portions of life energy into the Symbiotic Regenerator, and then focus that device upon the Doctor. Given the current status of the Doctor as a planetary hero, finding volunteers would not be difficult. He looked at the frozen holo-image of his old friend, studied the cracked and broken face. The Doctor was the greatest hero Gallifrey had ever known, and his name would go down in history. All that Vandriede knew, but he also knew, as countless leaders before and since have come to realise, that an honoured and buried hero from the past is just as inspiring as a living hero of the present, and also far more politically convenient. He looked into the Doctor’s frozen, dead eyes, and considered.

*

Darkness! Darkness and pain, terrible numbing pain burning through me with fire and ice. Chronotic radiations. Daleks screaming in triumph. Sacrifice. Time coursing through my body as I smash the Dalek’s time controller, lethal time energies mingling with the no less lethal energies from dozens of Dalek guns, firing in vengeful fury even as the time energies burn them away to nothing. Darkness. Nothing for a while. I can’t tell how long I lay there, blind and alone, before I heard it. Heard the sound I had been waiting for. I could picture the Ship’s arrival, see it as clearly as I could have done with my eyes, before the time waves burned away my sight. Confused noises now, urgency cutting through even this most extraordinary pain. A name.

"Doctor? Doctor? Can you… can you hear me?" I must answer… tell him… tell who? Memories cut loose upon the sea of time. I search in vain.

"Doctor?… Please? Come on… I’ll get you to the TARDIS, we’ll go back to Gallifrey, get help…"

Arms grips me, more pain as the calcified ruins of my flesh crack, driving into nerve and bone. Robert Falcon! That is the name. I try to speak, muscles twisting to move a shadow of a mouth.

"The TARDIS…" it sounds thin and reedy, the Scots’ burr I had acquired lost almost entirely. A shadow of a voice. I should regenerate but… but I cannot. The damage is too great.

*

Robert pushed the TARDIS key into the lock, twisting it whilst trying to support the Doctor; what was left of the Doctor, with his other hand. He didn’t really know what he was going to do, what he could do to help his friend, but hoped that the Time Lords might. If the Doctor could just survive the journey to Gallifrey! Gently, he lay the Doctor’s body on the chaise longue just inside the TARDIS doors, then approached the console with trepidation. His fingers hovered over the few controls he understood. He’d watched the Doctor set controls for Gallifrey not long ago, and felt reasonably confident that he could copy the Time Lord’s previous settings, but would they still work? They were at least three light years from the origin of that previous trip. Were there some form of objective co-ordinates in the Vortex? Or did they change depending on your own position. And then there was the factor of time. He looked at the controls helplessly.

He could send a distress signal- he understood the function and operation of the ship’s telepathic circuits in theory if not in practice, but how much time would that take? How long could the Doctor possibly have in this state? He looked around, hearing a thump from behind him. The Doctor had rolled from the chaise longue and was blindly, instinctively clawing his way across the wide floor towards the central console.

"No! Just lie there… I’ll do it…"

"Dematerialise…"

"Doctor- the co-ordinates! How do I set them for Gallifrey? Doctor!" the Time Lord had arched awkwardly on to his back, thick flakes of white stone skin breaking from his face and hands- and from his body too, Robert could see, through the charred remains of his jersey and shirt. There was no way Robert could have measured a pulse through skin like that, but he knew all the same. The Doctor was dying.

*

Lord President Vandriede, President of the High Council, Supreme Cardinal, and head of the time travel facility, watched.

*

"You mustn’t die!"

Like a stone cast into a lake, the sound creates new waves of pain. He feels anger burst within him, shattering the withering chains of reason.

"Why shouldn’t I? I’ve lived for over a thousand…" even the thought of the words vanishes. Darkness swamps the ego. Thought vanishes. Memory vanishes. All disappears under a cloud of pure darkness.

*

Lord President Vandriede, President of the High Council, Supreme Cardinal, and head of the time travel facility, came to a decision, and pressed a button.

*

Light! A pinprick of light gives orientation in the darkness. A beacon of flame casts itself upon one thought.

Change

The pain returns, stronger now, infinitely stronger, but the red blaze of pain drives away the blackness.

*

Robert’s head dropped in sorrow. He turned away, then turned back as a flicker of motion caught his vision. The dead man stiffened, then screamed, the skin of the face cracking and buckling as he did so. A light shone down from the roof of the Ship, and answering light began to blaze from the Doctor’s dead eyes, from his mouth, from between the cracks in his skin. Robert stared, caught beyond belief in horrified shock and fascination. The light grew stronger now, and the light from the ceiling began to pulse dizzyingly. Seconds later there was an answering pulse from the Doctor. The light grew brighter still. Robert winced, forced to turn his eyes away. A harsh crackling sound filled the room, getting louder and louder, heat, cold, joy, sorrow, anger, pain, light, dark, colour, noise, silence. Robert screamed out his defiance to the noise.

*

Time had passed. He could feel the cramp in his muscles that meant he had been lying in this position for a long while. He was pressed against one of the control room walls, his face buried in his hands. The bombardment had stopped, at least. Slowly, warily, Robert sat up, turning his face towards the room. The Doctor lay where Robert had left him, stretched out next to the console, motionless. Dead. Robert crawled towards the body. There was no sign of the light which had animated it earlier. Robert’s people, as only recently freed slaves of the Daleks, had no concept of the soul, so the supernatural explanation did not occur to him. It was simply… unexplained. He looked at the body more closely now. Something seemed somehow… wrong with it. It was too bulky, the tattered clothes stretched taut over a more expansive frame. The face was hidden beneath his panama hat, although the hair too looked different, but the hands… the skin was normal, alive. Robert reached tentatively towards the hat, guided by pure instinct. He jumped back abruptly as a voice boomed out from beneath it.

"BING BONG! BING BONG! BING BONG! BING BONG!" The voice was rich, acerbic and rather odd sounding, like the voice of a lunatic. It was not the voice of the Doctor.

"Doctor?!" Then doubt. "Is…is that you?"

"I don’t know. I can’t see me. Am I me? You’re on the outside, you have a look."

"I can’t see! Your hat’s over your face!" The man on the floor sighed, and spoke again in a sing-song patronising tone.

"Then remove it." Robert reached out and pulled away the hat.

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