Andy Frankham-Allen's Blog: The Welsh-Londoner, page 13

Once again…

So sorry, once again life got in the way and I was unable to post Writers' Wednesday yesterday. Life, in this case being crazy early mornings for the day-job, and watching the re-imagined V. Been over twenty years waiting for this show to come back, and so it's going to get a bit of a review from me soon. There is so much to love about it.

So, I shall therefore have a special post next week written by Sharon Bidwell.

In the meantime, I'd like to remind you all that this Saturday I'll be starting my new eBook, Vampire Knights, on this very blog. It'll be an exclusive, never printed anywhere else (although, that's not to say it might one day), novel serialised weekly. So, that's just two days away… be there!

Legacy #7; '70s Cutaway

Previously on LEGACY - Three Night Engagement.

Not for the first time that afternoon, Doctor Langton found himself wondering about drugs. He'd already seen two of his regular methadone patients and had handed out the usual scripts.  The man sitting in front of him now wasn't obviously asking for methadone or anything like it, yet his behaviour certainly mirrored that of someone experiencing a chemical come down.

'You don't understand,' said the man for the umpteenth time.

Yes, thought Doctor Langton, he's finally going to come right out and say it.

He leaned forward expectantly, fascinated to see that his patient did literally appear to be wringing his hands. A drop of sweat fell heavily onto the blotter pad on top of the desk.

'I can't go to sleep you see,' continued the man.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't going to bare all, at least this was getting somewhere.

The man fixed him with an unnervingly intense stare, now speaking slowly and deliberately. 'You don't have to look at me like that, I know what I'm doing, you know? Doctors…' He laughed, a short, harsh sound. 'This decade is so lame, I'm glad I missed it first time round…' He stopped dead, aware of what he'd just said.

Scratch the drugs, thought Doctor Langton, definite mental health case. Or maybe both. And I'm in here alone with him. Fantastic.

The man sighed heavily, looking distractedly at one of the watercolours on the office wall. Doctor Langton took the opportunity to ease his chair back a few inches from the desk.

'Look, forget that,' said the man, noticing the movement.

'It's okay,' began Doctor Langton, in what he hoped was a calm and reassuring tone.  'Can you tell me how long you've been having trouble getting to sleep?'

'What?' snapped the man fractiously.

'You said you'd been having trouble sleeping.'

'No, no, I don't want to go to sleep.  Sleeping is the problem.' He fixed Doctor Langton with an impassioned look. 'I can't sleep.  Not now. If I do, I'm as good as dead. You've got to help me!'

Doctor Langton cleared his throat, trying to think of an appropriate response.  None came immediately to mind, beyond notifying social services.

The man stood up abruptly, coming round the desk to lean over the doctor. Without meaning to, Doctor Langton also stood up, backing his chair noisily into the wall.

'Oh, come on!' His patient was looking at him petulantly, and his eyebrows rose archly. 'You think I'm crazy, don't you?'

Before Doctor Langton could respond, the young man appeared to slip rapidly back into quite floridly psychotic speech.

'They've probably got the Doctor already. I've got to do something and I can't afford to go to sleep. Do that and they've got me.' He looked up abruptly. 'You must have some kind of one-shot system stimulant?'

Doctor Langton could only shake his head by way of reply.  He wondered what age the man was. Early to mid twenties? It was a sad case. 'I can see you're under considerable stress,' Doctor Langton heard himself say eventually.

'Oh go on, say it,' muttered the man in a dejected tone.

'Say what?' wondered the doctor.

'I'm mad,' said the man, running a hand through his black hair. 'I am, you know.' And he smiled, a little unnervingly. 'If I understand it right, I go to sleep now and the whole of reality buys the farm. Me too, come to think of it,' he finished a little disconsolately. 'Oh well.' He held out his hand, which Doctor Langton took a little uncertainly. 'It's been fun. Have a nice life.' With that, he turned on his heel and was gone.

'Yes, well…' Doctor Langton continued to lean against the wall for a moment, regaining his composure.  Eventually he sat down and pressed the intercom on his desk. 'Jean, could you come in here a minute?'

A few seconds later his secretary, Jean Brooker, entered the room, smiling enquiringly.

'Is everything all right, Ian? We could hear raised voices in reception.' She lowered her voice confidentially. 'He left in ever such a hurry you know.'

'That'll be reality running out,' said Ian Langton, nodding sagely to himself.

'Oh.' Jean looked flummoxed.

'I'm sorry, Jean.' He rubbed his eyes tiredly, aware he still had another six patients to see. 'Chap was definitely a few cards short of a full deck.  I need to put a call through to social services before I see anyone else. What was his name again?'

'DeMars,' said Jean with a frown. 'American I think. He didn't give a first name.'

'Okay, thanks, Jean.'

'No problem.'

As he began to dial, Ian Langton smiled wryly to himself. He'd only agreed to see the chap as a favour; he wasn't even on the books.  Ah well, no peace for the wicked.  He stared out into the reception area.

*

Unseen by Doctor Langton, Jean Brooker or the bored patients in reception, a needle limbed creature hung upside down from the reception's wall mounted clock by its feet.  Button eyes stared as it mouthed a soundless 'Tick' then 'Tock' in an absurd call and response.  Swinging serenely to and fro, a malignant pendulum, it grinned a rictus grin.

*

Mooching dejectedly down the road Brad reflected that his doctor's appointment could, on the whole, have gone better.  Trouble was he'd never particularly liked or trusted doctors, with the one honorary exception. So why he'd actually come up with such a stupid plan in the first place was a moot point. Desperation perhaps? Yep, he thought that pretty much covered it.  Those last minutes in the TARDIS had been pretty surreal. Well, more surreal than usual.

He'd been headed for the control room, intent on talking to the Doctor about Jacen. In fact, he'd got to the control room, he was sure of it. The Doctor had grinned a greeting, no, scratch that, they'd even started talking.

Then it had happened.

There was an ear-splitting shriek and buzzing globules of what looked like TV static had started spilling from the scanner. Operating controls frantically the Doctor had engaged 'Emergency Materialisation', stuffed a bag of unfamiliar notes and coins into Brad's hands and literally bundled him out of the doors.

'Construct bounty hunters,' he'd said in a stage whisper, then raised a theatrical finger to his lips.

'Construct what? Doc, what the hell's happening here?'

'Construct bounty hunters, they're trying a time jump.' He'd paused, looking up and down the unfamiliar street.  'I'll try and put them off the scent.' Then he had given Brad the 'deadly serious look'. It was so absurdly pretentious it couldn't be anything but deadly serious.  'Whatever you do, don't go to sleep.  Reality's liable to break down without you and I've not got the leads for a jump-start.'

'What?'

The Doctor just grinned his enormous half-moon grin.  'You'll be magnificent, Bradley, I know you will!' With that he was gone, the TARDIS vanishing with its familiar asthmatic trumpeting.  A final sentence seemed to hang on the air.  'I'll be back!'

And that had been it.  Now, having spent nearly forty-eight hours in London, 1975, Brad had had enough.

Who were these bounty hunters? Would they be coming for him too?

Finding himself standing outside a newsagent, he rummaged in his pockets, stuffed with various denominations of legal currency. Plus, he noted forlornly, a TARDIS homing device. Much good it would do him.

Locating a crumpled one pound note he pushed open the shop door.

*

Inside it was dark, cool and blissfully quiet compared to the street outside.  Garish racks of confectionery jostled for space alongside newspapers, magazines and sundry household items.  Wondering vaguely how a packet of dusters might help him save reality, Brad's gaze settled on the rows of chocolate bars with their various unlikely names.

'You got ten pence mister?' Looking down Brad saw an Afro-Caribbean kid in denim, all of six years old, staring hopefully up at him.

'Hey you!' growled a white haired old shopkeeper from the back of the store.  'I've warned you before. Hop it!'

'Hey, it's cool.' Brad raised his hands in a placating gesture, found a coin and gave it to the boy.

'You shouldn't encourage 'em,' the shopkeeper rumbled.

'Hey, seeing as he's going to spend it in your shop, I don't see why you're complaining,' Brad said tartly.

'Smartarse.'

'Yeah, right, whatever,' Brad muttered as the shopkeeper proceeded to serve the boy.

He grabbed himself a random handful of chocolate. Definitely needed the sugar. Coffee would be good, too. 'Hey, do you sell…' He tailed off.

The shopkeeper had the boy's coin and was inserting it into some sort of indentation on top of the cash register. Weird looking cash register come to think of it.  A look passed between the boy and the man.

'Definite match?' the boy asked.

'Definite.' The shopkeeper nodded. 'DNA strand's unmistakeable.'

They both turned to face him, eyes glowing a luminescent green.

Brad dropped the chocolate.

How come it was he who got to walk into the only trapped alien newsagents in the whole damn world?

'Hope you're not thinking of going anywhere,' said the shopkeeper, turning a weirdly glowing ball of energy in his hand.

'Big price on your head, man,' added the boy nonchalantly.

'You're Construct bounty hunters, right?' Brad saw a grin pass between them.

'Well,' said the old guy, tossing the ball from hand to hand.  'We are. But the contract's changed.'

Brad didn't need to hear the rest. As the ball of light hurtled towards him he wrenched at the central rack of shelving. Stumbling backwards out of the door he saw the middle of the store was now a mess of items encased in a web of viscous light strands.  He ran.

*

Soon he was aware of shouting from behind him.  The old man and the boy were in pursuit. In the middle of the air, balanced like surfers on futuristic skateboards, zipping in and out of the traffic.  They were gaining fast.  Brad went to catch at the arm of a traffic warden, but his hand went straight through the warden.

'Don't know you're there, man,' mocked the boy.  'Playing by different rules now.'

Brad stared wildly from side to side. The boy swooped overhead, turning for an attack, another ball of energy to hand.  Brad ducked sharp left, into the stairwell of a multi-storey car park. The familiar smell of urine and rubbish hit him. Lifts or stairs, lifts or stairs? One of the lifts was opening.  Brad stared.

It was the Doctor.

'Well, come on!' his friend boomed.

Brad needed no further encouragement.

*

Inside the lift he turned to the Doctor and stared again.  He was in the console room. The Doctor grinned triumphantly.

'Yes, the chameleon circuit's operational!' He nodded to himself. 'I would have done it sooner but necessity often proves the mother of invention.' He grabbed Brad by both hands. 'It's good to see you, Bradley!'

'You too, Doc, you too.  Now can you please tell me what's going on?'

The Doctor beamed, plucking the homing device from his jacket pocket. 'A small matter of splitting our resources. I had to throw the Construct off the scent, so I dropped you off and –'

'You did what?'

'I dropped you off and –'

'You were using me as a decoy!'

The Doctor nodded, eyes gleaming. 'If you like, yes. And a very good one too! Well done, Bradley!'

Brad sighed. 'Great.' He noticed the central column was moving. They were in flight again. 'So what are the Construct again?'

The Doctor waved a hand. 'Oh, creatures of pure causality.  With the causal nexus unravelling, and me being at the centre of it, those that watch such things have doubtless declared open season on us. The two you just met are Bartholomew and Anotyne.  Very dubious company.'

'It just gets better,' said Brad.

'Yes, yes.' The Doctor grinned in delight.  'It's wonderful to feel wanted, isn't it?'

'No,' said Brad pointedly.

The Doctor gaped. 'I'm sure you can't mean that. Oh, that's interesting.'

'What is?'

'We've arrived somewhere else already.' The Doctor operated the scanner. They were on top of a multi storey car park. In 1975 judging by the two figures hovering a good ten feet above the roof.

'Tranquillisers,' said Brad.  'I should have asked that guy for tranquillisers.'

'Bradley, be a star and distract them would you?' the Doctor asked. He was staring thoughtfully at the central column. 'If they're operating a linear inductor the only option's to bypass it with a randomiser.' He met Brad's gaze. 'It'll take a minute. It won't take them too long to get in here and I hate interruptions when I'm working.'

'Right,' said Brad.  'I'll go and do the distracting thing.'

*

He found himself getting out of the passenger seat of a chrome blue Land Rover. This chameleon thing seemed to be working.  Turning he saw the bounty hunters hovering over the far wall of the car park. Brad backed around the Land Rover and looked over the rim of the wall. At least a hundred and fifty feet down. The boy was approaching at alarming speed, a shimmering ball of energy crackling in his hand.

'Hey, so who are you?' called Brad weakly.  'Bartholomew or Anotyne?'

A grin was all he got by way of reply. The skateboard sped closer. Heart pounding Brad took a step forward. The boy brought his arm up, bowling underarm.  Brad grabbed for him.

Confusion.

Brad fell heavily, very heavily, at first he thought the kid was on top of him but it was the skateboard thing.  It was incredibly heavy for something so small, an absolute deadweight.  Struggling up Brad saw the boy prone against the wall.  The light ball had exploded around him. A tracery of luminescent lines seemed to be eating in to him.

With an electrical fizz, boy and light disappeared.

'You got Anotyne! You'll pay for that!' The old guy was incredulous.

So was Brad to be honest, but his shoulder and side were aching too much to think clearly.  Now white hair was coming for him.  The driver's side door was opening.  The Doctor leaned out.

'Bradley, strap yourself in!'

Brad stumbled to the passenger door.  Buckling himself in, his stomach lurched as the Doctor performed what felt like a three hundred and sixty degree turn. Bartholomew was very close now; Brad could see him in the wing mirror.

'Time for the unstoppable force to meet the immovable object!' announced the Doctor. And drove straight for Bartholomew.  Head on.  At the last minute Bartholomew seemed to realise the Doctor was serious and tried to swerve.  It was too late.  There was a clang of impact from the roof and the bounty hunter went sailing over the edge of the car park, complete with skateboard. There was an unnatural silence.  Brad shook his head.  He wasn't sure if he felt like crying or laughing. The Doctor placed a hand on his shoulder.

'What the hell is happening?' said Brad.  'Did we kill them?'

The Doctor shook his head. 'Not a chance. They'll have reverted to causal particles. They were over confident, that's all.  We were lucky.'

'Right.' Brad became aware he was sitting in the front of a Land Rover. 'Hey, the TARDIS?'

'Emergency reconfiguration,' said the Doctor simply. 'Inserting a randomiser is a devil of a job, Bradley. We need to lie low for a while, let the temporal trail go cold.' Gunning the engine he headed for the exit ramp and the next level. 'So,' he said, his eyes sad and his smile serious.  'Tell me about Jacen.'

Brad looked down, noticing a newspaper in the well by his feet. He picked it up and looked it over; apparently something called UNIT was due to make a world shattering announcement tomorrow.

'Bradley?'

Brad squirmed in his seat.  Before the Doctor had chucked him out to be decoy, Brad was all for telling the Doctor about Jacen; he even had a plan of how to save his friend. But now… He sighed.  The Doctor wouldn't let this one go, he had that look on his bearded face.

'Okay,' Brad said, and began talking.

*

Brad talked and the Doctor listened.  As he talked, he felt a weight lift from his mind. Nothing changed but he felt easier just for having talked it through out loud.

A good two hours later they were parked high above the suburbs to the south west of the city.  The Thames sprawled lazily far below them.

'You know, it's weird,' said Brad, 'I can't even remember the sound of his voice, y'know, what he was like. That's got to be wrong.'

The Doctor seemed to smile at a private memory.

Brad sighed.  'You can't take me back can you?'

The Doctor shook his head.  'I might be able to take you back in the normal course of things but I still couldn't change what happened.'

It was Brad's turn to shake his head. 'But look what's happening to you.  I mean, if that isn't someone messing around with time…'

The Doctor laughed a short, uncharacteristically mirthless sound. Brad looked closely at his face in profile. There were anger and passion and questions there to match his own.

The Doctor continued to stare ahead, into the dying evening.

Neither of them spoke again for a long time…

◊

To find out what happens next, look out for the soon-to-released collected stories of LEGACY season one, volume one, Requiem. It will be published by Japaf Publishing and distributed by Lulu Distributions. As ever, LEGACY is a non-profit series and the cost of the book covers printing and postage only – the contributors do not make a single penny from it. As an incentive for buying it, though, there will be two exclusive stories to volume one; The Ugly Bug Ball by Greg Miller (previously only available in the limited 2006 e-anthology, The Other Side of Reality), and The Flames of Chambrook by A. R. Montacruz – a never before released season one story!

Edited by Andy Frankham-Allen, Greg Miller & Elizabeth Medeiros.
Cover & Artwork © 2010 by Ewen Campion-Clarke.
'70s Cutaway © 2001, 2010 by Niall Turner,
Legacy © & ™ 2001, 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen. 
Doctor Who © & ™ 1963, 2010 by BBC Worldwide. All Rights Reserved.

 

The online LEGACY adventures will resume New Year's Day 2011 with The Millennium People, which follows on from the events of Requiem. But until then I shall be running a new weekly serialised novel, exclusive to this blog, called Vampire Knights. The novel will be an experiment, modelled on the early days of LEGACY. It will be written week-by-week with no absolute direction to follow. The story will grow organically, and along the way will feature guest authors – some of whom will be known, others will be fresh new talent.

 

Writers' Wednesday #5: E-Publishing & The Author

Allow me to introduce new author, Whit Howland. Whit has recently had his first novella published by Untreed Reads, my review of which can be read here. He's popped over to have a natter about e-publishing, and tells us just why he thinks it's a good thing.

E-Publishing & The Author by Whit Howland

Before now I've always been sceptical of the digitalisation of information. I was, and to some degree, still am, a bibliophile. I love paperback books: the feel, the smell, and the look.

I especially love the old pulp paperbacks and their wonderful and sometimes lurid cover art. I can't imagine a world where these books no longer exist. But is that what's coming?  Are we racing toward a future where at the beach, instead of reading one of those chubby romances we bought at the supermarket on impulse, we will be reading the story on our  E Reader? Some say we are already there.

Regardless of where we are, or where we are going, I've decided to embrace this trend. And because I have, I've concluded the E Reader is a magnificent invention and does for humans what technology is supposed to do; it makes our lives easier in many ways.

We can store a larger quantity of books in our E Readers than on shelves. And we don't have to break our backs carrying those god-awful heavy boxes of tomes we just can't get rid of when it's time to move. Looking at and reading the screen is a lot better for our eyes than reading print on paper. And, it is sometimes cheaper and always faster to purchase a story. But, the main reason I like this brave new world has to do with e-publishing.

E-publishing is an author's version of winning the lottery. Before digital, it was very tough for an aspiring author to get past the gate keeper of a big publishing house or literary agency. This was especially true if your work was said not to have any commercial value. With E-Publishing all of that has changed.

Today, we have effectively slipped that gate keeper a Mickey Finn and he is down for the count. This is due to the fact that it is cheaper to publish an e-book than it is a hardcover or paperback. Also, it is much easier to distribute it. As a result, e-publishers are more open to unusual works. They are also eager to publish smaller pieces such as novellas and novelettes. With all this in mind, what's not to like about E Readers and E-Publishing?

Well, for me being published has softened the blow and realisation of the possible demise of hardcopy. But for others who haven't had that good fortune, I can see how a world where we are always plugged in can be daunting. Even I imagine a dark existence where instead of Borders and Barnes and Noble having rows of books, they will have rows of ports were we can all plug our E Readers into – and maybe someday the stories will be down loaded to a chip in our head.

But again, as an author, this technology is your friend. You should take advantage of this small window in time where you can publish just about anything you want because for me, the darker future is where the big publishing companies step in and again make it impossible for us new authors to publish our stories.

Text © 2010 Whit Howland
Author Photograph © 2010 Whit Howland
Cover © 2010 Untreed Reads Publishing, All Rights Reserved

 

Legacy #6: Three Night Engagement

Previously on LEGACY - Once Upon a Memory

'Look at me

I opened a door I cannot close

I feel strange winds

Walk into here, open your door.

This is an introduction…'

 

Another night offered Brad a chance. 'Philosopher's Stone (or Lapis Philosophorum)' was about to set up for their first night's performance at Dante's.  Formerly a Mongolian grill, Dante's was a very small bar and musical venue. A plain bar counter, a stage raised about two meters, and about a dozen tables comprised the establishment.

The group was just about getting their drink on. Jacen was a whiskey sour man, Tobias a White Russian swiller. Brad didn't sit well with hard liquor since he was in fact a dark beer and cannabis aficionado. Jessene, the sessioning violinist, didn't show.

'Guess what, man?' Jacen chirped suddenly over the subdued din of the early bar crowd.

'What?' groaned Brad who was pretending to be dim for the moment.

'I'm a whale!' Jacen sprayed a mouthful of whiskey all over the table through his pursed lips.

Tobias slugged him forthwith in the bicep.

'You want me to smack you in the ass, man?' Jacen leered.

'Oh, you wish!'

'Yeah, well screw you, people. Jessene ain't here and we're going to have to do an improv show. Bitch's probably tweaking anyway.'

Bradley was on fire and he didn't care one whit.  This was it.  He swallowed the last of his beer and cruised over to the bar to check the time.

*

The flimsy curtain parted. With much gravitas stood Jacen with bass strapped on.

'It's so nice to see so many faces.  Good evening,' he drawled, resplendent in his pressed business suit and neatly coiffured platinum blonde hair. His handsome features creased into a scowl behind the microphone as he began.

'One thing I have to ask. Is it loud enough for you?' The question was asked as a shrieking exclamation delivered in his baritone voice.

Thus commenced 'Philosopher's Stone's' first night at Dante's. The set began with the stage being bathed in a lunar blue light which seemed to cool the feverish and smoke filled club.  Jacen began with a droning yet staccato series of electronically processed chords.  Then he began a simple Latin chant.

'Ignit natura renovatur integra.'

Brad initialised a short series of pre-programmed samples as he also began an improvised synth fugue.  Tobias did his part in the proceedings by commencing a shamanic drum beat interspersed by a mighty gong strike.  Later, he would try out his set of Tibetan singing bowls.

Tobias was rude and often painfully surly in his interpersonal dealings.  On stage, his peculiar brand of magic was expressed in his percussion. Brad and Jacen, however, manifested total sublimity – something that pleased Brad no end.

'Look at me.

I opened a door I cannot close.

I feel strange winds. The path I chose

This, but an introduction, no more.

Walk into here, open your door.

This is an introduction…'

 

Brad sang one of his own songs that first night as well.

'What dream has come

Where time has gone?

Stunned, unsummoned and still

Again, I tried to lift up my eyes

And not shield them from the sun,

Again…'

*

A fetching and somewhat muscular young woman in an overly decorated bomber jacket turned to speak to her companion.

'Professor!' She had to shout over Dante's PA system as the band played through a delirious second night. 'Can I get a drink?'

'Ace, I didn't procure your ID so you could "catch a buzz", or whatever you'd call it! Keep a clear head, please.'

Ace glowered at the Doctor.  A thought came unbidden to her of chucking a bar ashtray at him.  It would serve him right just to knock his silly hat off his head.  The Doctor had been so maudlin recently, ever since giving that little bit of life force away to his past self.

'What are we looking out for, anyway?' she asked. 'I thought we were tracking the Master.'  She looked around at the dancing crowd.  'I don't think this is his scene, Professor,' she pointed out with a smirk.

The Doctor passed Ace a napkin with something scribbled on it.  Two names stood out in the message, whatever it had been.

Brad DeMars and Jacen J. Lewis.

'What's this, then?'

'I've no idea. I found it a few hours ago before we got on that Tri-Met bus. It's coated in temporal residue.'

'But who are they?' Ace had to shout again over the chorus of electronic damnation. The Doctor simply pointed at the stage in reply to Ace's question.  The one with the dark hair caught Ace's eye. A corner of her mouth twitched into a half-smile. That familiar feeling went through her body again. He was cute. It had been such a long time since she…

'Can we meet them later, Professor? After the show maybe?'

'That's what the intention is.  Not that I really enjoy this sort of music, Ace.' The Doctor's tone was that of one discussing a particularly messy surgery. 'It reminds of me a Ninhana symphony orchestra.  It's like an incompetent dentist attacking a cavity with a rusty nail,' he added while gritting his teeth.

*

The ambulance arrived at half past two in the morning. The stressed out bar staff had been looking forward to going home for drinks and bed.  But Jacen had 'collapsed' while descending the stage steps.

'I just tripped, man!' Jacen screamed at a paramedic.  'No! I don't have any damned insurance! Let me be!'

*

In the narrow alley behind Dante's, a pool of turgid shadows formed in defiance of the nearby streetlight's attempt to stand sentry against such things.

'Tock tock tick,' said one Dommervoy to its featureless mates.  In unison they softly clapped their stiff semblances of hands together and disappeared back into that portable umbra of theirs.  A solitary thread of violet tinged blackness congealed into the receding anomaly.

A homeless man, who happened to be crouching behind the dumpster, simultaneously went blind.

*

'What the hell was that?'

The Doctor narrowed his grey eyes, and stepped gingerly into the alley, holding a hand out before him. 'Temporal disturbance of some kind.'

'And those puppet things?' Ace asked.

'I'm not sure,' the Doctor growled, pulling his hand back sharply, as if stung. He sucked his fingers, and said around them; 'thhs pase ss ahive wff tempul ennery.'

'Come again, Professor?'

The Doctor removed his fingers. 'This place is alive with temporal energy. Those things must feed off it.'

'Are they following the Master, too, then?'

'I have no idea, Ace! Will you stop asking all these questions!'

Ace stepped back in shock. She hadn't heard him sound so angry since the army barracks in 1941. 'Sorry!' she snapped back, and noticed the homeless man stumble from behind the dumpster at the other end of the alley. She pushed past the Doctor. 'I'm going to help that poor sod over there,' she said and made her way to the blind tramp.

The Doctor watched her, and raised the handle of his umbrella to his lips. 'Bradley DeMars, he's at the epicentre. We musn't get too close to him again.' He turned from the alley and called back. 'Come on, Ace, we need to find the Master another way.'

*

'I can't believe this… sea-change,' groaned Jacen, sprawled on his studio day-bed.

His head had been shaved by the neurosurgeon's nurse. He wore an eye patch since he'd lost muscular control over his left eye. During the past four months, he had suffered from several more seizures. An MRI scan revealed that a tumour the size of a golf ball was resting on his brain. Subsequently, Jacen endured radiation therapy and ultimately surgery to excise most of the growth.

Brad's mouth was painfully dry.  He had to say what was on his mind.

'I just want you to know that I love you. You've been my greatest friend and collaborator.' A bead of sweat trickled behind his ear as he spoke.

'I know, Bradley Boy. I know. Sorry I can't return it. Shit, I had enough of a time dealing with Jessene before she went to rehab.  God! You need to give it up.  I hate to see you so frustrated and pissed all the time, man.'

They locked eyes and Brad took Jacen's weak hand in his own.

Brad knew exactly what Jacen was referring to. The love he held for Jacen was so much more than platonic, sometimes it hurt, and sometimes it lifted him above the clouds.  But most of the time it just hurt 'cause Brad knew that he could never have Jacen, but at the same time he didn't want anybody else, either… it was a tough path Brad walked down.

'It'll be all right. You'll be back to your old self soon. Look…' Brad stopped speaking and took a deep breath in a concerted effort to slow his heart down a little. 'I have to go before I break down again.'

His chest began to heave as the tears came.  Jacen tousled his hair and rested his good hand on Brad's shoulder and said; 'Remember, Requiem; Ignit natura renovatur integra.  The whole of nature is regenerated by fire.'

*

Almost two months later, in the TARDIS, Brad opened his eyes.  Regenerated? Yes! He had it…

*

The Doctor looked up from the console just as the inner door flew open and Brad entered the console room. He couldn't help but notice that Brad had been crying.

'Doc, I need your help. I have an idea about how to save Jacen.'

The Doctor was, not for the first time today, quite puzzled.  'Jacen? And just who is Jacen, Bradley?'

Next Time

'You think I'm crazy, don't you?'

Before Doctor Langton could respond, the young man appeared to slip rapidly back into quite floridly psychotic speech.

'They've probably got the Doctor already. I've got to do something and I can't afford to go to sleep. Do that and they've got me.' He looked up abruptly. 'You must have some kind of one-shot system stimulant?'

Doctor Langton could only shake his head by way of reply.  He wondered what age the man was. Early to mid twenties? It was a sad case. 'I can see you're under considerable stress,' Doctor Langton heard himself say eventually.

'Oh go on, say it,' muttered the man in a dejected tone.

'Say what?' wondered the doctor.

'I'm mad,' said the man, running a hand through his black hair. 'I am, you know.' And he smiled, a little unnervingly. 'If I understand it right, I go to sleep now and the whole of reality buys the farm. Me too, come to think of it,' he finished a little disconsolately. 'Oh well.' He held out his hand, which Doctor Langton took a little uncertainly. 'It's been fun. Have a nice life.' With that, he turned on his heel and was gone.

'Yes, well…' Doctor Langton continued to lean against the wall for a moment, regaining his composure.  Eventually he sat down and pressed the intercom on his desk. 'Jean, could you come in here a minute?'

A few seconds later his secretary, Jean Brooker, entered the room, smiling enquiringly.

'Is everything all right, Ian? We could hear raised voices in reception.' She lowered her voice confidentially. 'He left in ever such a hurry you know.'

'That'll be reality running out,' said Ian Langton, nodding sagely to himself.

'Oh.' Jean looked flummoxed.

'I'm sorry, Jean.' He rubbed his eyes tiredly, aware he still had another six patients to see. 'Chap was definitely a few cards short of a full deck.  I need to put a call through to social services before I see anyone else. What was his name again?'

'DeMars,' said Jean with a frown. 'American I think. He didn't give a first name.'

'Okay, thanks, Jean.'

'No problem.'

As he began to dial, Ian Langton smiled wryly to himself. He'd only agreed to see the chap as a favour; he wasn't even on the books.  Ah well, no peace for the wicked.  He stared out into the reception area.

*

Unseen by Doctor Langton, Jean Brooker or the bored patients in reception, a needle limbed creature hung upside down from the reception's wall mounted clock by its feet.  Button eyes stared as it mouthed a soundless 'Tick' then 'Tock' in an absurd call and response.  Swinging serenely to and fro, a malignant pendulum, it grinned a rictus grin.

To Be Continued… Sat 6th November

Edited by Andy Frankham-Allen, Greg Miller & Elizabeth Medeiros.
Cover © 2010 by Ewen Campion-Clarke.
Three Night Engagement © 2001, 2010 by Christoph Lopez,
Legacy © & ™ 2001, 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen. 
Doctor Who © & ™ 1963, 2010 by BBC Worldwide. All Rights Reserved.

 

Writers' Wednesday #4: Learning to Self-Promote

After the accidental lack of post last Wednesday, we're back with a special guest blog by Sam Stone.

Sam Stone is the winner of the Silver Award for Best Horror Novel 2007 with Foreword Magazine and British Fantasy Society Award Nominee for Best Novel for 'Futile Flame', she has just had the third book in her Vampire Gene trilogy published by Murky Depths, and has several other projects on the horizon. She's here today to talk about publicising your work, and offering a few helpful hints for both new and old writers on the dos and don'ts of social networking.

Learning to Self-Promote: A Writer's Journey

This week I deleted my MySpace account. Myspace was my first dabble with social networking, and despite having over 12,000 views, I just didn't think it worked for me anymore. Facebook has taken over as my preferred social network, but I also have GoodReads and my blog, and between them these seem to cover all the bases.   But why social networking? I'm a writer … and writers write. Indeed, lot of people think that when you've written a book, the hard part is over. To some extent that's true, but these days a writer is almost obliged to promote the book that they've been slaving over. Your responsibility begins in earnest on completion, but really you need to start telling people before you finish. How to do that, of course, is the million dollar question. Promoting is hard. You have to be confident without appearing arrogant and getting the balance right between promotion and spamming can be difficult. I'm never sure if I have it quite right, so I always lean towards 'less is more' because I've seen so many people go completely over the top with it. However I do have a sort of formula which seems to work for me.

Some Social Networking Dos and Don'ts

What not to do …

One of my pet hates is people leaving adverts on my Facebook page. I never do that. I think it's rude and disrespectful. Often I've had new people come onto my page and immediately post a link telling me all about their book and how wonderful they are without even saying 'hello'. That is a big no-no.
Another faux pas is posting your website in every single comment you leave. Or even a full blown advert for your latest book. Okay! We get it: you're a writer too – but please don't do that because it won't win you any friends or new readers – it will just annoy them.
Don't harp on all the time about how wonderful you are.
Don't stalk other people's pages and then just talk about yourself all the time on them – engage in conversations, you might just enjoy yourself and make some real friends.
When sending out events – don't keep resending the same one. If friends have refused once you won't make them say they are attending by re-inviting, but you might encourage them to delete you for spamming.
Spam emails/private messages – OMG! You wouldn't believe how many of these I get. Just this morning I received the same PM on Facebook three times! Don't resort to it. It doesn't work. Event invites are enough, if people don't respond then leave them alone.
Never respond to a bad review on a public forum. You only make yourself look an idiot and people think you're unprofessional. If you don't like the review – suck it up. The reviewer is entitled to their opinion and you can't please everyone so just get over yourself.
Never talk politics or religion – everyone has their own beliefs in this area and it won't make you friends but is likely to lose you some.
Don't be snide about other people online – even if their status is the most annoying self-obsessed bullshit you've ever seen. It doesn't look good and only makes people think you're unpleasant and bitchy.
Never review a friend's books in public unless you have a lot of positive things to say about them. You should be objective and balanced in your argument if you plan to review anyway, but if you didn't like their work – it's always best to stay quiet about it.
On the same basis, never ask your friends what they think of your own work. You might get some vague platitudes, but equally you might find out what they really thought … If they liked it, then it's up to them whether they post about it or not.

What works for me …

There's no formula for perfect promotion but what I find works for me is just being myself with everyone. What you see is what you get. I also really enjoy interacting with people on Facebook … you could say I'm a little addicted J

Mix up status updates with a combination of personal things and work related things even on your official or fan page if you have one.
Be cheerful as often as possible, because, let's face it, if you're constantly feeling sorry for yourself then people will get fed up with it and stop listening. Also, when you do have a rant they are more likely to listen because you don't do it all the time.
Respond to comments that your friends leave, even if you put a 'like' on it. Be interested in other people and what they are doing – it's not all about you after all.
Respond to your friend's updates and statuses if you expect them to engage in yours. Be supportive of other people and genuinely mean it.
Reply to private messages – even if they are from some guy in Turkey asking you to marry him. You can still be polite when you tell him to 'get lost'.
Definitely advertise your achievements. There's nothing wrong with telling your friends you're up for awards or have been invited to attend a convention as a guest. That's all good and positive and it helps to raise your profile with others. It shows that your work is valued in the wider community.
If you are up for awards that are voted on, then remind people – but don't beg them to vote for you, it sounds desperate. If they want to support you then they will.
Pat other people on the back if they win and you don't – it's only an award and it's not the end of the world. Be positive about being shortlisted – because hey – that's a huge achievement anyway!
When sending out invitations to events it helps if you write a covering note. Mostly I apologise for sending just in case it is not wanted or they live too far away. It doesn't hurt to be polite and aware that not everyone is interested.
Be positive and upbeat. That's the biggest and most important of my rules.

Blog like crazy!

There's also blogging. Mine is getting close to 9000 hits now overall and averages 6-700 hits a month. One thing you should do if you have a blog is keep an eye on your stats. I have a stats counter that analyses the hits. At the click of a button I can see the IP addresses of everyone who logs on and it shows me where they are from (it's not full names and addresses, only areas or countries). It also reveals how they found the site – even showing you the Google pathway that led them to the page. This kind of information is useful to help you analyse your tagging process. Tagging is a great resource and helps people find you by accident. It helps if you think 'out of the box' when selecting tags for the main page – and always tag the individual blogs.

Other results that I look at are 'returning visitors'. At the end of the day you could be doing something wrong if your website or blog is getting a very low return rate. If you are posting interesting blogs or the type of information that the reader wants to see then there should be good returns results.

There has to be a balance between attracting new readers and keeping old ones. I'm no expert on this of course, but I try to mix up the information as much as possible. Sometimes I blog on a film I've seen. At other times I write about the publishing industry, exploring things that I believe might interest aspiring writers. Then, of course, I post all of my news or latest events.

It's important to keep the blog updated, whatever you decide to put on it. Just think about it. How many times have you gone onto your favourite writer's website and found that it hasn't changed in six months? Eventually you stop looking for that information, after all, what's the point in returning if there's nothing new to find? So it's a good thing to bear in mind when maintaining your blog or website. I try to put something up every few days – and I've seen an increase in hits recently so hopefully it's working.

Conventions

Promoting takes up a lot of your time. Once you've sorted out your social networking sites and blogs, and got them linked up so that posts to the blog also appear on Facebook or wherever, then you've got to get out there and meet people. That's where conventions come in. This is where the real time and money goes.

In order to meet the right publishers and maybe even interest more readers you have to be seen. There are several horror and fantasy conventions that are good for promotion. My personal favourite is FantasyCon, but this isn't always the best event for actually selling books; although I have seen a huge increase in sales there over the last three years which I hope is down to the fact that word is getting out about my work. If you're a new writer, or self-published, then don't expect to do well here on sales as there's only 200-300 people attending each year. The event does attract, however, a good selection of publishers and agents, and is crammed with writers, poets and editors from the self-published, to indie-press to pro-press.

There is also EasterCon, which is a huge event. It has about 12-1300 people attending every year. It is an excellent event to get involved with. The EasterCon organisers are very open to new people being panellists. My first EasterCon I was given 6 panels over the course of the weekend. Panels are good things for writers. It's an opportunity to talk intelligently in front of an audience. A good moderator will know who you are and will introduce you properly, explaining what you write or will give you the opportunity to do so yourself. It's also a very good selling event. I've seen the most unlikely books sell at EasterCon and I think that is because there are more fans attending, whereas some of the smaller cons attract mostly writers, publishers and agents, who are less likely to actually buy your books. Also there is no snobbery at EasterCon. ALL writers can become involved at the mass signing events. So whether you are published by one of the majors or by a small independent press, you'll be treated the same.

I've recently discovered Asylum –a steampunk convention which takes place in Lincoln. I was invited as a guest this year only to learn that the event attracts over 800 people. The organisation was fabulous and I was treated wonderfully. I'm pleased to have been invited back next year and I'm hoping to get more involved in the panels. This isn't necessarily the place you'd go to if you want to meet publishers and agents – but it's a great selling event and is full of potential readers. It's also growing in size and has become the second biggest UK convention in just two years. It may even take that crown from EasterCon next year.

Smaller more intimate events are NewCon (a whole weekend held every two years) and Alt-Fiction which usually only runs for a day. There are more but I will be honest and say I haven't attended them.

Outside of the UK –  I also attend the annual Gallifrey convention in LA. My partner, the Doctor Who historian and writer, and director of Telos Publishing, David J Howe, and I are invited as guests and guest status makes all of the difference. We are extremely well treated by the organisers and attendees and sales are incredible. There are also great panel opportunities, and a very diverse selection of attending guests, not only from Doctor Who but from film and literature also.

We diversified this year and I also attended the Bram Stoker Film Festival in Whitby. Footfall was less than I expected throughout the day, but I did sell some books and also met some great people. What was interesting in this situation was that there were film producers there because they were showing their latest movies. So, there may well be some opportunities that will come from attending this event.

That's where the time and money element of promotion comes in. Attending conventions is expensive and while you're away from home you aren't writing – but if you're smart, you will be working, smiling at people, chatting, and hoping that they remember your name enough to Google you later on and maybe buy a book to find out what you do.

Promotion is important, and you have to keep plugging away at it … but just remember, not too much!

Text © 2010 Sam Stone
Author Photograph © 2010 Sam Stone
Covers © 2010 Murky Depths, All Rights Reserved

 

 

 

Legacy#5; Once Upon A Memory

Previously on Legacy; Reality Bomb

The haunting melody echoed throughout the corridors of the time ship.

*

In the console room the Doctor sat to one side of the console, the steady hum of the TARDIS engines keeping a continuous rhythm with the steady rise and fall of the time rotor. He was sitting in his shirt sleeves, legs crossed, a deck of cards laid out in a tableau before him. He was playing Accordion Solitaire and making good time with it, pondering the oddness of his recent trip to Ossobos.  He still couldn't work out why he had taken Brad there, but he was sure it was something a little more important than to sample the local amenities. The music wafting through the room, however, continued to distract him from both his cogitations and his game.

Music was not a common occurrence in the TARDIS, and certainly not something she tended to play through the communication circuits, but then his ship had been acting oddly in many ways recently. Not unlike the universe itself, come to think of it.

Still, he had to admit, it was a lovely tune.  Made him feel all thoughtful and relaxed inside. Mellow. Reminding him of times past, and friends lost.

He got up and walked over to the console. 'Well, old girl, where did you get this tune from?'

In answer the scanner screen activated. It was an internal image that showed Brad in his room, sitting on the bed, wearing the kilt he'd become so found of, playing his keyboard.

The Doctor smiled.  'Ah, Bradley.'

He left the scanner on, and turned up the volume, then returned to his card game, mindful of his own thoughts.

*

Brad closed his eyes, and let the music surge through him.  It was like a journey through time, the melody carrying him right back to the day he and Jacen had first composed the tune.

… Brad finishes playing the overture, and looks up at Jacen, who is sitting opposite. 'What do you think?'

Jacen opens his eyes and nods. 'Sweet, man, yeah.' He takes a puff of the joint.  'What you calling it?'

'Not sure yet, but I was kind of thinking Requiem. There's something haunting about it.'

'The repose of the souls of the dead.'

'Dude, that's pretty sound.  Where did you get that?'

'Catholic upbringing, man. A requiem is a mass for the repose of the souls of the dead.'

Brad nods knowingly, not that he has ever been a church goer.  'That's perfect,' he says, accepting the joint off Jacen and taking a deep drag of it.

Jacen reaches down and picks up the bass guitar. 'Play it again, man.'

Brad does so.  And while he does, he never once takes his eyes off Jacen.

Jacen closes his eyes and starts swaying his head to the tune.  He strums the bass then lets the music take over.  Within moments they are both playing in unison.  As the key changes they both adapt, taking the tune to the next level. They do not need words, nor do they need eye contact.  Making music together is a deeply spiritual thing for both of them.

For Jacen it is a sign of total unity of friendship, but for Brad it is a time of intense love. He knows that he can never have Jacen, so the union through making music is the nearest thing he ever gets to truly being one with Jacen, and Brad knows it will have to be enough.

With his eyes closed Brad continued to play, remembering the good times.

*

The card game was forgotten by the Doctor who now sat there with his eyes closed.  He was remembering something important, only he didn't know where it'd had come from.

… 'This ends now.'

The small man steps out of the trees, and approaches the scene.  One soldier lays in the grass, unconscious, a second stands nearby, pistol pointing at a man who is kneeling by the unconscious body of a fourth man.

The Doctor recognises this lanky man; it his him, in his third body, a scar on his head from where the soldier's bullet had grazed his skull.  There is much blood over his chest, spreading across the useless hospital gown. He doesn't think the soldier did that; rather it was the man kneeling next to him, holding the rifle. There is something distinctly familiar about that man.  Not his form, for the Doctor is certain he has never seen the man before. Time Lords have a way of recognising each other no matter the incarnation, and this one is known to him.

His old friend Koschei.  Only he seems so dark now; eyes as yellow as a cat's, sharp canines dripping with blood. What had happened to him since the Doctor last saw him?

Koschei looks up; hatred for the Doctor dripping from his pores.  'No,' he growls, 'it ends when I say so. I told you, Doctor, I now have the power to kill you.'

'You think you control that power?' the Doctor's diminutive future self asks.  'No, that power has you. You're becoming an animal.'

Koschei licks the blood off his teeth, and smiles.  'Yes, an animal that has killed you,' he says.

The Doctor's eyes snapped open.

Things were becoming clear now. That version of Koschei was from his future, the same future that had brought the other Doctor to him. But why? What had happened to twist Koschei in such a way that he'd travel back along his own time stream to kill the Doctor?

Koschei had always been a slightly off-kilter character, never quite playing with a full deck, the Doctor thought to himself ruefully, glancing at the cards on the floor.  Even his nickname, Koschei, was a hint to his less than noble principles.  Koschei was a man from Slavic mythology, often called Koschei the Deathless, an evil person who menaced young women.  It was the name his classmates had chosen for him during the early days of the Academy, and he'd happily taken it on as his real name after graduating, a final insult to his noble family who represented everything Koschei hated about Gallifreyan society.  Although the Doctor had agreed with much of what Koschei said, he at least held to some of the strictures of Gallifreyan law. Throughout their time at the Academy they became fast friends, drawn to each other by their inherently rebellious natures.

Until the war planet.

It was his reunion with Koschei there that precipitated the events leading to the Doctor's forced second regeneration and exile by the Time Lords. Koschei had allied himself with an alien race intent on creating the strongest army ever, by kidnapping people from various Earth wars, watching them fight until only the strongest survived. Koschei had been the alien's war chief, giving them time travel technology so they could kidnap and brainwash the humans. It was a despicable plan, one the Doctor had to stop, even if it meant betraying Koschei in the process. The last the Doctor had heard, Koschei had been gunned down by the aliens, presumably dead. But no, it seemed he had regenerated and escaped. Surely that was not enough to bring this thirst for the Doctor's death? He felt sure that somehow this other Doctor was several regenerations ahead; so much time had passed. But how much time? Did it matter?

The Doctor needed to know.

The Doctor let himself relax and sink into the music.  His future had touched his present, and somewhere in his memories was the information he needed.

*

He was no longer aware of his hands moving across the keys.  It was pure instinct.  The music continued, and Brad found himself standing beside Jacen's grave.

… The wind blows his hair into his eyes as he stands there all alone.  The sexton has just left, having covered the hole with dirt and mud.  Brad shakes his head, at his own inability to face the facts.  Hole, indeed.  Why he could he not just admit it? It was not a hole it was a –

He looks up, hearing the music. Requiem, the final piece played by the band, and the one tune Brad had so wanted to play while they lowered Jacen Lewis into the ground.

It is a sad touch of irony, that they had composed such a moving tune only a week before their last gig, just before Jacen's 'accident'.

Again Brad scolds himself.  Such pointless words; hole and accident.  In his mind he can hear Jacen singing the last words of Requiem, like it is some kind of coda of his own life.

We all choose our time to go.

And none went as well as I,

Eternity open up for me.

He kneels down and places a hand on the dirt. A tear lands, muddying the dirt between his fingers, and he squeezes his eyes shut.  'Goodbye, Boo,' he says, using his private name for Jacen, a name that even Jacen never knew.

He swallows hard, stands and turns away from Jacen one final time.  He takes his first step on the long journey to his destiny…

A month later and once again a single tear fell from Brad's eye, this time hitting the ersatz-ivory key between his fingers.

*

The Doctor opened his eyes as soon as the music ceased. He frowned.

The little insight gave him some clues.  The future Doctor had saved him, stopped the future Koschei from killing him. It had brought on regeneration, but he had lived nonetheless.  His future had wanted something of him, but the what still escaped him.  The Doctor shook his head; it didn't matter now.  All he knew for sure was that he had to find that dark twisted future version of his old friend.

He got up and walked over to the console.  Since the TARDIS seemed to like that tune so much the chances were that she had made a copy of it. The Doctor accessed the TARDIS's memory and sure enough there it was.

He put the tune back on and closed his eyes.  He would find his old friend somehow.

Next Time…

In the narrow alley behind Dante's, a pool of turgid shadows formed in defiance of the nearby streetlight's attempt to stand sentry against such things.

'Tock tock tick,' said one Dommervoy to its featureless mates.  In unison they softly clapped their stiff semblances of hands together and disappeared back into that portable umbra of theirs.  A solitary thread of violet tinged blackness congealed into the receding anomaly.

A homeless man, who happened to be crouching behind the dumpster, simultaneously went blind.

*

'What the hell was that?'

The Doctor narrowed his grey eyes, and stepped gingerly into the alley, holding a hand out before him. 'Temporal disturbance of some kind.'

'And those puppet things?' Ace asked.

'I'm not sure,' the Doctor growled, pulling his hand back sharply, as if stung. He sucked his fingers, and said around them; 'thhs pase ss ahive wff tempul ennery.'

'Come again, Professor?'

The Doctor removed his fingers. 'This place is alive with temporal energy. Those things must feed off it.'

'Are they following the Master, too, then?'

To Be Continued… Saturday 30th October

 

Edited by Andy Frankham-Allen, Greg Miller & Elizabeth Medeiros.
Cover © 2010 by Ewen Campion-Clarke.
Once Upon A Memory © 2001, 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen,
Legacy © & ™ 2001, 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen. 
Doctor Who © & ™ 1963, 2010 by BBC Worldwide. All Rights Reserved.

 

Must Mutter

A brand new in-depth interview with me is now up at Stuart Allison's Must Mutter blog. In it I talk about my views on the Craft, as well as reveal a few of my secret writing tips.  Enjoy!

Writers' Wednesday Apology

Hey, to all those who popped by yesterday to read the latest guest blog, big apologies for the lack of post. Guest blogger, Sam Stone, has been incredibly rushed off her feet recently what with attending conventions, signings, and radio interviews, and I, too, have been rather busy with Legacy work, work work, and various other things. Therefore, Sam will be popping by next Wednesday instead – which suits the horror mistress perfectly, it being Hallowe'en week!

Magrs on Paddytum

As everyone knows I have been pushing this book an awful lot over the last month or so, and now top author, Paul Magrs, has added his voice to the extraordinary appeal of Paddytum.

So, everyone, pop over to Paul's blog and have a butcher's. Then pop to Hirst and pick up a copy. You will not be disappointed.

Legacy #4: Reality Bomb

Previously on The Legacy;  In The Blood

'Brad?'

'I feel,' said Brad, with careful emphasis, 'sick.'

'Sick? Sick! Nonsense!' The Doctor spread his arms wide and laughed a life affirming laugh.  He knelt beside Brad on the floor of the lift as it continued its rapid ascent.

Brad was sure he had left his stomach several floors below.  If the Doctor was not careful he was going to find the contents of Brad's stomach all over him.

'Probably still acclimatising,' said the Doctor, clambering back to his feet.  He reached out a great paw of a hand.  Weakly Brad took it. 'You see?' The Doctor's grin sparkled.  'Feeling better already eh?'

Fighting the giddy surge of nausea threatening to poleaxe him, Brad attempted to take in their surroundings. Not a good move. They were blurring past at a rate of about two hundred feet a second. The rapid ascent, the unusual gravity and a hefty tankard of Ossoban Soul Killer were putting a whole new perspective on drowning your sorrows.

Abruptly the lift halted.  Brad leaned back against the smoked glass, fighting the urge to retch. 'So what are we here for again?'

The Doctor was off ahead of him and he had to run to catch up. 'Professor Sixela Capricornn,' came the reply. The Doctor disappeared round a glaringly antiseptic corner.

Brad paused, shaking his head.  The air was sterile and mint fresh and seemed to be taking the edge off his nausea.

'The antitoxicant filtration works best if you remain still, sir,' piped a high pitched voice from behind him.  Turning, Brad saw a blue skinned octopus headed creature in official uniform.  Its one eye blinked hugely at him.

'Uh, thanks for the information,' said Brad cautiously.  Was he in some kind of trouble here?

'Information dissemination is my duty, sir,' returned the creature primly and moved lightly away.  Brad stared.  Its lower half tapered to a point like an ice cream cone and seemed to be hovering a few inches above the floor.

'Brad!' boomed a distant voice.

'Coming,' said Brad and realised with a shock that his nausea had completely vanished.  He stared at an illuminated sign on the far side of the plaza: LEVEL 337 – RESEARCH & PSIONICS – AUTODETOX ZONE

'Great,' he said, spying the Doctor in the distance.  'Don't go getting totalitarian on me will you?' There had to be a shop where he could buy an 'I Love the Future' badge.  With resignation he saw the Doctor was waiting for him by another of the streamlined lifts.  This was not good.  Sober, the prospect just filled him with alarm.

The Doctor was looking at himself in profile in the mirrored panel to one side of the lift.

'Doctor?' ventured Brad.

'This beard…' The Doctor wheeled around and faced him seriously.  'What do you think?'

'It's a good one,' said Brad, wondering if this was going anywhere. Something small and silver flashed past overhead at high speed.  Brad stared after it.

'Carrier chip,' murmured the Doctor distractedly. He laughed. 'Excellent, excellent, I thought as much myself but a second opinion is always valuable.'

'Glad to be of service,' said Brad with a smile so unsure of itself it threatened to walk off the other side of his face.

The Doctor guffawed with alarming good humour and clapped him about the shoulders. 'Like the hair,' he confided with a glance at Brad's red bangs, 'it's very you.'  He stabbed at a button and the lift doors slid silently open. 'Shall we?'

*

After three more upward journeys, they reached their destination: LEVEL 2876 – ADVANCED DIVINATION – AUTODETOX & AUTOSEC ZONE

'This is where we'll find her,' breezed the Doctor.  'One of the finest minds of her or any era, present company included.'

Brad sighed.

They were in a functional grey corridor, lit imperceptibly from overhead. The Doctor set off to the right with the air of one who knew where he was going. They passed a reception area with another of the octopus creatures in clerical uniform.

'Good afternoon,' blasted the Doctor and walked straight past.  With an apologetic smile Brad hurried after him.

A good half hour later they were back at the reception desk and Brad had seen enough grey corridors to last a lifetime.  True, they were futuristic grey corridors but that really was not cutting much mustard with him.

'Infallible sense of direction?' asked Brad with a pained look.

'Exception that proves the rule.' The Doctor ignored him and beamed at the receptionist.

'Don't tell me,' said Brad. 'Information dissemination is your duty, right?'

'That is correct, sir.  I would remind you that, were you to ask me my function, I would be unable to withhold that information under the statutory protocols.'

'Right,' said Brad slowly.  'Nice.'

'Professor Sixela Capricornn?' interjected the Doctor before the conversation could take a further down turn.

'The professor is currently lecturing in the holo-suite, she will be free at the forty seventh segment,' said the creature.  Its one eye blinked slowly and changed colour to a shimmering opaque blue.  The image of a similar creature in some kind of high tech lecture hall appeared.

'Thank you very much,' said the Doctor. 'We'll follow the signs for the holo-suite.' He glanced at his wrist as they moved off, which showed the notable absence of a watch.  'Segment forty seven, which gives us, ooh, two and a half segments to spare.  Fancy taking in some more corridors?'

Brad was not listening.  'Who are these TV set tentacle heads?'

'Fourth Ossoban Republic.  I told you that when we arrived,' chided the Doctor.

'Sorry, it slipped my mind,' said Brad.  While the Doctor had set about ascertaining the location of the Data Tower he had had his Soul Killer moment in one of the lower level IntoxiKafs.  And had promptly forgotten where and nearly who he was for a good two hours.  Or was that segments?

Brad sighed again.

*

'Here we are!' The Doctor's enthusiasm was palpable.  They had arrived outside a set of silvered double doors.  A small wall mounted screen showed a gowned Ossoban lecturing to a good four hundred plus students. 'This is the one person, the one person,' the Doctor pummelled the air with his fist for emphasis, 'who might be able to help us. Temporal anomalies are her speciality!'

'As in Portland disappearing into the wild blue yonder?' said Brad.

'You think that's where it went?' The Doctor considered.  'Dangerous place the Yonder, especially in the blue phase.  No, I can't agree.  It doesn't even exist within linear time.'

Brad wondered whether to slap the Doctor or himself.  He had come down in favour of the latter when he noticed the Doctor heading for the doors.

'Hey, what are you doing?' He caught the Doctor by the arm.

'Might as well sit in,' said the Doctor.  'I think she's doing singular occlusion in fringe timelines.' He grinned.  'I'll meet you out here?'

'Good call,' acknowledged Brad.

The Doctor vanished inside the hall with a pneumatic hiss of air.  Brad watched the Doctor on the wall screen, as he found his seat, and then he set himself down on one of the low couches opposite.  He glanced idly up and down the corridor.  Away to the right the corridor turned a corner by another, internal, lift.  To the left were a number of alcoves.  The corridor itself disappeared into imperceptible distance.  For want of something better to do, Brad wandered up to the first of the alcoves.  He stared in amazement.

Turning slowly in a beam of turquoise light was the most beautiful, well… He did not know what to call it.  It looked like some perfect hybrid of guitar and synthesiser, fashioned from ebony black and silver.  Four crystalline strings ran the length of the instrument, from body to elegantly fluted neck.  The neck was interesting because there did not appear to be any keys for the 'strings'.  It simply tapered to a sleek crystalline sphere which seemed to glow with an inner luminescence.

Brad looked up and down the corridor.  It was no good.  He could not resist.  Tentatively he plucked at one of the 'strings'.  He jerked his hand back as a sharp electric shock ran up his arm.

'Ow!'

Damn thing must be security tagged in some way.  Not surprising, it was a pricey looking item.

'Do you wish communion with the host?'

Brad looked about himself. 'Who said that?'

Maybe the Soul Killer had some kind of audio flashback effect.  With a start he realised the guitar synthesiser had drifted imperceptibly towards him.  'So you're a speaking guitar, right?'

'We are the Atrexian Host.  We are in communion with the Host world and existing here as a cultural exchange.  You wish for communion, yes? Mind meld can cause much pain to inferior species but is permissible nonetheless.'

'No, no communion. It's a mistake,' said Brad. Under his breath he added: 'I'm here as a cultural ambassador from planet cock-up.'

The guitar seemed to turn on its axis. 'Please forgive this misunderstanding.'

'The apologies are all mine.'

As cultural faux pas went, this one had been pretty hot.

*

Observing this exchange from the lift away to the right was a spindle limbed figure. It stared with night black eyes, letting a placard it carried swing idly from hand to hand.  To the left it read 'Tick', back to the right and it said; 'Tock'.

The Dommervoy grinned a needle grin and snickered to itself.

*

Brad shivered as he made his way back to the couch. The lift doors at the turn of the corridor were sliding closed.  He had not seen anyone get in or out. There was movement on the wall scanner. The Ossoban holo-students were winking out of existence. The Doctor and Professor Capricornn emerged.

'Professor, this is my good friend Bradley DeMars.'

'Or just Brad,' Brad suggested.  Having the Doctor calling him Bradley was one thing, but he didn't want to be introduced as such.

'Sorry to have kept you waiting so long,' trilled the professor.

'No problem,' said Brad, a little uncertain. 'It's been no time.'

'You are very gracious,' said Professor Capricornn. 'I overran terribly but it is rare to have such an esteemed guest.'

The Doctor attempted to look modest and failed.

*

'So you see my problem, Professor,' finished the Doctor.  He had been explaining how he had met Brad and something of subsequent and previous events as they sat around the professor's hexagonal desk in her office.

The professor nodded imperceptibly, her one eye blinking.  'Where, or indeed when, to begin.'

'Exactly!' The Doctor was nodding furiously.

'Of course,' continued the professor, 'the primary consideration must be the so called First Law of Time, plus a recognition of those who do not subscribe to the theory.' She paused significantly. 'In both principle and practice.'

Great, thought Brad.  That's made everything really clear.  He stared distractedly out of the window, wondering why his teeth were itching.

*

Outside the window, an invisible paste white figure floated impossibly thousands of feet above the ground. It held twin balloons.  One said 'Cause', the other 'Effect'.  The balloons burst soundlessly.

*

The Doctor was excitedly pacing the office.  He had already done three circuits of the table. 'So what you're saying is it's a matter of narrowing the field of suspects.' He paused. 'Still leaves a pretty vast field.' He patted his ample stomach.  'All this application has given me an appetite. Sixela?' He looked expectantly at the professor.

'I don't think she's listening,' said Brad.

The Doctor stared. Professor Sixela Capricornn was clearly speaking but no sound was emerging.  She also appeared to be fading away before their eyes.

'Oh good grief!' The Doctor looked anguished.  He found he could pass a hand clean through the professor. 'Reality bomb.  It must have been primed and waiting for the trigger… Some form of nexus point.' He looked at Brad in horrified realisation. 'Me, Brad, me! I'm the trigger!'

The effect was now spreading.  Table, walls and floor were fading out. Snaking lines of nothing ran into one another, widening the void.  Brad stumbled away from the table, or what remained of it. The professor had completely vanished. With mounting concern Brad noted the walls and corridor outside were vanishing as well.  He stumbled towards the window.

'What the hell do we do?' He was not sure if he sounded or felt more alarmed.

'We don't panic in the face of adversity,' announced the Doctor passionately whilst also backing towards the window.  'We shall face this thing together, Bradley!'

'That's made all the difference,' said Brad. He looked desperately about himself and noted a softly glowing panel on the wall by the window.  'What's that?'

'What?'

'That!'

'Oh, call panel for the external lift,' said the Doctor blithely.

They stared at one another.

'Try the lift?' wondered Brad.

'A superb choice! And perhaps the only one left to us.' The Doctor gave his companion a thoughtful look.

Brad shook his head in disbelief, and leaned past the Doctor and hit the panel.

*

It had taken agonising seconds for the lift to arrive but arrive it did and they had tumbled inside, the Doctor hitting the descent button. There was no sign of the work of the reality bomb yet but Brad was not counting his chickens.

'So what is a reality bomb exactly?' he asked to pass the time.

'Oh, terrible things,' replied the Doctor. 'Outlawed by all the major conventions. The field of effect can be cosmic or very localised. They level the playing field geographically and temporally. Once they've activated physically there's a kind of mental wipe out for anyone within, but not physically destroyed by, the immediate zone of effect…' He tailed off as the lift came to rest with a gentle bump.

'What was I talking about?' he asked with a frown.

'Don't know,' said Brad, shrugging.  'Something about talking guitars… No.' He winced. 'I feel terrible.  I knew I shouldn't have tried that Soul Killer stuff.'

'Oh, you've tried the Soul Killer have you?' The Doctor threw back his head and laughed a life affirming laugh.  'Come on, let's get you back to the TARDIS.  You might want to sleep this one off in the Zero Room!'

The Doctor frowned again and shook his head.  'I can't think what we're doing on Ossobos for the lives of me…'

Next time…

Music was not a common occurrence in the TARDIS, and certainly not something she tended to play through the communication circuits, but then his ship had been acting oddly in many ways recently.  Not unlike the universe itself, come to think of it.

Still, he had to admit, it was a lovely tune.  Made him feel all thoughtful and relaxed inside.  Mellow.  Reminding him of times past, and friends lost.

He got up and walked over to the console.  'Well, old girl, where did you get this tune from?'

In answer the scanner screen activated.  It was an internal image that showed Brad in his room, sitting on the bed, wearing the kilt he'd become so found of, playing his keyboard.

The Doctor smiled.  'Ah, Bradley.'

To Be Continued… Saturday  23rd October

Edited by Andy Frankham-Allen, Greg Miller & Elizabeth Medeiros.
Cover © 2010 by Ewen Campion-Clarke.
Reality Bomb © 2001, 2010 by Niall Turner,
The Legacy © & ™ 2001, 2010 by Andy Frankham-Allen. 
Doctor Who © & ™ 1963, 2010 by BBC Worldwide. All Rights Reserved.