Seven Square

The Twenty-Third of November Two Thousand and Twelve. Friday.

Today is the Forty-Ninth anniversary of Doctor Who, which is basically my favourite thing in the history of everything, ever. It's an unwritten rule of this blog that I don't go on about it here, because (as anyone who has got me on the subject knows) I can go on for hours about it. So apart from the odd mention I try to cover other, more varied subjects like egg and chips and vacuum cleaners (actually, have I done vacs? Have to do some research for that one then).

Next year is the big Fiftieth bash, which I am looking forward to immensely (so no ruining that please, Mayan Apocalypse people), and the whole fabulous history of the show will duly be celebrated then. So I want to briefly focus on part of it that isn't always celebrated: the Seventh Doctor Era (and who other than Doctor Who fans throw around terms like 'era'!)

Sylvester McCoy is brilliant. Is he the best actor to play the Doctor? Well, I'm not attempting some perverse revisionist anlysis of the series. But he is a fantastic performer, if I can make that distinction. There's always something going on when he's on screen. I think part of the reason he seems to wander over his delivery is he's constantly going in several directions at once. Like the other 'Classic Series' Doctors, he's continued to adventure through Big Finish's audio adventures, which you would think would not be his ideal medium. But recently I got to hear him say one of my favourite speeches twenty years after he didn't say it the first time.

Back in the 90s there was no Who on TV, but there were New Adventures for the Doctor in novel form. Some of the best of these were written by Paul Cornell, who later went on to write for the new series, penning Father's Day, and an adaptation of another of his novels, Human Nature (which if I were you I'd just pop off and read right now - here's a link to it. As brilliant as the TV version is, this is even better. Yes, really). In his second novel, Love and War he introduces the character of Bernice Summerfield, who is still going strong in adventures of her own to this very day. But he also writes a version of the Seventh Doctor that explored the emotional potential of the character in a way that did a lot of the groundwork for when the TV series returned. It's this book that Steven Moffat quotes from in The Girl in the Fireplace when the Doctor claims to be 'what monsters have nightmares about'. But here he qualifies that, sadly: 'But everyone's a monster sometimes...'

As part of the twentieth anniversary celebrations of the character of Bernice, Big Finish made an audio version of Love and War with that particular speech intact. I loved reading that all that time ago, and a couple of weeks ago hearing Sylvester say those lines, effortlessly shifting from impish bravado to sorrow, was a real treat. Some of my favourite Doctor Who.

So today I'm specifically celebrating the Seventh Doctor. Here's a little bit of fiction to do just that. Fans will remember the Doctor's confrontation with Fenric - the embodiment of 'evil since the dawn of time'. A very strange chess puzzle helped bring about Fenric's downfall.

Well, here he gets another chance to get the better of his Time Lord enemy...

Seven Square

It was one of those dimensions – branes, I think they're calling them nowadays – where the laws of physics were simpler than we're used to. Weirder than we're used to too, although if you were an abstract distillation of ultimate evil you probably wouldn't particularly notice the difference from our world. It could have been Washington Square Park in New York City, but it was empty.

Time certainly had no meaning.

'You're late,' said Fenric, on this occasion occupying the form of an unfortunate warp speleologist whose corpse had finished up here after an accident while exploring a wormhole. He looked like a disgruntled ifrit.

The Time Lord known as the Doctor doffed his hat apologetically, though it went unseen.

'I didn't think you'd mind waiting. Considering what I'm offering you.'

The Doctor's feet crunched on the gravel of the path that led up to a stone table where Fenric sat. The two old enemies refused to catch the other's gaze, even when the Doctor took the seat opposite Fenric and propped his umbrella – topped by a handle the shape of a battered red question mark – against the table.

Between them lay a chessboard, its pieces in place before the first move had been made. The Doctor gestured toward the board.

'This is what you wanted, isn't it?' he said.

Fenric's bright red face snarled.

'This is what I'm due! A proper match – not some nonsensical puzzle that flouts the rules of the game.'

The Doctor tutted.

'You agreed to the conditions of my challenge. You can't cry foul just because things didn't turn out so well for you.'

'You forget – I solved your perfidious test. Yet even then your arrogance prevented you from conceding the victory that was mine.' The words sizzled upon Fenric's bloodless lips.

'Yes, well, you're not alone in holding that opinion.' The Doctor glanced upward as if he was aware there was another – unseen – audience for his words. 'Apparently even unspeakable evil is entitled to the right of appeal.' Again, he gestured to the board. 'Here is your game.'

Fenric finally looked at the Doctor directly. A less confident man might have withered under the contempt of that gaze, but the Doctor continued to smile amicably.

'You still insist on wearing that ridiculous form,' said Fenric.

'You're a fine one to talk,' replied the Doctor.

'At least you have refined your apparel.'

The Doctor pointed to his burgundy waistcoat, his eyebrows raised in mock surprise. 'This?'

'I did not care for that hideous pullover of yours,' continued Fenric. 'It was not worthy of a being of your standing.'

The Doctor puffed out his cheeks.

'I just thought it was funny,' he replied. 'Nothing worth getting in a tizz about.' He immediately changed the subject. 'Shall we play? I'm keen to get this over and done with. The uneven way time flows in this place is making the back of my knees itch. I only called the game to this lower-lying brane as a courtesy to you. I thought it might be easier for you to access after your banishment.'

Fenric eyed his opponent suspiciously.

'With your record that seems uncharacteristically sporting of you.'

'Don't thank me yet,' said the Doctor. 'There are some spatial anomalies that come hand in hand with a bargain basement dimension like this. I do hope they don't put you off your game.'

Fenric began to reply. 'What do you mea-?'

At last he noticed it. His face twisted with rage.

'There are only forty-nine squares on this board!'

The Doctor smiled.

'Your move.'





More soonliest

The Boy Who Never Grew Up

The Twentieth of September Two Thousand and Eleven. Tuesday.

When you give a Mother's love,

Milk and Warmth are not enough,

Guard your daughter, watch your son,

If you would not have them gone.

Hide your child from fairy eyes,

Let but mortals hear their cries, 

Cross no pixie, harm no sprite,

Or lose your loved one to the night.

Beate Zweibel (1822-1879)

Trans. Thomas Sachs

This is the tale of the boy who never grew up.

Across a magic skyline and under a field of stars.

A city of souls sheltered within brick and stone.

A time of penny posts and songs of Empire.

A time of iron horses, dreadnoughts of steel.

Of young children's dreams of the future.

She didn't speak, fairies very rarely do, yet William Robinson understood every word that wasn't said.

My  name is Julia, she had told him. If the clockwork miracles of the ages to come hold no wonder for you, then I offer an alternative. Attend me now and learn of a realm worthy of your wishes and your imagination.

And William sat at the foot of his bed casting hour and minute hand shadows by candle and fairy light. He weighed stories of floating continents beyond the clouds against tales of exploration and exploitation abroad. He compared the riding of unicorns and coltpixies to the static, dust-gathering bulk of the great steamship models his father had harboured about this bedroom. His engineer father. His engineering father. His engineering fate.

William made a decision.

He asked how he might join this other, better and brighter world.

There was a spray of glittering dust, its volume many times greater than that of the diminutive fairy from whom it issued, which engulfed the young boy.

Close your eyes and think happy thoughts, Julia replied.

Then, there were two airborne figures, swooping and spiralling around the room like mating butterflies. A momentary whoop of delight was silenced by the lateness of the hour. The aerobatic display continued, quietly now, Julia leading young Master Robinson is a series of  instructional manoeuvres to improve his speed and mobility. These finished with a spectacular figure-of-eight loop.

Now you are ready, announced Julia, come with me to The Land Beyond Beyond and take your rightful place amoung us, O child of man.

Julia wheeled and spun with typical fairy indirectness, then darted out of the window. William followed eagerly.

It took a matter of seconds for the ant colony to swarm over the compass-rose corpse etched upon the pavement.

The skin dissolved and ran quicksilver-like off Julia's shiny black body, revealing the canister embedded into the exo-skeleton at ther uppper right leg. Stencilled upon it weren't words, fairies very rarely use them, yet these symbols were perfectly readable. They said: "FORMIC HALLUCINOGEN"

Julia consulted her itinerary. Mary-Elizabeth Hilton, 24 Bilbury Avenue, then on, out of London altogether.

It would be morning before the colony stripped the meat down to the bone.

This is the tale of the boy who never grew up.

More soonliest.