Doctor Who: The Twin Dilemma (2 page)

Archie tried to cheer himself up by telling the twins about the android babysitter, but they remained impassive. He then enquired what sort of day they had had and the twins related in minute, boring detail each tedious event. Archie then attempted to counter bore by telling them about the publisher's party he was about to attend, but omitted to say that afterwards he was having dinner with computer programmer Vestal Smith - when the Voxnic would flow like water and he would receive lots of the deep understanding she was so good at.

But then the inevitable happened, the question Archie had dreaded.

It was made doubly unpleasant as it came in the middle of thinking about Vestal Smith.

'Where's Mother?'

Archie locked his fantasy away in a large box marked 'private' and turned towards his hateful son.

'Er... well, Remus,' he muttered. Archie hated using the twin's names in case he got them wrong. 'Well... to be honest... er ... she's busy.'

'Does that mean she isn't talking to us?' Remus's tone was as pompous and as arrogant as a tax official having just discovered a double entry. 'Or has she already gone out without saying goodbye?'

Archie reluctantly nodded. The twins retorted with a scowl, then said together 'Abandoned again!' This speaking as one person always unnerved Archie. He was aware that identical twins sometimes possessed an uncanny rapport with each other and were often able to anticipate what the other was about to say, but Romulus and Remus were able to bring a rather unpleasant edge to the way they used this talent.

'You we forgive. Father... but not Mother.' Their dual intonation was like a terrible threat.

'I wish you would be kinder to your mother.' Archie was surprised at how stern he sounded. He then became afraid when the two advanced towards him. Standing shoulder to shoulder they stared up into his face, their own countenance hard and unyielding.

'Why?' they said together. 'Because mother happened to give birth to us, does that automatically grant her a place in our affections?'

Archie wasn't certain if the question was meant to be rhetorical or not, as they didn't give him time to answer.

'Respect must be earnt, Father. Mother is a fool! You know that!

Do you wish us to respect a fool. You've always said the contrary.'

A fool'.' A fool! How can they think she's a fool, he screamed inside his head. A woman who has four Ph.Ds and more degrees than any other person this side of Vebus Twelve! A fool!

Romulus and Remus continued to stare up at their father. Archie wondered if they could hear every ranting thought in his head.

Well, I hope you can! But out loud he said somewhat stiffly, 'Your mother is who she is whether you think her a fool or not. It's no excuse for poor manners and lack of concern.'

Archie braced himself for a savage riposte, but instead the twins turned away. 'As you wish, Father,' they said as one voice and then crossed to their computer terminals.

Archie was puzzled. Why the sudden change of mood'.' Cautiously he looked around the room expecting the worse sort of danger. The twins never gave up without a struggle. As a rule they would fight to the last shred and tatter of their argument.

Once more Archie's paranoia took flight. Perhaps they've put a bomb in my personal transporter. Reprogrammed the android babysitter. At this very moment it's making its way silently up the stairs, its micro-circuitry throbbing with one command: KILL

ARCHIE SYLVEST!

'Goodnight, Father.' The tone was one of dismissal, not farewell.

Archie's racing mind jerked to a halt. 'Oh ...' he said, sounding awkward and embarrassed as though he'd been asked a question to which he should have known the answer. 'Right... Goodnight, boys.' There was no reply.

Archie closed the twins' bedroom door behind him. His demeanour was that of a reprimanded schoolboy leaving a headmaster's study.

He was angry with himself. They always made him feel like a fool, yet he was every inch their equal. Had he not been called the finest mathematician since Albert Einstein? When only twenty years old, had he not published his thesis, 'Pure Mathematics and its Relationship with the Square Root of Minus Three.' (Archie was the first person to calculate the square root of minus three, until then, a feat considered impossible.) Not only had it astounded the mathematical world, but his book had become a best seller. He had proven his ability. I am a legend in the world of mathematics. I dominate my subject like a colossus.' What have those hateful children done'.

' Nothing.'

Dejectedly Archie shuffled along the hall and down the stairs.

Although he was a champion, a genius. Emperor of the Parellelogram, he knew it was simply a matter of time before he was replaced on the winner's pedestal by the twins. The consumption of all the Voxnic in the world couldn't change that.

The twins were too gifted for it not to happen. The trouble was Archie was too proud for it not to hurt. His psychiatrist was right: he was jealous of his own children.

The front door of twenty-five Lydall Street swung open and the portly frame of the greatest mathematician since Albert Einstein stepped out. The evening air was cold and Archie gave an involuntary shudder as it embraced him. As he turned to close the door, a gruff, hairy voice said, 'Are you Professor Archie Sylvest?'

Smiling, Archie turned to face his questioner. The owner of the voice was even more Neanderthal than expected. Archie stared blankly at the man and wondered who he could be.

Suddenly something powerful and hairy settled on Archie's arm.

At first glance, it resembled an enormous tropical spider, but on closer examination it turned out

to be a muscular hand. The grip tightened on Archie's podgy limb, causing him to flinch. 'I'm Reginald Smith,' the voice grunted,

'Vestal Smith's husband!'

As ink travels on blotting paper, so did a look of horror slowly spread across the mathematician's face. At the same moment he seemed to lose control of his jaw and his mouth dropped open to reveal a set of excellent teeth. Unless Archie could immediately get his hand on a knuckle duster, a large club or the experience of a dozen karate lessons he would soon require the extensive service of an orthodontist. But such rescue only comes in fantasies and the grip, now hardening on his arm, reminded him of the impending reality.

From any point of view, it had not been Archie's day.

Deep in space, aboard the Doctor's TARDIS, things weren't an awful lot better. Regeneration had taken place, the event that is both a blessing and a scourge of the Time Lords of Gallifrey.

When a Time Lord is in danger of dying, his body grown too old to go on working properly, or, as one reported case has it, for reasons of vanity, a Time Lord is able to change his physical shape. This is brought about by a massive release of a hormone called lindos, which, at lightening speed, is transported around the body causing it cells to reform and realign themselves. Although much work has been done by genetic engineers on Gallifrey, the process still remains a random and, in some cases, rather an erratic one.

Some Time Lords are able to proceed through their allotted twelve regenerations with enormous grace and dignity, growing older and more handsome with each change of shape. Others leap about to a startling degree, finishing one regeneration a wise and noble elder, only to start the next a youthful, boastful braggart. This, needless to say, can cause enormous emotional and psychological upset. A good example of this was Councillor Verne.

It is said that he had regenerated into the most beautiful person ever to be seen on Gallifrey. As a rule, beauty earns little esteem on that planet, but Verne was so startling in his good looks that other Time Lords wanted to be seen in his company. Soon he had been elevated to the rank of Councillor by his rich and powerful admirers, but some said, perhaps jealously, that he was as stupid as he was beautiful. Whether that was true or not didn't alter the fact that he was totally unsuited to the world of politics. And it was this ineptitude that brought about his downfall.

The Council of Gallifrey had been in session for days. The motion under debate was a very delicate one. The Council was divided, but the faction who included those who had sponsored Verne's rapid rise to power were certain they had won enough members over to their point of view. When it came to the vote, Verne cast his for the wrong side, and the motion was lost.

No-one ever did find out whether Verne had voted against them on purpose. Some say he had spent most of the debate asleep and, on being suddenly woken, had pressed the wrong voting button in a somnolent daze. The more wicked observers say he had never learnt to read and therefore was unable to decipher the words 'for'

and 'against' printed above the voting buttons. But whatever the reason, his foolishness caused inflamed tempers to rupture and a fight broke out, during which Verne was so badly hurt that he was forced to regenerate to save his life. Unfortunately the regeneration process was not as kind as it had been before. What emerged was a very plain face which housed a voice a full octave higher than is normal for a male Time Lord. And such was its sing-song quality it caused those around him to involuntarily snigger when he spoke.

To be laughed at is never fun. To Verne, who had received nothing but praise and admiration since his last regeneration, it was unbearable. And such was his pain that he forced himself to immediately regenerate once more. Alas, the strain on his system was too much. What emerged was a bent, twisted, deformed old man.

Verne was devastated. He regenerated yet again, this time into an amorphous blob that belched and gurgled. He attempted to regenerate one more time, but the hideous monster that emerged was ordered destroyed by the then Lord President.

Although this fate did not await the Doctor, his regeneration could have gone better. Whereas his features had matured slightly and his waist thickened a little, his overall appearance was quite presentable.

It was his mind that was unstable.

Watched by Peri, his American companion, the Doctor slowly climbed to his feet. The poor woman was terrified. Being stuck in space in a time-machine she could not fly along with a human chameleon, did not reassure her at all. Slowly she backed across the console room of the TARDIS, even though she had no idea where she was going or what she could do.

As she reached the door leading to the corridor the Doctor turned to face her. 'Well,' he said enthusiastically. 'What do you think?'

Peri gazed back at the Doctor. 'Er... Er. .. Er. ..' Her mouth worked up and down like a demented goldfish. She seemed unable to shape her lips to form words.

'Well?' insisted the Doctor.

'It's ...' Peri willed herself to speak. 'It's... terrible?

The Doctor looked down at his clothes, completely misunderstanding what she had meant. Because he had grown in bulk, the seams of his jacket had split, making him look like some dishevelled tramp. 'Oh, never mind about the clothes,' he said dismissively, 'they're soon changed. What about me - the way I look?'

Peri didn't care how he looked. She wanted to know how he had changed. Because from where she came people didn't behave as the Doctor had. No one!

Why doesn't he understand me? Why doesn't he realise how terrified I am. Why hasn't he told me he was capable of such metamorphosis?

These questions remained unanswered largely because Peri hadn't said them out loud. Even if she had the Doctor would not have heard. He was too intent on examining his new face in a mirror. He seemed pleased with it, feeling each feature with the tips of his fingers, like an osteopath gently manipulating a damaged bone.

Satisfied with his new psysiognomy, he pushed past Peri and entered the corridor. Now he required new clothes, garments that would complement his regenerated appearance.

He bounded down the corridor, cautiously followed by Peri. 'You know,' said the Doctor, I was never happy with my last incarnation.'

'Why ever not?'

The Doctor paused outside the door of a room. Beyond was a vast store of clothes he had accumulated over the decades. 'He had a feckless charm,' continued the Doctor, 'that wasn't me.'

'That's absolute rubbish.' Peri was indignant. 'You were almost young. I really liked you. You were sweet.'

The Doctor snarled. 'Sweet!' He threw open the door of the wardrobe and blustered in. That says it all! Sweet... effete, you mean!'

Peri remained in the corridor for a moment. She was fuming. Her major concern now was how she would cope with such an ogre as the new Doctor.

Suddenly there was a cry from the room. It was one of pain and distress, but not that of a mature man, more the sort of indignant rage uttered by a child when it learns the ground is a painful thing to fall on.

Cautiously, Peri peered around the jamb of the door. Huddled in the middle of the room in a foetal position was the Time Lord, wailing in a low, mournful tone: 'Help me. Help me.'

Peri crossed to the Doctor and bent down at his side. The Time Lord's face looked old and tired. His eyes were lifeless and empty.

'I'm sorry, Peri.' The voice sounded exhausted. 'I've been inconsiderate. You must be terrified by what's happened.'

Although appearing to be in enormous pain, the Doctor continued to reassure her that things weren't as bad as they seemed and that he would soon recover. He also tried to explain what had happened to him, but his use of complicated technical terms made it difficult for her to follow or understand.

The Doctor burbled on, talking about many things almost as though he needed simply to chatter. Most of the time he made sense, but occasionally he slipped into gibberish. Peri felt completely helpless. Although the face before her was that of a stranger she could sense that the old Doctor, a man she had grown to love and respect, was, in many ways, still alive.

Peri recalled what had taken place on Androzani Minor, the planet where the Doctor's regeneration had started. How they had both been infected with Spectrox Toxemia and how the Doctor had risked his life to get the antidote, only to find there was enough for one person. This he had given to her without a second thought, then been forced to save his own life by regenerating. All this he had done for her, without pause or hesitation or thought for himself. It seemed that the Doctor would have willingly given up his life, if necessary. Yet, when Peri was called upon to help him, she had panicked, her head filled with thoughts only of her own plight and safety.