GRAVE MATTER.

by JUSTIN RICHARDS.

For Alison, Julian and Christian as ever and for ever.

And for Steve, for asking me to play.

First Generation

Chapter One.

Gathering.

Even dead men dream. There were curtains at the window, heavy with dust and age, stinking with decay. They were not drawn, and the moonlight spilled on to the moth-eaten carpet and the stained wood of the floor. He could open the window, he had found. He could open the window and reach out into the biting cold of the night beyond, pushing his arms between the bars until his shoulders ached for freedom.

Like pushing his arms into the rubber sleeves. Reaching into the dread-night of the sealed environment. Watching the light flooding into the box as he twisted the latch.

A cloud scudded across the blotchy face of the full moon.

There was a taste of mist in the air. The salt-sea smell permeated the room. Out of the corner of his bloodshot eye he caught sudden sight of a tiny dot of light - a star, perhaps.

Gleaming alone in the misting sky.

In his bloodshot mind's eye he was imagining the tiny speck of light pa.s.sing through the stellar clouds, bouncing off the atmosphere of distant planets, grasping at even smaller specks of material, ushering in the mists of s.p.a.ce. His hands clenched at the thought, grabbing at handfuls of the gathering mist and feeling them slip through his tortured fingers. He could feel the gaps in his left hand. He could feel the nerves and muscles that were no longer there. He could feel them even now twisting the catch. It was not an image he welcomed, and he pushed harder against the bars in an effort to break back to reality, to loose the dream and let it slip out on to the moors.

But instead, he saw his gloved hands open the catch, lift the lid, reach in for the contents of three-zero-seven.

'You were right,' he heard himself say, voice filtered by time, by imagination. 'It is genetic.'

And the man in the wheelchair nodded his satisfaction, smiling as if he knew what was to come. What they had unleashed.

He pressed harder still against the bars, so close now he could feel the rough edges of the rusted surfaces through his shirt.

Until he felt the bars give.

'Another drink?'

The woman put her hand over her gla.s.s and shook her head. She stifled a yawn.

'You don't mind if I do?' He did not wait for an answer, but refilled his own gla.s.s from the decanter. 'Yes,' he said, twisting the gla.s.s slowly by its stem, allowing the firelight to flicker on the facets of the bowl as he examined the rich, dark liquid inside. 'Yes, a good day's work.' He turned so his back was to the fire and raised his gla.s.s in salute. His thick fingers were a contrast to the delicate stem of the cut gla.s.s. 'We're making good progress,' he said.

The woman smiled back. She drained her gla.s.s and placed it on a low table beside her chair. 'I'm tired,' she announced.

'It's been a long day.'

The man seemed not to hear. He walked slowly across to the window and tweaked the curtain aside. 'Mist's coming in,'

he commented.

'I think I'll say good night.'

He turned from the window, letting the heavy curtain fall back into place. The gaslight on the nearest wall flickered slightly, sending shadows dancing across the man's craggy face, picking out the ridges and pits in his skin. 'We'll need more material,' he said quietly.

The woman stood up. 'So soon?' There was a depth of weariness in her voice.

'Tomorrow.' His face split into a sudden smile. 'Don't worry. I'll organise it.'

Before the woman could reply, there was a knock at the door. Urgent, loud.

'Come,' the man called out. He did not bother to look to see who it was. 'Yes, Rogers, what is it?'

The manservant was fl.u.s.tered. He stood in the doorway as if nervous of entering the room fully. His hands were clasped in front of him, shaking slightly. 'I'm sorry, sir,' he said, his voice tremulous.

The man did turn now, alerted by the tone of Rogers's voice. 'Well?'

'I was taking a drink to -' He broke off, swallowed. 'For the night. And of course to check that -'

'What is it?' The man's face was darkening. His voice betrayed his impatience.

'Well, he's gone, sir.'

'Gone?' the woman asked. She looked from one to the other.

'I'm sorry. The window.' Rogers swallowed again. 'The bars...' He opened his hands, apologetic, almost pathetic.

'Rusted, weak...'

The woman coughed a short, nervous half-laugh. 'But he's ill. We have to find him.'

'I couldn't agree more.' The man pushed his half-empty gla.s.s on to the mantel shelf as he spoke. 'We need him.' He kicked a burning log back into place, sending sparks showering across the grate. 'And we need him in one piece.'

He turned and strode purposefully towards the door.

'He could hurt himself.' The woman hurried after him.

'Hurt himself?' There was a note of derision in the man's voice.

'In his present state. He could...anything,' she protested.

Rogers stepped aside to let the man pa.s.s. 'The horses, sir?'

The man was already half-way down the panelled hallway towards the front door. 'And the dogs, Rogers,' he called back.

He paused in a pool of light cast by a wall lamp. For a moment he was motionless, as if composing himself. Then he turned back, and smiled thinly at the woman. 'Don't worry, my dear.

You get some sleep.' His smile hardened, as if setting in position. 'We'll soon run him to earth,' he said, his voice like gravel.

At least he had all his toes. At the moment.

He had settled into a sort of staggering run, forever falling forwards over the rough rocky ground, but never quite pitching on to his face. There was enough light from the moon seeping through the gathering mist for him to make out the landscape. The landscape which he knew so much better than they did. This was his landscape after all, his home.

He stumbled over an outcrop of rock, lost his balance. This time he did fall. He lay for a moment, staring back up at the grey-blackness. The whole sky seemed to be alive, seemed to be moving as the fog rolled in from the sea. If he listened he could hear the crash of the waves against the base of the cliff.

Not far now. Not far at all. And then...?

He pulled himself back to his feet, almost retching for breath. The skeletal outline of a tree was thrusting through the murky air beside him, and he grabbed at the nearest bone-branch for support. His thumb and single surviving finger curled round the damp, brittle wood.

Somewhere at the back of his memory he could hear the crack of pain as they removed his fingers. His brain was a muzzy fog as he watched them, knowing that the pain would follow. Soon. And then, it would happen again. And again.

The sound jerked him back to the present. The howl of a dog somewhere out on the moor behind him. Close to the house, perhaps. The noise was filtered and drawn out by the fog, a mournful baying tinged with a tired sadness that made him yearn to join in. But he knew he must keep silent. They would pick up his scent soon enough. The hounds would be racing over the moors, the hors.e.m.e.n close behind. Soon they would find him, find him and take him...home.

He was stumbling onwards again, hoping it was not far now. Straining to see the edge of the cliff through the night-fog.

He knew it so well, yet he almost missed it. The moorland stopped abruptly, as if cut through by a huge serrated knife.

The ground gave way into an abyss of blackness. He teetered on the edge, staring down. The sound of the waves crashed through the night. All he could see was the fog swirling round the base of the abyss, as if stirred up by the wind. As if escaping down a large plug hole. As if drawing him into its very heart.

The hounds were close now. He could hear their voices calling to each other through the night. They had the scent. His scent. His hounds.

It was only now that he knew why he had come here.

Now, as he stood staring down at the empty s.p.a.ce where the water was. Now, as the hounds were running. There was only one way they would lose his scent, he knew. Only one way out.

He turned to look back. At the same moment, the first of the dogs appeared through the fog. It was in midair, emerging from the gloom as it leaped towards him. He cried out despite himself, raised his arm to ward off the snapping teeth, took a step backwards.

For a brief moment he was poised, half on the edge, half over it. Then the animal connected with his arm, knocking him backwards, falling with him, tumbling head over kicking heels into the abyss.

Before the sound of the sea and the fog swallowed him whole.

Second Generation

Chapter Two.

Cortege The heavy air was split by a sudden sc.r.a.ping, a painful wrenching. The mist seemed to be drawn to the sound, swirling into a sudden gap. It coalesced round a single area, solidifying slowly into shape. A square, box shape. The flash of the lamp on top of the blue box vied with the pale sunlight, struggling to be seen through the thickening air.

Then with a final satisfied thump and a last flash of the light, the TARDIS became real, pushing the mist out of the area it now occupied.

A little later the door creaked open and Peri looked tentatively round the edge, her dark hair framing her face. She sniffed at the misty air, wrinkling her nose up at the scent of the sea. She was about to step back inside when she was suddenly propelled forwards, through the doors, making way for the Doctor to step out on to the moorland.

As Peri stumbled and struggled to regain her balance, the Doctor drew his heavy cloak around him and took several theatrically deep breaths. 'Bracing!' he announced hugely, turning a complete circle as he looked around.

Peri hunched up inside her heavy, dark coat. Beneath it she was wearing a thick velvet dress that reached down almost to her ankles. But she could already feel the cold, damp air working its way through to her bones. 'Not very inspiring, Doctor,' she told him. 'Let's try again.'

'It may not be inspiring to you, young lady.' He was already pulling the TARDIS doors closed and locking them.

He turned and set off across the uneven ground without looking for her reaction. 'But to the true genius, inspiration is to be found...' He paused as if trying to recall exactly where it was to be found. 'Everywhere,' he decided expansively. He waved both arms as wide as he could, letting his cloak open to reveal the gaudy coat beneath.

'Huh,' Peri said. She hitched up her dress and ran after him as he set off again.

The Doctor was still speaking, presumably to himself since Peri could not hear what he was saying until she was quite close.

'Oh yes,' he agreed with himself. 'Sermons in stones, books in the babbling brook.' He turned towards Peri as if he believed she had been with him the whole time. 'Inspiration in everything.'

'Huh,' Peri said again.

'Huh,' the Doctor mimicked back. 'Not a very inspired response, if you don't mind me saying.'

Peri seriously considered saying 'huh' again, just to underline the point. But as she hesitated the moment was lost to her.

'Earth,' the Doctor announced. 'Got to be.' He took another deep breath. 'Need to check, of course. When running in a new supply of Zeiton-Seven you have to recalibrate everything. Work out where you are, so you know where you're going. Find out when it is, so you can tell when it will be next. That sort of thing.' He stopped suddenly and drew in a deep breath of mist. 'Mmm,' he decided as Peri caught up with him. 'Taste that sea air. Cornwall, perhaps? Untainted by the excesses of pollution anyway.' He glared at Peri from point-blank range. 'So we're not in your enlightened times.'

'Hey,' Peri snapped back, 'I just live there.'

'Huh,' said the Doctor. Then he suddenly grinned and nudged her with his shoulder as if sharing a deep and meaningful joke. 'Let's get the time and place, and then I can recalibrate the calibrators and we can be on our way.'

'And why do we need to recalibrate the calibrators?'

He stopped dead in his tracks. 'My dear Peri, that is what they are for. You have to calibrate calibrators. Otherwise what earthly use would they be to anyone? It's part of the running in, the resumption of normal service. The calibration,' he finished, a note of desperation creeping into his voice. He shook his head and embarked on a series of profound 'tuts'