Doctor Who - The Silent Stars Go By Read online

  DAN ABNETT

  1 3 5 7 9 1 0 8 6 4 2

  Published in 2011 by BBC Books, an imprint of Ebury Publishing.

  A Random House Group Company

  Copyright © Dan Abnett 2011

  Dan Abnett has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Doctor Who is a BBC Wales production for BBC One.

  Executive producers: Steven Moffat, Caroline Skinner and Piers Wenger BBC, DOCTOR WHO and TARDIS (word marks, logos and devices) are trademarks of the British Broadcasting Corporation and are used under licence.

  Ice Warriors created by Brian Hayles

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission or the copyright owner.

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  ISBN 978 1 849 90243 4

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  Editorial director: Albert DePetrillo

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  Cover design: Lee Binding © Woodlands Books Ltd, 2011

  Production: Rebecca Jones

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  Contents

  Prologue

  9

  1. In the Bleak Midwinter

  16

  2. Let Nothing You Dismay

  26

  3. If Thou Knowst Thy Telling

  36

  4. Though the Frost Was Cruel

  45

  5. The Hopes and Fears of All the Years

  59

  6. Deep and Crisp and Even

  76

  7. The Stars in the Night Sky

  88

  8. Certain Poor Shepherds in Fields as

  They Lay

  102

  9. The Night Is Darker Now

  121

  10. Underneath the Mountain

  134

  11. The Maker of Our Earth

  163

  12. Brighter Visions Beam Afar

  184

  13. Brightly Shone the Moon that Night

  210

  14. Born to Raise the Sons of Earth, Born to Give Them Second Birth

  237

  15. Now in Flesh Appearing

  265

  16. Guide Us to Thy Perfect Light

  277

  17. Close by Me Forever

  285

  18. Above Thy Deep and Dreamless Sleep

  292

  Acknowledgements

  295

  About the Author

  296

  For George

  O little town of Bethlehem

  How still we see thee lie

  Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

  The silent stars go by

  Yet in thy dark streets shineth

  The everlasting Light

  The hopes and fears of all the years Are met in thee tonight

  ~ 'O Little Town of Bethlehem',

  a song of Earth before

  Vesta got up early that morning, before Guide's Bell rang to mark the start of labour, before the sun had come up and brought heat and full light. She got dressed in the dark, in woollens, and skirts both under and over, and a cap, and two shawls. She had gloves that Bel had sewn for her. It was very cold. She could feel the red in her cheeks and nose, and the water in her eyes, and she could see the white smoke of her breath in the gloom.

  It was a biting cold, a bad cold. It was a cold that had a threat to it, not a promise, no matter what Bill Groan and the others said. Winter was supposed to go away, not come worse. Eighteen years Vesta had been alive, and she had never seen a white winter until the last three, each one whiter than the one before.

  When she took her coat off the peg, her hands were numb despite her gloves. The twilight of dawn, a grey light made brighter by the snow, was creeping into the back hallway. By it, she found her boots, and the little pot and tie of heathouse flowers she had laid out the night before. She found the pole too, a pruning hook, strong and almost two metres long. It wasn't the season for pruning, but she'd left it ready too because Bel had said it was good to know how deep snow was before you walked on it. Snow changed the landscape, and filled holes up. You could fall, or vanish, or turn an ankle and lie out of help's way so long you'd freeze.

  They had all been told not to go out alone, especially early or late, but that was just worry. There had always been stories of things lurking up in the woods. They were stories made up to frighten children.

  Vesta had things to do. Some old dog bothering the herds wouldn't bother her.

  She saw her name on the label above her peg.

  Harvesta Flurrish. Next to it, Bel's name. Next to that, an empty peg. Bel was not one for sentiment: she was older and she was clever. However, Vesta Flurrish could not let the day go unmarked.

  Chaunce Plowrite had make them all metal cleats for their boots. Bill Groan, the Elect, gave Chaunce permission to make them out of leftover shipskin, and there wasn't much of that remaining. Vesta had hoped, when she woke, she wouldn't need to use them.

  But she did.

  Snow had come again in the night, overlaying the snow from the days before. Everything had a soft curved edge to it.

  In the yard, the sky was night blue, the colour of Bel's eyes. First light, and clear all the way to the stars.

  The rooftops and chimneys of Beside, bearded with snow, were black against the blue, and so were the bare trees beyond, and the great rising plateaus of the Firmers. The plumes of steam coming from the vents on the tops of the Firmers were luminous white against the cobalt blue. They were catching the earliest rays of sunlight because they were so much higher up than anything else.

  Vesta turned on her solamp, and hung it from her pole. Then she started to walk, her metal cleats crunching, her pruning pole probing the snow cover, one hand holding up the hem of her over skirts. A dog barked in the yard. In the byre behind the Flurrish house, the cattle were lowing.

  She followed the North Lane out of Beside, past the well and up towards Would Be, which lay in the shadow of Firmer Number Two.

  It was slow going. It was hard work striding over ground that sank under you. Vesta's legs began to ache.

  She stopped to rest for a minute and looked down at the streams that fed the autumn mills. They were frozen like glass in that stilled place between night and morning.

  By the time she reached Would Be, she knew she would not manage to get back to Beside before Guide's Bell rang and called them to work. She resolved to work on after nightchime to make up. Vesta also knew that the people of the plantnation community would excuse her. They would allow her an hour or so, once a year.

  Would Be was quiet. The trees were like silent figures with snowy caps. Autumn had taken their leaves, but winter was bowing their black branches and trunks. Vesta's solamp was beg
inning to flutter, its charge worn out, but it was getting lighter by the minute. The blue sky and the white snow were both tinged with pink from the sun-to-be.

  As she walked along, in the quiet, she felt for one moment that someone was following her. But it was just the stillness, and her imagination.

  The memory yard was in the centre of Would Be, a place chosen years ago as a quiet bit of earth. Patience was said to be the greatest virtue of all Morphans, and those who lay here were the most patient of all. Simple stones marked each burial spot, each one marked with a name, as clear as the labels above the pegs in the back hall of the Flurrish house.

  There were Flurrishes here. Years of them, laid out and remembered, mixed up with all the other Morphan families. Vesta's mum had gone away long ago, before Vesta was really old enough to know her. She lay here, and Vesta always said a friendly hello to her stone.

  But Vesta had come for her dad, Tyler Flurrish, gone four years, taken by a fever. He'd seen the colder seasons coming, and fretted about it with his kin, but he hadn't lived to see the actual snow and ice. Vesta wondered if he felt it there in the ground, across his grave like a numbing blanket. He would have worried too much, about his daughters Vesta and Bel, and about the future that awaited them.

  Vesta crouched by the grave and brushed the snow off the stone so she could read the name there. She took out the flowers she had brought, and set them in the jar on his plot. It would have been his birthday, so she wished him a happy one, and then talked to him a little about the work and how things were.

  Far away, down in Beside, Guide's Bell chimed.

  Vesta bowed her head and said a few words to Guide, and asked Guide to look after her dad. Then she got up to make her way back.

  The stars were still out. Over in the west, behind the bare silhouettes of the trees, one seemed to be moving.

  Vesta stopped to watch. There had been talk of stars moving. Even Bel said she had seen one do it. Many said it was a bad omen, signifying the coming danger of the cold, but it was a mystery too. Stars weren't supposed to slide silently past in the darkness of a winter dawn.

  Moving slowly, making no sound, it disappeared behind a stand of trees. Vesta hurried along to see if she could catch another glimpse of it.

  That's when she saw the tracks.

  She almost walked across them. They were so deep in the snow, they held shadow and looked as black as pitch. They cut straight through the heart of Would Be from the north, running away towards Firmer Number Three.

  They were the biggest footprints she'd ever seen, bigger than even Jack Duggat would make, with his work boots and his metal cleats on and everything.

  And it wasn't just the size of the prints - the stride length was also huge.

  Vesta stared for a moment. She thought hard, trying to explain what she could see. She wondered if they were footprints that had begun to melt, thus exaggerating their size.

  But they were fresh. The snow was only a few hours old, and there had not yet been enough day to start to thaw it. No one was out except her, not this far north of the town. The tracks were clean cut. She could see where the heel and the toe pads had cut.

  A giant had walked through the silent woods, and not long ago. If she had left her dad's grave just a few minutes earlier, she would have met it. It would have come right across her path.

  Vesta Flurrish was really scared. Her hands were trembling, and it wasn't from the cold. Beside seemed a long way away: too far to reach quickly, too far to run to, too far to call to. She didn't even want to cross the tracks to run for home. That felt like the wrong thing to do, as if the giant might feel her path crossing his, and turn back for her.

  She turned and began to run back towards the memory yard. At that moment, with the sun still not even risen, by her father's side seemed the safest place to be.

  But there was something waiting for her in the trees, something with a deep, gurgling growl like a dog being throttled, something with red eyes that caught the gleam of the early light.

  Something bred to kill.

  Chapter

  1

  In the Bleak Midwinter

  'That,' said Amy, unable to disguise a slight note of surprise, 'was a perfect landing.'

  'I thank you for noticing,' replied the Doctor. He beamed, and flipped a row of console switches to their

  'off' positions with the flourish of a maestro organist shutting down his Wurlitzer after a career-defining performance.

  'Then why are we leaning?' asked Rory.

  'Leaning?' asked the Doctor, polishing the glass in the console dials with a handkerchief.

  'Over,' said Rory. 'To one side.'

  'We're not,' said the Doctor.

  'Stand up straight,' said Amy.

  They all did. They all looked at themselves in relation to the guard rail uprights.

  'Ah,' said the Doctor.

  'That is lean-y,' he conceded.

  'Perhaps not as perfect as I first imagined,' he added.

  '"Lean-y"?' asked Amy.

  'Well, lean -ish at the very least,' replied the Doctor, sliding down the handrail of the stairs to reach the TARDIS main deck.

  'We're allowed to make up words now, are we?'

  asked Rory.

  'I thought that was well established,' said Amy.

  'Look, it doesn't matter,' said Rory, following Amy down the control room stairs. 'It wasn't a complaint, the leaning thing.'

  'Lean-ish,' the Doctor and Amy corrected him together.

  'Whatever,' said Rory. 'It wasn't a complaint. I wasn't complaining. Lean all you like. I just want to check that we're in the right place. We can be leaning in the right place. That's fine. As long as we're in the right place. Are we in the right place?'

  The Doctor stopped at the TARDIS door, turned to face Rory, and placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. He peered into Rory's eyes.

  'Rory Williams Pond,' said the Doctor.

  'Not my actual name.' said Rory.

  'Rory Williams Pond, did I not promise to get you back home for Christmas?'

  'Yes.'

  'Back home to Earth for Christmas?'

  'Yes. Directly to Leadworth, near Gloucester f—'

  'Ub-bub-bub-bub!' the Doctor chided. 'Specifics, mere specifics. Home for Christmas, that was the deal, right?'

  'Yes.' Rory agreed.

  'Doesn't the margin for interpretation seem huge now?' Amy asked him. She was pulling on wellies and a duffel coat. 'I mean, he's not even guaranteeing a street address, so which Christmas he's talking about becomes a bit vague too.'

  'Oh, I hadn't even considered that,' groaned Rory.

  'Home for Christmas is what I promised,' declared the Doctor. 'Home for Christmas is what I will deliver, even if there has to be some leaning involved.'

  He looked at Amy.

  'Duffel, Pond?'

  She was buttoning the toggles.

  'Hello? Christmas? Leadworth? Chilly?' she replied.

  'Good point,' said the Doctor. He looked thoughtful and twiddled his bow tie, as though it doubled as a thermostatic control.

  'I had a fur coat somewhere,' he reflected. 'Big fur coat. Very warm. I wonder where that went?'

  Amy glanced at Rory. 'Just the cardy, then?'

  'Yes.' he said, zipping it up.

  'That's your level of confidence?'

  'You can't be disappointed if you don't get your hopes up.' said Rory.

  The Doctor opened the doors. A breath of cold air touched their faces, just a gentle gust as though someone had opened an upright freezer.

  'Wow.' said Amy.

  'There, oh ye of little faith.' smiled the Doctor. He took a deep breath. 'You can almost smell the sleigh bells jingling.'

  They went outside into perfect, virgin snow that was half a metre deep. The sky was a peerless blue, and the sun had a fiercely bright clarity. Around them, the woodland was silent and sculptural with snow.

  'That's beautiful.' said Amy, gazing and smiling.

  'C
hristmas-y, isn't it?' the Doctor agreed.

  'Christmas -ish.' said Amy.

  'It's great,' said Rory. 'I don't think it's Leadworth, but it's great.'

  'Of course it's Leadworth.' said Amy. 'It's that bit of wood outside Leadworth. You know. That bit of wood?'

  'Really?' asked Rory. 'Listen.'

  'To what?' she asked.

  'Just listen.'

  They listened.

  'I don't hear anything.' Amy said.

  Rory nodded significantly with his eyes narrowed.

  'That doesn't prove anything.' said Amy.

  'No traffic? No... birds?' Rory asked.

  'It's early.' said Amy. 'It's Christmas Day.'

  'It's not that early. Look at the sun.'

  'The roads are closed because of the snow.'

  'There's not that much snow.'

  'It's Leadworth before there was traffic,' said Amy.

  'So, not the right Leadworth, then,' said Rory.

  Amy stomped over to the Doctor, kicking up swirls of snow with her wellies.

  'Tell him we're in the right place!' she insisted.

  The Doctor was examining the TARDIS. The blue police box was perched on the thick snow cover, tilted by the drift so that it stood at a slight angle to the vertical.

  'That explains the lean,' said the Doctor. 'We didn't land on the flat. Never mind. It's quite rakish. I'd say that was, in fact, lean -esque.'

  'Tell him we're in the right place,' she repeated.

  The Doctor turned to them.

  'Oh, we're definitely in the right place!' he declared.

  'Definitely! This is the right place! We're slap bang in the middle of Christmas. Christmas is all around us!

  Xmas marks the spot! Can't you feel it? Can't you sense it? It's all mince pies and brandy butter, and candied peel and anxious turkeys! It's tinsel and carols, and baubles and egg nog! It's—'

  'Is it Christmas, in Leadworth, on Earth, in 2011?'

  asked Rory.

  The Doctor held up a thoughtful finger, and pursed his lips. He looked from side to side.

  'Let's find out,' he decided, and strode off.

  'If it isn't,' the Doctor called back to them over his shoulder, 'and I'm just saying 'if', if it isn't, then the TARDIS has at least transported us to the most Christmas-y Christmas-ness in the whole universe, which is really quite something, and doesn't deserve any kind of criticism whatsoever!'