By Alden Bates

The Doctor raised his semi-automatic and graphically gunned down the guard. Pausing only to sling the weapon on to his back, he moved to the cell door and pulled.

Muscles stood out on the Doctor's exposed back as the magnetic locks struggled to remain closed and failed. The cell door snapped open to reveal a massive bearded man in primitive warlord dress, and a wolf-man.

‘Come on, Yrcanos,’ the Doctor slurred, tossing the warlord a sub-machine gun from his belt. ‘We've got a planet to liberate.’

‘No, no,’ the Valeyard thought to himself, erasing the last hour's work in the Matrix. ‘Even the jury won't believe that is bona-fide evidence.’

Rochelle Thickpenny

This item appeared in Timestreams 5 (August 1995).

Index nodes: Fiction