From 1997 to 99, my work on the tale took the shape of revised outlines, sketches of characters and sets, and many story notes. In 2000, James Bow, editor of the Trenchcoat series, announced his intention to assemble all five published issues into a hardcover collection. In addition to an updated layout and new illustrations, the collection would include five new stories set prior to the first issue, including "To Go Beyond."
Later that year, Tim Jones and I (co-authors of "The Darkest Day") started work on a revamped story outline. Rather than a conventional overthrow-the-dictator plot, as originally outlined, we wanted to add a few twists. So, instead of a vain, ruthless dictator that readers expected the Doctor to outwit, Rixx became a meticulous philosopher-king who'd created a real utopia (Tranta). Stimms went from servile and pathetic, to vicious and scheming. New characters included: Prentis, a young reverend; a couple living on Tranta, providing a citizen's perspective on events; and the Shly-Ka, a spiritual alien race forcefully relocated to create the utopia.
The goal was to tell a story with no definite villains or heroes, featuring a tangle of events that the Doctor unwittingly causes to erupt into chaos.
Another significant change was the beginning. Originally, the story opened with the Doctor and Mel fleeing Tranta as Rixx assumed power. Since the climax of the story comprises the flashback in "Dark Magus" and is well known to Trenchcoat readers, Tim and I decided to open the story with the climax, and make the chain reaction of events causing that chaos the selling point. (The scene with Mel and the Doctor was incorporated into a fun bit of exposition.)
The new outline was completed in February 2001. Tim, James and I then wrote a few scenes each. Serious work began later in the fall and, by this point, I had taken over all writing duties. (Tim and James were busy with their own projects.) Summer 2002, I sent the first draft to Richard Salter, co-editor of Myth Makers, whose comments and suggestions were key in the completion of a final draft that fall.
The story's biggest inspiration was, of course, George Orwell's 1984. Well worth reading, especially in this age of information and loss of privacy.
P.S. The Shly-Ka originated as the villains of "City of the Sun," a sequel to "Impostor." I started "City" in 1992, but abandoned it in favour of "To Go Beyond." This story features an evolved version of the Shly-Ka, along with hints of a background history devised for "City."
Elsa Grant woke to the sound of her husband's slow, laboured breathing. She'd long ago stifled the sudden urge to moan at the sight of first light sliding in under the window; instead, she rolled slowly over onto her side, pulled the sheets down from the tangle that had formed around her chest and briskly rubbed the oily smears of sleep from around her eyes.
Dave looked so peaceful, despite the harsh yellow glow from behind the curtains highlighting the marks of stubble that weathered his features. Sitting up, she watched him for a moment. She tentatively placed a hand on his shoulder, her lips curling into a slight smile as his breathes became softer, more relaxed. She could see a pale, white ring on his skin for a few seconds after removing her palm; then it faded. Distantly, she wondered if he would be able to feel the ghost of the imprint when he woke, whether it would somehow make him feel that she was still beside him.
She bit her bottom lip as she turned away and carefully stepped down onto the bedroom carpet, the carpet that Dave had chosen with her from the store six weeks ago and paid for with the money he had earned from his work with Stimms. It was warm beneath her bare feet; and they too left a fleeting imprint.
She knew where her clothes were: her sleek, black jumpsuit, which she had placed on the chair across from the dressing table the night before. She always made sure she was the last to go to bed when she had work the next day. Most nights, Dave was already asleep by the time she made it upstairs, but he never made a point of mentioning it in the morning. Too polite, she reckoned. Or too trusting. Or did they amount to the same thing with him?
Briskly, she pulled the jumpsuit down over her thin body, shivering as a breeze brushed aside the curtains. She tied her long, red hair back in a ponytail and scanned the floor for her shoes.
Her shoes. She squinted hard at the floor, but all she could see were shadows formed by the perpendicular beams of the window that smothered the carpet and slithered up the side of the bed. Little motes of dust bobbed in the air where the light was beginning to pierce the black. But no shoes.
A human error, Grogan would call it. Any form of error introduces a risk factor--but a human error is one that can be avoided. Make sure it doesn't happen again.
She winced as she pulled back the door to her wardrobe. She pushed aside the first row, trainers and courts with heels, relics of her other life, the life that had no part to play in her work today, that had to be submerged, shut away. As she found her flat, black boots at the back, Dave's breathes rose again as a reminder, puncturing the cold, hard barrier she was fighting to erect.
She left the wardrobe open. Creeping across each flickering patch of black, she floated over to the door. She watched the sheets around Dave rise and fall with each breath for a moment, then turned away with her eyes shut. It felt wrong, no matter how she tried to justify it. She was a criminal in her own home. Right now, she was breaking out, leaving her boyfriend alone. Hours later, after committing crimes that could be punished with execution, she would be breaking back in and lying to him about how well she had slept. It wasn't right.
Her beliefs forced her to continue, down the stairs, which seemed to creak louder with each step; across the kitchen, alongside the grill that she had used the night before to cook omelettes for Dave and herself; across the darkened hallway and past the door to the living room, where they had eaten their meal just ten or so hours ago, curled up on the sofa with the television a distant murmur from the world in the background. She savoured each memory, before carefully deconstructing it and letting the passionless calm necessary for her job wash over her.
The front door clicked shut behind her as she left. Outside, streetlights were gleaming like beacons against the surviving stretches of shadow. More confident, Elsa marched briskly forwards, her arms swinging down by her side. She kept her eyes straight ahead, not wanting to look back at the house, whose shadow extended some metres down her path, trapping her in its embrace for a suffocating few moments.
The curtain at her window was brushed aside as a sharp silhouette took its position. It stared at the retreating figure for a second, watching from above.
Everything around them was grey. Tall buildings, tower blocks that smashed through the stale concrete, stretched to a pale horizon; the workers lining the roads wore standard coveralls, plain and functional; cars floated by, their steel frames dull and featureless, moaning as they cast shadows over the pavement. Twisted patches of cloud--holographic projections--split the astral sky into streams of black and white. The sun was at high noon, while Antuath peeked over the horizon behind them.
Elsa felt something sink inside as the suffocating, stifled atmosphere crept in to claim her. The industrial sector of Tranta was not the most eligible place to take a walk. It ran as though on batteries, each section functioning to strict rules and regulations, like clockwork. On it went, day after day, month after month, never slowing, never faltering, churning out the products that the citizens required, refining potent gas to power a dying empire. In that respect, Rixx's policies had to be judged a total success.
The security probes hovering alongside the work areas, buzzing like angry insects, might have played a small part, too. And the posters were everywhere, always in their faces, boldly boasting of Rixx's genius, of his wondrous successes, of the public's role in upholding the glory. There was no room for pessimism or doubt. Strength Through Joy and The Beauty of Work were but two of the slogans forced into the workers' minds, hammered into their souls no matter where they might look. When every corner of Tranta held such a sign, how was anyone to have a chance of thinking otherwise?
This was what she was fighting to destroy. This was what left her feeling so bitter, so disillusioned with everything the regime stood for. On the surface, Rixx was a miracle-worker: everything he had touched since taking power had turned to gold, blossomed, prospered like it had never done so for centuries. According to the books, the economy of Tranta had entered a golden age.
But the books never said anything about the people.
Watching them now, chipping away at the tasks before them, eyes down, foreheads heavy with lines, faces blank as slate, was like staring into an abyss. Elsa could only see darkness and despair, the welfare of the citizens slipping away as they were turned into mindless drones.
She was just old enough to remember what it had been like before, what had remained for the first few years of Rixx's regime. Life hadn't been perfect, many had been suffering, many had found it hard--but interspersed with moments of bliss and happiness, such challenges were what made people human. Rixx was providing everything the people could ever need, yet depriving them of everything they could ever want; delivering them from despair by stripping away their ideas of joy. Even if she was sad, she had been able to sit out on the banks between the dome support beams at city's edge, watch the sun set over Tranta, let her sorrows subside as the colours flickered over windows of high-rises, feel the breeze play with her hair as it fluttered and frisked around her. That was what she wanted back. She wanted life to be worth living again.
Her heart ached every time she was reminded of this. She wished she could open up, let her emotions out to the man she loved, who was walking right beside her a million miles away. Instead, they had to fester, burn her from the inside. Rixx had created a barrier between them, something impenetrable.
Elsa tightened her grip on Dave's hand. Physical contact was all they had left.
"This isn't working at all," he said.
She was about to nod in agreement, about to shout out for all of Tranta to hear that no, nothing about this place was working in the slightest.
Then it occurred to her what her boyfriend was really saying.
"I don't understand," she replied.
They stopped in the middle of the pavement.
"It's everything," Dave said quietly, looking away from her. "You're taking on so much. We never see each other."
"I only work for six hours a day."
"Really? That's something you've hidden well. You're always out somewhere, working on this or that, and when you are at home you barely seem to be there. Like you want to be somewhere else."
"It's just--"
"The extra projects, I know."
"It won't be like this forever."
"Like you've said before, I know. But--" his eyes seemed to widen as his thoughts spilled out into circulated, antiseptic air--"I sometimes worry that you mightn't make it through. What you're taking on is too much. It isn't right that they should ask so much of you."
She tensed. "Dave, we're an electronics firm. You make it sound like we're going to war or something."
"No, I know. The firm's just going through a busy patch, right? It's only natural that some of it should rub off on you."
"Right. I have to do my job."
"You hear about all these people who overwork--"
"Overwork? How long have you known me?"
"Just . . . Please be careful. That's all."
He wasn't diverted by the joke. Something was definitely wrong.
They continued walking in silence, hand in hand. A mechanical street cleaner wheeled out of an alley ahead; nozzles emerged from its base and workers moved to the edge of the road.
"What do you think of the rebels?" Dave asked suddenly.
Alarm bells rang. "I don't know . . ." she muttered. "They can't win." Elsa had prepared for such a conversation ever since she'd enlisted--a set reply, a litany of lies, was waiting in her head. All she had to do was think carefully about each word and try not to think about it staining her lips on its way out.
"You never know," he said, his mouth pursed.
She hugged him. "With you in Rixx's guard? Nah."
Just for a moment, she thought he'd respond, pull her even closer and bend down to kiss her, like he would have done six months ago. But instead, he just stared at her thoughtfully.
"What I meant was: do you believe in what they do?"
"Hmm . . ." She looked down at the ground, trying to appear contemplative. "I don't know. What do you think?" Always the most useful escape clause.
"Sometimes," he said softly, "I wonder."
She glanced up at him, too quickly.
He continued, leaning in closer. "I mean . . . They must be fighting for something they believe in. When you look at them, fighting a battle they surely know they can't win; yet continuing, going on despite the odds . . . It just makes you think that maybe there's more to what they're aiming for than simple rebellion. Maybe they really do believe they can create a better world."
Dave seemed so genuine. In that moment, her head nearly burst with the emotions rising inside it, the urge to agree with his every word. But she couldn't--not now and not ever.
"I don't know . . ." Elsa said, making sure to frown deeply.
Pavement disappeared beneath the cleaner in a veil of mist and rainbow.
"It just makes me think," he said at last. "Surely there has to be something behind that belief."
She found herself nodding. "An urge to save the world doesn't just come from nowhere."
He looked at her, his eyes glinting with an interest that she hadn't seen for months. "If that's true, then what do they see that we're all so blind to? Why can't we see it too?"
"Maybe we don't look hard enough. Maybe other people simply have a greater insight, and it's their job to look out for those whose willingness to accept whatever goes on around them--as long as they remain immune to the excesses--is going to leave them manipulated, cheated and bruised."
"But do they deserve that?"
"I think that's what separates Mr Rixx from the rebellion. He believes such people are there to be walked over, because they can be--the rebellion sees them as more than a means to an end. They see them as people too, people who deserve whatever protection they may need--whatever their hopes and fears, whatever their outlook on life--simply because they are people."
They parted to the edge of the road, allowing the cleaner to pass. A fine mist clung to Elsa's red sweater and beaded on her skin.
"They might think that," Dave said. "But nothing's worth being killed for. I know what happens to the rebels once they're caught, what they go through. There's nothing brave or clever about dying like that, Elsa. I think there are other ways of making a difference."
"I know," she muttered, gripping his fingers. "Perhaps you're right. Perhaps that's what they deserve."
"Perhaps."
A forest of concrete towers sped past underneath the shuttle car on its way to Tranta's docking bay. A holographic sky, red as glowing embers, faded to reveal the everlasting night sky. Stimms turned his attention to Rixx beside him, who breathed deeply with his eyes shut, his hands resting on his knees. A pervading thought caused the Security Chief to fidget in his seat.
"Controller?"
"Hmmm?" Rixx's eyes remained shut.
Stimms hesitated. "I've been meaning to ask . . ."
"Go on."
"Your wisdom and vision have created a near utopia on Tranta. And despite the rebel skirmishes, your popularity with the citizens is still high," Stimms said.
Rixx shook his head. "This is hardly the time for flattery--"
"Controller, your meticulous attention to detail, having a say in each and every decision made, your never closing eye--it's taking its toll. How . . ." The Security Chief clenched his fists. "Just how long can you delay complete physical and mental exhaustion before it's too late?"
Rixx opened his eyes and turned to his companion. Stimms bore the fierce gaze for a split second before staring down at this feet.
"So now you're my doctor?" The wizened man smiled.
"I'm just--"
"You're concerned for Tranta's future, I suppose."
Stimms looked again upon his leader. "Yes."
"How old would you say I am, Stimms?"
"My records say--"
"They say I'm seventy-seven. But I feel at least a century older and probably look older still." Rixx glanced out the side window. "You're correct: overseeing operations on Tranta has taken its toll. I'm pumped daily full of vitamins, minerals, proteins, electrolytes, spectrox and all sorts of interesting elixirs. To live another day, another week. Sharpen my mind at sunrise, only to have it revert to a flattened nub by dusk." He turned his attention back to his companion. "Do you trust me, Stimms?"
"Sir?"
"Is there any doubt in your mind that I haven't the best interests of Tranta's citizens and her future at heart?"
"Of course not." Stimms's brow furrowed. "But what if you should pass on?"
Rixx grinned and patted the Security Chief's arm. "You must trust me, Stimms. A scrupulous leader always plans for the unexpected."
The shuttle car reached the edge of the city. Before them lay an arched gateway, granting access to the docking port on the exterior of the floating city. Through the surrounding, transparent wall--the base of the dome which protected the citizens of Tranta from the frozen vacuum without--Stimms could make out the Ambassador's sleek metallic transport rocket. Docking clamps held it affixed to the city. The car descended onto the platform before the gateway.
Stimms aided his leader out of the vehicle as the gateway parted. A middle-aged woman accompanied by two guards in blue fatigues with white piping stepped onto the platform. Her flowing blue robes trailed along the ground as she approached the Tranta Controller and his Security Chief. Her silver hair was cropped short, her face stern and her large grey eyes never left Rixx's.
He handed a cane to Stimms and extended his right hand. "Ambassador."
Her handshake was firm. "Controller."
"I trust you had a comfortable flight," Stimms said.
"I suppose."
Stimms returned Rixx his cane and glanced at the Morestran guards. "Are those the new generation staser pistols?"
"Issued last week," said a male guard.
"I hope for your sake, Security Chief, we have no use for them here," said the Ambassador, glancing briefly his way. "I read about the destruction of the munitions factory. Thought you had the rebel situation under control?"
Stimm's polite smile faded. "A minor oversight."
"Indeed."
"Grogan's campaign," Rixx cut in, "is a key issue of our negotiations tomorrow. A representative of the Church arrives tomorrow morning. Talks will begin first thing."
The Ambassador turned her attention to the Controller. "Good. The Empire can no longer afford delays to artron energy shipments due to Grogan and his band of rebels."
Rixx raised an eyebrow. "As I said, such matters shall be discussed in detail tomorrow."
A second shuttle car came to halt above and lowered onto the platform before them.
"This shuttle will take you and your guards, Ambassador, to the Capitol," Stimms said. "Accommodation has been prepared, and I trust you require rest after your long flight and for tomorrow." He extended his arm in a gesture of invitation as the car door flipped open.
Once the Ambassador and her guards were inside, the door clicked shut and the car rose into the air. As it sped off to the capital, Rixx and Stimms returned to their own vehicle. The Security Chief helped his leader inside.
"Most charming, isn't she," Rixx mumbled.
The following two scenes, divided by the scene of Elsa and Dave's final moment together, depict the demise of the Doctor as originally written by myself. The first scene is little different from the final draft. However, since the Doctor's execution re-appears in the following story, "Watermark," and then "Dark Magus," James made a few tweaks to homogenize events.
The second, with the TARDIS struggling to depart Tranta, was to bookend the opening scene of Ace and the Librarian. It afforded the hologram a shining moment and explained his absence from subsequent stories. As revealed in the next story, Ace didn't stop administering CPR to the Doctor till they reached Earth, so having her take a rest didn't fit. A quick rewrite described her efforts to keep the Doctor alive. But since "Watermark" gives a similar description, and to put the Doctor's fate into question, I agreed to cut the scene.
The Doctor coughed as a cloud of debris fell before him. He waved his arms to clear the air and patted the dust from his bodysuit. He peered down the alleyway and tapped the large blue Police Box beside him.
"Come on, Ace."
He unzipped the bodysuit to reveal check trousers, a white shirt and a knitted pullover adorned with question marks. Swirling clouds of violet and azure gas filled the sky, overwhelming the flames. The Doctor retrieved a key from his pants pocket and gripped it tightly.
A figured rounded the corner and entered the alleyway.
"It's about time," said the Doctor.
Grogan stepped into his field of vision, levelling his machine gun at the Time Lord's chest. He cocked the weapon. "I won't let you slip away this time, Doctor."
"It's over, Grogan. No more alliances to be made, no more deals to be broken."
"This is your space/time machine, is it not?" He nodded at the Police Box. "We'll use it to go back and set things right."
The Doctor looked at him solemn eyes. "I can't allow that."
"A million and half people are about to die, Doctor--and you have the power to stop it!"
"I will not alter the course of history: I was there when the mistakes were made. I can only salvage what I can in the present. We must all live with the consequences."
"Then we'll all die," Grogan snarled.
"Once Ace gets here, I can drop you off at the nearest Morestran colony--"
"You're not going anywhere." He tightened his finger on the trigger.
"Grogan," the Doctor said levelly, "I have the chance to save your life and Ace's. There is nothing else I can do."
Another figure entered the alleyway.
The rebel leader's eyes were wild and his face flushed. "A Time Lord," he stammered. "You've sentenced an entire city to die . . ."
The Doctor remained silent, giving him a frank gaze.
Grogan pulled the trigger.
A short burst sent the Doctor crashing against his TARDIS.
"NO!" yelled a female voice from behind.
Grogran screamed, pulling the trigger once more.
A barrage of bullets struck the Doctor full in the chest. Bursts of red exploded across his sweater. His face contorted in agony and he fell to his knees.
Grogan's head jerked forward and he collapsed to the ground. The machine gun hit the ground with a clatter.
Ace ran to the Police Box, throwing her phaser pistol aside. She dropped down and cradled the Doctor's head in her lap. His eyes were serene and distant. Blood spread rapidly through his sweater. Fluid gurgled in his throat as he struggled to breathe.
Tears streamed down her cheeks. "I lost my way, Professor."
A faint smile. "Doctor," he whispered.
"I-I could have stopped him."
He closed his eyes. "Into . . . the TARDIS . . ." His palm opened, revealing the key.
Ace grabbed it, unlocked the Police Box door and dragged her mentor inside.
Ace pulled the emergency take-off switch and grabbed hold of the control console as the TARDIS pitched to the side. The grinding of engines filled the room, followed by a whine of machinery under intense pressure. The time rotor at the centre of the console rose to its full height and stopped.
The Librarian, sporting a tweed suit and spectacles, appeared before her. "There isn't enough power for the TARDIS to dematerialize, Miss McShane."
"What do I do?" Ace cried over the shrill whine. "The Professor's dying!"
The hologram looked down at the Doctor's still form, kept warm with blankets and hooked up to monitoring equipment. "We can jettison sections of the TARDIS: the library, the pool and others." He glanced at Ace. "Terminate my program as well."
"Will that be enough?"
"One way to find out."
Ace smiled at the old man. "Thank you, Librarian."
The hologram vanished. Ace grabbed the console once more as the room shook with a violent groan. Suddenly the whine ceased and the time rotor came to life. She shut her eyes and sighed with relief. Laying down on the floor, she rested her head on her mentor's chest, exhausted.
"Hold on, Doctor," she whispered.
Drifting off to sleep, Ace missed the faintest of heartbeats.