'In 2001, I was contacted through a Doctor Who website by Billy Tweedie. Billy - who was worked as a booking agent for several entertainment acts both in the United Kingdom and the US - was a huge Doctor Who fan and was very keen on the idea of putting together a charity anthology with a Doctor Who theme. Despite at that point having never had any previous work published professionally, Billy was happy to take a chance and allow me to contribute. The story submitted was originally planned as a short epilogue to the book, and that story became ‘One Careful Owner’.
Over the several months that followed, Billy and I stayed in touch and we became good friends. Despite receiving criticism from several sources regarding Billy’s promotion of the book – Billy, being an agent by vocation, never allowed an opportunity for promotion to pass unnoticed - his enthusiasm for the project never waned. This enthusiasm was infectious and it was great to be part of that, so it understandably came as a big shock to learn of Billy's sudden passing from illness only a few weeks later.
Without Billy as a driving force, the project fell apart and the charity anthology quickly forgotten as those who had become his friends grieved.
A short time later, the project was resurrected as a tribute to Billy. Renamed 'Hearts and Minds' the book was originally slated to reach shelves in time for the Doctor's 40th anniversary. Several issues with editing, and with the project as a whole remained however causing deadlines to slip. Time passed, and the anniversary came and went with no sign of the planned project appearing. Eventually it was scrapped, the contributors going their separate ways.
Here for the first time is the story originally accepted for the anthology and then later on again in 'Hearts and Minds'. In retrospect, it’s nothing more than fanw*nk - a simple way to retcon one of the things that has always bugged me over the years about the 'Five Doctors'. In that respect it is a very basic and self-indulgent little tale, and with hindsight a little childish, but it’s presented here as a tribute to both a good colleague and a good friend.
Rest in Peace Billy, we all miss you still.'
Darren Sellars 2005
One Careful Owner
By Darren Sellars
The sirens had begun to sound exactly 0.6 minutes ago.
The control panel directly in front of Scanner Technician First Class Patroxedantemalithelamin had lit up like a Christmas tree. If he’d actually known what a Christmas tree was, then the analogy would have not been lost on him. As it stood, he only knew that the multitude of flashing lights and the warning klaxon reverberating in his ears meant trouble.
He’d been a scanner technician for the last 57 years - only making first class 13 years ago - merely a fraction in Timelord terms – and in that time he’d never seen anything like it. There had been the odd infraction upon the scanners to be sure, but more often than not it had turned out to be something mundane; a Shobogan - out wandering among the wilds outside Lowtown, or a flock of Gilmer birds straying too close to the temporal detectors, and certainly nothing like the disturbance that was playing out on the screen before him. His years in Scanner section 12 had been uneventful to say the least, without any sign of change for the next 20 or so years until he – hopefully – reached Chief Scanner Technician. That is, if that old idiot Bekanigstalicsitorc made way for him. All he had wished for in his brief period as a humble Technician would be to have one exciting event happen around him: One defining moment, like the Borusa incident of several decades ago, that his colleagues would reminisce about on dull days. Not that there were any other kinds of days in here. Until now.
It simply seemed to be a case of ‘be careful what you wish for’…
His black and grey robes surging behind him, Chief Scanner Technician Bekanigstalicsitorc strode across the scanner room with all the authority, pomp and circumstance of a general leading his troops to battle on some faraway planet. If the truth were told, Bekan would have wished for that himself. Since being transferred here four years ago from the fiduciary bureau he had not lived what would be called an exciting life.
Not that the fiduciary bureau had been much better, but at least it allowed him to get out of that musty office once in a while. Here, all he could do was supervise the Scanner Technicians at their stations. Not that he had any power with that position. Simply report his findings to the Over-Technician and in special cases, the Castellan.
The Castellan – God, how he hated him. Bekan was sure the only reason he’d been transferred to Scanner section 12 in the first place was because of him. They’d been rivals in the academy; the rivalry continuing through their careers, until his rival became the Castellan that was. Now he was sure he was a puppet to the toad, manipulated behind the scenes to keep him where he was while the Castellan continued in his meteoric rise in the council. He was sure that now he had the ear of the president, then he would be even more determined to keep Bekan down, lord it over him while he could.
The problem had been accentuated since Bekan’s last regeneration. He had become itchy, restless – wanting a change, some action. He’d applied for training as a guard of the capitol, but the request had been denied. No prizes for guessing why.
So, until another transfer loomed – Or the Castellan reached his final regeneration, whichever came sooner – he would simply have to remain content in Scanner section 12, supervising young fresh faced graduates such as Thelamin. Good grief, what had the boy done this time? Clumsy oaf! Probably accidentally tripped the temporal inducers. He yawned, absent-mindedly rubbing the grey goatee on his chin as he approached Thelamin’s Scanner control.
He leant over the console, eclipsing Scanner Technician First Class Patroxedantemalithelamin in a pool of shadow that not even the incessant glare of the warning light flashing overhead could penetrate.
‘Now then, Scanner Technician’ Boomed Bekan, his voice a calm rumbling, ‘what’s the nature of the disturbance?’
‘Unknown Sir’ responded Thelamin, his voice shaking – he was beginning to panic, ‘Scanners detecting a temporal intrusion in the lower half quadrant of the surface. Should we inform the Castellan?’
Bekan sighed – these youngsters - ‘Not yet Scanner Technician, the Castellan’s a busy man’, He inwardly grimaced, ‘No need to disturb him unless absolutely necessary. Any ideas what’s causing the disturbance?’
‘Negative Sir, it appeared instantaneously several minutes ago’ Thelamin’s breathing had quickened.
‘Could be a TARDIS. Scanner readout?’
‘Negative Sir, all detailed scans rendered inoperative, what readouts are coming through suggest possible use of a Delirium cube to jam temporal sensors.’
Now it was Bekan’s turn to panic. ‘Delirium cube? That kind of technology can only be used by time active races! Switch to external sensors, try and pin down the exact co-ordinates. This could be an attempted invasion!’
‘Yes Sir’ Thelamin’s hands flicked over the controls like a concert pianist, a scanner to his left flicking online, numbers immediately beginning to scrawl across it’s surface. ‘External sensors online Sir. Compensating… Compensating… Co-ordinates acquired Sir. Reading x-three-five-zero mark four by y-sixteen mark zero-seven mark seven four by z-28, I-‘ He faltered.
‘What is it?’ Queried Bekan. He was now beginning to perspire.
‘The co-ordinates Sir,’ responded Thelamin ‘I have an exact fix on the location of the co-ordinates.’
‘And???’
‘It’s… It’s…’
‘Where???’ Yelled Bekan.
‘Sir’ exclaimed the junior officer as he looked up from the readout, his face bathed in the white glow from the monitor, a picture of absolute terror:
‘It’s in the Death Zone…’
* * *
There was a momentary high-pitched squeak as the yellow hood of the car swung down and slammed into place with an agreeable thunk. The little man in the white linen suit paused to brush his hands together satisfactorily, before noticing they were both slick black with engine oil. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a bright red and white polka dot handkerchief, wiping the stickiness from his fingers as he took a step back to admire his handiwork.
There, not a bad job if I say so myself. he thought, inwardly smiling as he wiped the last of the matter from his hands and deposited the handkerchief back into the pocket from where it came – both hands and handkerchief a great deal cleaner than either had the right to be.
Granted – by his standards it was just a patch-up job, and the bodywork needed a little touching up; there were the briefest instances of rust along the door frames and certain seams, but considering she had been here over several decades, the oxidisation process had hardly taken effect. No surprise. Nothing ever changed. Not here - The air was stale, stagnant. Looking around him, it occurred to him for the first time just how much the Death Zone resembled North Wales.
One thing he was sure of though; the repairs would be made, he remembered making them.
One quick hop and I’ll never know it was missing. The thought amused him.
He strode back and clambered up into the drivers’ seat, holding the key in the ignition for a moment – eyes closed - before turning. The engine chugged into life.
‘Good girl’ he whispered with a faint Scottish burr as he softly patted the steering wheel before reaching down and sliding the gear stick into place, depressing the accelerator slightly and easing the little yellow roadster forward, carrying it towards the blue box further down the road…