Imprisoned by Mark Richardson.

An unfinished short story for Doctor Who.  It was an old entry for the Big Finish short story competition.  It was only afterwards did I realise I had inadvertently broke the rules by including the Master.  Oh well! I had fun with it.  One day I may complete it.

Summary:

1973 England Professors John Smith and Harold Marsters investigate reports of a haunting in a house located in
the Village of Yoxall, South Staffordshire. Separate from Torchwood and UNIT, Division X of MI5 is a sub branch
of internal security which deals with extra-terrestrial threats to the United Kingdom. Division X was created in
response to concerns with the reliability of the other two organisations from certain people in the UK
establishment: Torchwood and Unit, it has been alleged, have both gone native. There has been a general
disquiet in establishment circles that both organisations have been staffed by people from other planets,
dimensions and chronological eras. Division X was the brain child of Chad Henderson deputy Director General
of MI5: its mission statement is to eradicate all hostile extra-terrestrial lifeforms and to defend the UK from any
potential threat. 

Professor John Smith is one of the UK’s leading expert on Quantum mechanics; Professor Harold Masters is the
other UK’s leading expert. Fueled by a friendly rivalry, Smith and Marsters have worked successfully for five year
s. During their tenure at Division X they have prevented six invasions of earth and have defended the ever
increasing international presence in space from extraterrestrial intervention. John Smith is five foot eight and
medium built with an educated voice with a slight Liverpudlian tilt. Marsters is 5ft ten, Bald, lean and speaks
with a Received Pronunciation accent with a soft Sussex lilt. 

Both ever increasingly troubled by bizarre dreams of other worlds, voices and faces put personal problems
aside to investigate the strange case of 41 Smithers road, Yoxall, South Staffordshire: recently the new build has
been invaded by Roman Soldiers, Saxon warriors and a platoon of Royalist soldiers all fleeing from a mysterious
but savage entity known as The Veng.

Incensed by a Government memorandum, Smith and Marsters, have to agree to be accompanied by two
‘sympathisers/ Natives’ in the form of Stephanie Light and David Proudfoot, two Young UNIT officers to
investigate the strange proceedings. The top brass in both organisations see this as a means to keep an eye on
each other. Will the rivalry between the two organisations lead to disunity during the investigation? Who are
the Veng and what is their relationship to the mysterious occurrences of 41 Smithers road, Yoxall? And why
does the Deputy General of MI5 have three fob watches locked in a high security safe at Division X H.Q?

A draft.  I've got a sneaking suspicion I have another draft lying around on my hard drive on my old computer upstairs.  Some day I'll get around (translation, I'll wait until my Stepson can come around to do it for me) to looking on the old hardrive.

Aeons ago in a cluster known as the Axis Mundi, a race of sentient beings known as The Veng emerged from
their home world of Shelizug V. Elegant, slender but lethal, The Veng soon acquired a taste for power as they
found themselves the dominant species in their quadrant. Intelligent and tech- savvy, they conquered
neighbouring systems enslaving other species to prop up their brutal, sadistic Empire. Finally, the bloated
dystopia became victim to a revolution inspired by The Mystics, a group of Monks from the colonised planet of
Tartare. This group specialised in spiritual chants of the Om, Quantum mechanics and inter-dimensional physics,
the group of monks spearheaded attacks on supply lines and helped formulate a policy of Guerrilla warfare. 

Eventually, after two centuries, the rebels, spearheaded by the Mystics, were considered a suitable enough
influence to face The Veng in battle. Fleet versus Fleet; war machine against war machine: The Mystics versus
the Veng. The battle was bloody, vicious and looked likely to result in a victory for the Veng.

At the decisive moment, The Mystics, depleted, weary and defiant pulled out their last ace from their collective
sleeve: the Makuleringsmaskin. Standing at the front dock of each of their battle cruisers, they went into a
trance. Before the eyes of the triumphant Veng an enormous, cavernous tear in space materialized. The
blackness that faced the Veng filled them with horror: instinctively, every member of the Veng knew they were
doomed. In an instant, hundreds of thousands of elite Veng troops dematerialized out of their ships and
entered the chasm created by the ritual chanting of the Mystics over centuries. The remaining Veng, in their
millions, were scattering in their spaceships to wherever they could scramble to. In the Vengian cities, millions
panicked. Then silence. All traces of the brutal, cold civilization had been wiped out. The tear folded in on itself
and disappeared. The Veng were vanquished for eternity. 

Achaicus looked out of the fort. Standing at the Rampart and looking out to the settlement below, Achaicus
looked somewhat contemptuously at the snaking, disheveled, groaning crowd arriving below at the main gate.
‘Bloody Britons,’ he thought to himself ‘Spend most of their time moaning about us Romans, fighting us and
burning down our Forts; one bit of bother and they soon come knocking on our door expecting our help!’

Smirking, he watched an elite guard of Centurions march out of the Fort casually knocking the locals over.
Robotically, the Centurions marched over to the woods approximately two miles to the East: the source of
misery for the locals. Achaicus, now on a break, walked down to the ground floor to try to gleam some
information. Wincing at the sight and smell of the Britons, he marched brusquely towards Egidius, a fellow
Roman soldier.

‘What’s bought this lot here?’

‘Dunno, seems to be summat in the woods yonder that’s spooked the natives.’

‘Yeah, Like what?’

‘Gods knows, probably their Mothers or summat!’

Sniggering, Achaicus swam through the huddled locals seeking a corner where he could grab a nap. Finding a
suitable corner he rested and closed his eyes.

A bell ringing combined with screams, yells and jostling from nearby people awoke Achaicus from his slumber.
Uncomprehending, he staggered towards the main entrance. Fighting past terrified people, locals and Romans
alike, he managed to look out in front of him. From the entrance he could see in the distance a gaggle of
Centurions, ragged and terrified, fleeing from the woods. Instinctively, Achaicus moved forward. What was that
he could see behind the fleeing Centurions? He edged closer up the path dodging terrified Centurions and
locals alike. He could make out a black patch in the middle of the woods. The patch appeared to be pulsating
and growing. Despite an increasingly growing sense of fear and trepidation, Achaicus stumbled forward
simultaneously terrified and intrigued. He approached the woods, a silence enveloped him. The horrifying
spectacle of the ever increasing hole attracted him like metal to magnet, his senses screamed at him to run,
his legs moved on. He could now make out distorted faces in the black hole which seemed to fill his whole
vision. He could see enlarged eyes and teeth crammed in crooked smiles. From nowhere a thousand voices
shrieked: ‘WE ARE VENG’

Hrothgar was chopping wood outside his house. Frideswide, his wife, was inside overseeing the creation of the
evening meal with Beorhtraed and Frithswith their son and daughter. After several months of feeling anxious
due to raids by the Norseman in nearby villages, Hroathgar was beginning to relax: The Norseman attacks had
seemingly abated. News of a southern King, Alfred, and a victory over the feared Norseman made Hrothgar
hopeful for the future. He was grateful. He would have preferred a Mercian King to be the one to drive the
Godless horde back, a new Offa; however, at least this Alfred was Saxon and above all Christian. Knowing that
Housecarls had been stationed at a nearby makeshift Burh made him feel even more relaxed. More relaxed
than he had been in a long while. He smiled to himself as he contemplated a peaceful, carefree evening with
his family. He could hear the flint and fire steels being used to light the fire pit and he anticipated the smell of
wood smoke arising from the house. Hrothgar’s mind was full of Briw, Alu and family. It was at this point of
peaceful anticipation that a shard of fear pierced his soul. Dropping his axe, he turned around and looked at
the nearby wood. There were stories. There had always been stories of ghosts and evil misdoings associated
with the wood but Hrothgar had always been certain that his faith in the true God would protect him and his
family from any evil spirits. With fear gnawing away at his soul, he walked towards the wood. Something
caught his eye: a strange black hole had appeared in the middle of the wood. In front of the hole there
appeared to be Housecarls running, not in formation but in ragged zigzags. These were clearly not the
confident Housecarls he had seen earlier on in the year. These were frightened, undisciplined men fleeing for
their lives. Disheartened and terrified, Hrothgar moved forward thinking of family protection. Axe in hand he
approached the hole. As he walked nearer, he could make out distorted faces in the black hole which seemed
to fill his whole vision. He could see enlarged eyes and teeth crammed in crooked smiles. From nowhere a
thousand voices shrieked: ‘WE ARE VENG’.

Doreen had finished her cigarette and walked slowly up to bed. She checked in the bedrooms of her two sons:
Steven and Keith. They were fast asleep. 9.30 And shattered, she entered the bedroom. She missed her
husband Tom. He was out delivering a consignment of televisions to a store in London and wouldn’t be back
until tomorrow evening at the earliest. The boys could be a challenge: she had caught them trying to steal
money from her purse earlier. Worse they were obtaining the money to buy cigarettes. Coupled with this was
the strange goings on in the village, her neighbour, Pauline, had breathlessly regaled her with tales of ghosts
being spotted around the village. They were mainly soldiers: Saxon and Romans. They seem to be terrified of
something called ‘The Veng’. The whole village had been drinking too much Gin was Doreen’s reply. Despite her
caustic response, she had a feeling of unease. Overcome with fatigue, she tried to put these thoughts out of
her head and settle for sleep. She winced as she moved under the blankets: ice cold patches forced her to curl
into a ball. Christ, it’s May and I am freezing she thought.

She woke. A noise from downstairs had jolted her out of her slumber. If that’s Steven and Keith trying to sneak
down the stairs to watch TV, I am going to give them such a good hiding she thought testily. Putting her slippers
on and tying her dressing gown tightly around her waist, she walked out of her room. Walking through the
white washed landing, she paused at the top of the stairs. What was that noise? It sounded like Bees? Frowning,
she fumbled for the light switch and walked down to the Living room. As she entered the living room, she
switched on the light and took a sharp breath. Hovering in front of the television set was a black hole. Confused
Doreen took a step forward. What was in there? Teeth? Eyes? She realized she was screaming. Above her
screaming she could hear the roar of thousands of voices: ‘WE ARE VENG’.

‘Mum, Run!’

Doreen jolted back into this world. Steven and Keith had grabbed her hands. They ran out of the living room,
through the kitchen and out into the back yard. Nearly stumbling over a football, Keith swore. Doreen, out of
cuffed him.

‘Ow! C’mon Mum!’

They ran out of the garden and out onto the back street. All three panting leant haphazardly by a lamppost they
paused for breath. Staring back, they saw their house straining and distorting. The air was punctuated with noise
of joists and bricks popping. Suddenly and very dramatically, the building folded in on itself.

Doreen fished out a cigarette from her dressing gown pocket. Looked at her sons and fished out two more.
Grinning, they eagerly received their reward.

‘What were you two doing up at this time of night?’

The grins turn to expressions of alarm.

‘Just you wait until your Dad comes home!’

Gallifrey within the constellation of Kasterborous at galactic co-ordinates ten-zero-eleven-zero-zero by zero-two
from galactic zero centre. Huge and flame like, it lit up the heavens like a jewel in the sky. As we descend through
the burnt orange atmosphere and sweep through the clouds, nimbly bypassing the quantum force field and the
transduction barriers, we home in on the Citadel through the glass casing and through a wall of a discrete corner.
This room was a small annex owned by the Celestial intervention agency, In it stood Narvin, who to human eyes,
looked like a man in his mid-thirties, wearing a perpetual frown and short cropped hair, President
Romanadvoratrelundar, Blonde haired, pixie faced yet conveying a sense of maturity and wisdom beyond her
years and Ollistra an older woman, thin with short cropped hair.

“The prophecies state that they are important in the forthcoming Time war. They are both vital to our continued
existence” stated Ollistra coldly.

“Renegades and former friends” interjected Nevin. I’ve had dealings with both. I confess to trusting the Doctor far
more than the Master…”

“When it comes to War, you will find the Doctor equally, if not more, obdurate than the Master. Neither, for
different reasons, will fight willingly in the War” interjected Romana.

They must be persuaded to fight for Gallifrey at all costs. We must survive!” Ollistra thumped the monitor they
had been looking at in a rare display of emotion.

“We at the agency have formulated a plan,” grimaced Nevin a look of distaste accentuating his frown.

“Oh yes?” enquired Romana.

All three looked at the Fob watch that appeared on the screen.

“This is for the good of Gallifrey,” reminded Ollistra.