Warning: This story contains adult themes.
THE MASTER'S APPRENTICE
By Scott Weller
Our Utopia of darkness is close at hand...
Uncannily operating communications and surveillance equipment with a skillful, talented way and flair beyond the mental confines and technological capabilities of the human race to which he was once a part, the man known only as 'James Stoker' smiled to himself as the latest activity reports from the world superpowers were hacked and relayed into his unique immersive communications system- a retrieval device specially created and provided by the alien being who had met him that fateful night nearly one year earlier, when he was at his near low ebb- the on-rush of murder approaching him. The creature, the 'man', who recognised his intelligence and potential, promising Stoker a bright and powerful future in his servitude, to act as the silent hand to the powerful fist that would ultimately shatter the world and reshape it to their desires - a co-dominion pact over the wrecked planet Earth. A time whose clock hands were nearing that unique and deadly hour. Stoker recalled with clarity that first day - that truly fateful, lucky day - when their destinies had uniquely collided. The day when Stoker first encountered 'the Master' - a unique alien who looked human, indeed he enjoyed many of the comforts and traditions so enjoyed by humans (''creature' comforts', the Master had dark-humorously called them), but was ultimately, truly anything but, especially with his genuine underlying contempt and hatred for the dominant species of the Earth, a world whose power house dreams of conquest, annihilation and experimentation were his ultimate interest and goal. "Dominant? The human race?" the Master once 'pah-ed' with laughter, as his determined eyes bored deep into Stoker's once-chilled but soon appreciative soul. "Not for much longer..."
With the special implant at the back of his neck and the relay device in his right ear, of which the alternating communications signals and rapidly interpreted languages of the world continued unabated, Stoker relished the fact that he was literally plugged into the world and its routines like no other human could ever be, honing in on the messages, both coded and un-coded, from civilian chatter, medical and scientific discoveries, to military strategies in realms large and small, that would unlock the plans for their takeover, whilst also potentially delivering brand new schemes to pay rich dividends for evil. Even now, the Master's own advance planning with the mysterious, too-dangerous-for-Stoker-to-get-near-to 'Keller Machine' parasite, and the subsequent chillingly murderous plans around its ultimate unveiling linked to the controlled and misguided fool Professor Kettering, had already been initiated, further backed with supportive fractions of the Chinese government,whose powerful, rampant egos had been foolishly manipulated into believing they they would share dominion over this world alongside the enigmatic figure of 'Emil Keller'. Importantly, aiding their eventual self-destruction, one of the Red Army's special representatives, a lovely but intense and youthfully idealistic Captain named Chin Lee, had already been snared via the Master's mesmeric influence so as to work as a double agent, ready to help deliver their special project to a grateful society keen to abolish the dark side of human nature, and whose first testing was set for a world premiere of the most ghoulish kind at Stangmoor Prison, known for its hardened criminal intake, and particularly a cadre of the finest violent and efficient thugs that the nation of Great Britain had ever produced- if they were the apples on a tree of poisoned intent, then they were surely fully ripe for the plucking.
But in the Master's grand schemes, of which so many were either in short or long-term preparation, his contact and use of the plastic-adapting race that were the Nestene Consciousness had proved his ultimate priority - the planned spearhead against the Earth that would cripple it forever. With a technological prowess that continued to evolve and amaze Stoker, the Master's creation of a unique sound wave generator device had sent many opening messages inviting the deep-space realm hidden Consciousness back to the Earth for a second invasion. Having been defeated only a year before, they had been reticent to reply at first, but when the Master revealed his intentions for a brutal 'second campaign' that, with his unique knowledge of the planet, its governments and military powers, as well as the best ways to influence its near cattle-like flesh populace. guaranteed success (bolstered by the Keller Machine, once it had started doing its perversities, alongside the co-joined planned missile hi-jacking), even they could not resist his skillful diplomacy. No longer at their warehouse base, the Master was away on 'business', currently in deep space solidifying the final phase of their unique negotiations and 'war plans', to be called 'The Auton Invasion', having already been gone a month in Earth time but no doubt minutes within his own unique travelling of that 'Fifth Dimension'. Stoker prided himself that he'd already had first-hand experience of the incredible time/space vehicle of the Master's home species - a TARDIS, currently disguised as a tall and beautiful clock (and now transplanted to a further secret location of which he was not privy to) - and further privileged to have even been granted some basic operating knowledge of the vehicle amidst further revelations of his mentor's original background within the Time Lord society, a species he clearly equally despised would soon shun. It was also clear that, before he left them, the Master had taken many deeply buried secrets of theirs from millennia past...
For the time being, the realms of space and time may be a luxury of power currently denied him, but Stoker ultimately knew that he was at his best in the here and now of their first established domain, maintaining communications and acting as 'caretaker', whilst importantly also searching for the hidden home of the Nestene's lone surviving globe energy/communications unit. It had moved across many locations this past year, from Switzerland to Paris as UNIT personnel and scientists tried but failed to learn anything about its seemingly inert alien tech. Incredulously, rumours were now continuing of its being released for exhibition purposes, beyond boastful secret displays by British government/military showing superiority to, and in the process deliberately antagonising, foreign powers. Surely such a display would be an incredibly foolish gesture, one that could only have been decided on by a truly inept set of limited powered minds, unaware of how dangerous the energy globe would continue to be in the wrong hands. Stoker smiled, in our 'wrong hands' soon enough...
For sure, there was no one, no natural born resident on planet Earth capable of stopping the Master's plans. But there was one being who had the potential to, and one who, like the Master himself, was not of this Earth. For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction, that was the old saying. And if the Master was this planet's thorn-discharging 'yang', then his repellent 'ying' in the worst sense had to be that other mysterious figure known as 'the Doctor'.
If there was a best way to sum up the relationship between these two truly unique opposing forces, then old Earth literary history had already provided the most pertinent metaphor of sorts. Stoker had been forced to read the Sherlock Holmes novels of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in his childhood and had always hated the smug and intellectually decadent private investigator uniquely situated in Baker Street, as well as Holmes's equally nosey and interfering partner in Doctor John Watson - the crimes they had solved and the criminality their partnership had fought having been too easily vanquished. That is, until the arrival in Conan Doyle's storytelling imagination of the mysterious and super-intellectual equal that would be Professor James Moriarty, soon leader of the darkest areas of London's criminal underground, to which the battle lines of its filth-ridden streets would intersect with the upper crust realms enjoyed by Holmes. This 'Moriarty', despite his eventual demise in combat against his foe at the legendary Reichenbach Falls, had been a figure that Stoker would, in that not quite forgotten past life, admire and respect. But just how had Moriarty been ultimately conceived in Conan Doyle's imagination? Had he in his own lifetime been influenced, mentally 'infected' in some way, by an encounter with an evil of true and malignant purpose that would stimulate his storytelling? With such similarities to the creature Stoker served in the here and now, could it possible that 'Moriarty' had been the Master all along, albeit in a previous or future jaunt into the realms of Scotland's unique real-life history of poverty, cruelty and barbarity within its own seemingly civilised but ultimately divided nineteenth century realm of rich and poor? It was certainly something that bore more thought and potential investigation, but now was not the time, the focus on the here, the even darker future times ahead for Mankind, were the priority.
Sherlock Holmes had been Moriarty's enemy, and now, here on this world, the Master was fully aware of his own equal opponent and what he was up to. Or rather what he was not up to, now that the Doctor was stuck in the cruellest of exiles to this primitive world. The Master had made Stoker fully aware of their opponent ('Know Thy Enemy', as he had been encouraged to do) through some of those aforementioned liberated files from his home planet - both figures having been part of that unique and tremendously powerful race of near-cowards from the planet Gallifrey: the Time Lords. Sadly, unlike his brothers in their seemingly realm of near-isolation and indolence, this 'Doctor' had gone on to become a legendary nuisance, a man equally perceptive and as dangerous as the Master but in opposite ways to be hated- an interfering force for curiosity, working for what he singularly perceived as goodness, and justice, whilst exploring the cosmos. A wasted intellect that was once offered a share in the universe when the two forces had talked about their plans whilst students friends so long ago - 'when the galaxy still felt fresh, new and more vulnerable' (the Master had fondly recalled). The Doctor was a threat that had to be eliminated as soon as possible, but handled in such a way that would be both satisfying and degrading in order to satiate the Master's own personal needs -a simple assassin's bullet would just not do, and certainly this Doctor always had a knack for avoiding such primitive life-ending attempts anyway. No, the Master, an unstoppable personality of which none of his time was ever wasted, was watching and subtly stalking his prey, avoiding the Doctor's now solitary, companion-less presence at UNIT headquarters, and his current doddering about in a practically antiquated research laboratory, until that special time was right via the Master's link with the Autons, the race for which the Doctor had been their 'lucky' vanquisher, stopping them at a time that unfortunately coincided with the start of his exile status on Earth.
That bungling plodder didn't deserve to live, Stoker had thought many times when looking at the visual images of the Doctor- very much the out of his depth dandy, and an elitist of sorts, what with his meticulous grey/white hair and bird-like nose, attired with eccentric antique wardrobe comprising many frilled shirts and smoking jackets - an appearance that could almost seem farcical in fact, if those eyes of his didn't show, no betray was the more apt word, the same kind of curious intellectual fire as his master.
And it was those oh-so prevalent garish elements that brought back and intensified in his mind the hideous times of his most recent past life. Stoker remembered that dark childhood, of the horrific upbringing he'd suffered, endured - the squalor of the East London flat to which a nightmare existence was wrought, part of a tower block that had gathered dust via the neglect of its greedy local council, who'd rather favour the celebrities and politicians who lived in opulence within luxury houses and apartments literally a corner's turn away to another universe. Stoker's senses reignited to the constant smell of cigarettes, the lingering odours of regular adult liaisons by men to and from his mother's degraded bedroom embraces, and the stench of alcohol. And then there was the general filth that had brought regular visits from eager rats ready to capitalize on any mass squalor that they could find and devour, as the endless crying of babies from nearby thin walls reminded him of the tragedy of his own baby brother, prematurely still born from his mother's damaged womb, with no one to comfort him for the loss, not even his own unique birth father, whose identity remained shrouded in mystery - a man with a past and a prestige, and 'a thing' for women of his mother's type and 'enthusiasm'. A mystery man until Stoker turned fourteen, when he'd decided that enough was enough with his needy, alcoholic single parent who constantly dragged him down and all too regularly helped make him a mockery in front of schoolmates, leading to fights, trouble and several near death experiences, coalesced to wreck the potential academic skills and potential he'd been showing before the powder keg of emotions, of puberty, further swept him up in a tide of anger and a thirst for revenge at his happenstances. After several false starts across several years, involving unorthodox investigations, blackmail and the promises of disgusting 'favours' to potential clue-bringers, he ultimately found 'him' - a man whose incredible lifestyle, and continued taste for the extravagant, fused with the kind of political and societal influence only a select few had, also sharing strong ties to numerous underworld power bases that could certainly bring down any potential individuals, companies and political government that he/they saw fit.
Once he had found his father, researched him, followed him, Stoker had made early subtle attempts to communicate, to become a part of an empire he felt fit and ready to contribute to, even if in an underground way. But such aspirations soon collapsed before any mild shape could be formed. His father had seen Stoker's potential, his ambitions, but ultimately deemed him a threat to be eliminated as soon as possible. London was soon a private realm of hateful antagonism between father and son, as Stoker, out of his depth despite his raw strength and intelligence, tried his best to avoid the cards that fate had now stacked against him, amidst dark forces that had seen his mother 'die' of a heart attack so suddenly and strangely, when he'd tried hard to help her back to some kind of normality beyond 'The Game'. Stoker was on the path in joining her towards a similarly nasty fate before the arrival of the Master, as his father's own criminal servants came looking for the manchild, cornering and almost beating him to a pulp, on the fateful day the chase had led all parties to an abandoned former 1950's printing press warehouse in East London that he'd remembered trespassing on from childhood boredom (and the very site he now resided, in fact).
Stoker's bloody face was soon compatible with the rest of his bruised and battered body, the injury impact punches wrought against him with steel rim layered fists, having echoed through the abandoned warehouse. It was surely the end of Stoker's miserable life, until the murder-bringers were suddenly interrupted in their 'work' by a strange and mysterious groaning/wheezing sound in the near darkness which then abruptly stopped as the residue of a mysterious wind finally silenced the breezy manipulations of newspaper spread pages that had been flying around the place. The atmosphere suddenly felt charged with electricity and became even more eerie for a few quiet moments. It was then that the figure emerged from the near darkness, a man of small but important body movement, with a clearly supreme intellect glowing through powerful, unease-bringing eyes, part of a face that superficially looked either Mediterranean or possibly Asiatic in origin - a large, near eagle-like nose and protruding chin covered by the silver grey beard and near-devilish in appearance hairline. They had trespassed in his domain, the figure had declared to the party now witnessed before him, and had interfered in his delicately balanced work. The punishment for that was to be severe, of which the stranger acted fast against Stoker's opponents with a ferocity and the use of a savage weapon the likes of which the young man had never seen before, apart from his stirred imagination brought to life in comic books - a long black cigar-like cylinder with some kind of opening operated from a rear push-in mechanism, dispatched purple energy at the three intimidating opponents as they tried but failed to rush the intruder, each ugly thug quickly becoming an aura of light. And then... and then they had become shrunken dolls, playthings, more scary than anything Stoker could ever have thought possible! As the Master made a subtle smile at his grim handiwork, the weapon was now loosely held in one hand whilst the other made a slight adjustment to the collar of his grey/black Nehru jacket attire. This new arrival was clearly the most dangerous man Stoker had ever seen, perhaps more dangerous than his father, and yet he strangely admired this mysterious figure, who'd been unafraid to kill when necessary. Here was 'a man' of powerful convictions, and clearly someone not of this realm. But how could that be? Stoker's face, looking like a squashed tomato of dark crimson, punctuated with a combination of bruises that now looked as if they were all about to fuse as one, was near unconsciousness, rapidly brought on by the extra shock of the Master's arrival. For a few moments it looked like the Master, bearing a haunted quality to his hypnotic visage, was ready to put the young man to a quick death, but looked down closer at the equally determined if near fading away eyes of the seriously injured human, as if entering into some kind of mental contact with him, soon seeing the potential that was ready to be unleashed. The Master had seen Stoker's pain, the anger, the thirst for power and revenge shining brightly like a directional beam from a lighthouse. Needs which he knew could be exploited with relish, alongside his knowledge of people, the environment around him, the Earth of this unusual time frame covering the late twentieth century.
As Stoker recovered via his miraculous escape from death, he soon found new purpose, and the potential for power and leadership beyond anything he could possibly have explored on his own. And Stoker was happy to be exploited, too. As the Master carried his broken body back to what he called his 'TARDIS', and tended to his wounds with revolutionary medical equipment that brought him back to life support in hours, 'his benevolence' had offered Stoker the chance to join him in his quest to subjugate the Earth and see in a new power base that would shake the universal destiny forever. Stoker soon clasped the gloved hand offered with relish. A deal with the devil? Very much so. But it was one that, after such a life of pain and disappointment, he was more than ready and willing to accept...
"I am many things..."
Such little foibles asides, Stoker was beyond Human now, what with the technological training, and especially his 'people skills', as the Master now referred to his gifts of manipulation successfully transferred to his apprentice. Stoker was a more confident, more powerful, more terrifying force than he'd ever previously imagined. And under that guidance, he had gained his controlled, sadistic revenge against not just old enemies since childhood, even using their adult selves to aid the Master, but in extracting murderous vengeance on his biological father, whose schemes and corporations had been absorbed into private consortiums that were ultimately fronts for the Master's evolving power platforms and influence spreading out from this pathetic, so-called 'United Kingdom' (an influence now hanging onto its world respect only by the merest of slender lapels), and on to the cold climes of the 'Russian Bear' itself.
But with all his initiatives, the Master had also sown the seeds, perhaps deliberately so, in that narcissistic, testing way of his own, that would make Stoker feel that he himself might eventually find the power within to 'replace' the being that had given him so much in such a short space of time. Deep down Stoker knew that he would have to kill the alien benefactor who had relaunched his life, like a dark butterfly emerged from the grubbiest of caterpillars, once their plans had been successfully implemented, that The Master was skillfully using other 'pawns' across the globe the way a master chess player manipulates the game board, and that he'd ultimately discard his pieces just as easily and just as quickly as those thugs he'd first dispatched a lifetime ago. Stoker knew that there was no guarantee that even he, the esteemed 'the Master's 'apprentice', might be safe in the long-term...
Could the apprentice become another form of 'Master'? Could he dare attempt such dreams of taking murderous power whilst launching his own pre-emptive act of self preservation? Perhaps, eventually, but he would first wait and see what would happen with the building scenarios against the Earth that were currently in motion...
----
Reaching the ground floor, pistol grip ready, waiting to potentially take suspects into custody rather than taking lives, the balaclava'd figure known as Houghton surveyed the incredible yet clearly sinister-in-goals technology all around the viewscape- equipment clearly beyond anything seen at UNIT headquarters. An echoing voice could suddenly be heard from the darkness beyond. A confident, precise, almost deliberately punctuated voice, near theatrical, for its singular audience. "The first alarm you broke was always conceived as an easy trip. It sows the seeds of false confidence in any perpetrator foolish enough to break in here." The flippant edge continued. "An over confidence that can lead a person into making the kind of mistakes that can be so easily exploited against them." With that last sentence, Stoker was happily repeating the very words the Master had first told him when the sensor equipment was lain.
Stoker had now revealed himself clearly, and Houghton was shocked to discover just how young he was. There was a controlled and dangerous air to the figure that was all too noticeable, a body language showing strength and power within his tall, thin, sharp-suited frame, with crystal blue eyes shining bright, and an air of 'appointment' about him. The months of infiltration undergone by Houghton into the darkest criminal chapters of London had yielded unexpected and shocking results. The figure looked familiar now, indeed he was the son of such a powerful man, a man who'd recently been mutilated to near beyond recognition, left to die in a cesspit tower block facing soon demolition. Houghton's early hunches about unusual activity beyond the norm had indeed proved correct...
"Welcome to our domain..."
Like the Master, and perhaps in his own way of tribute to the scientific genius, Stoker had created a singular and unique 'weapon' of which to call his own, unfailingly, swiftly releasing its discharge point blank towards Houghton- a direct red beam soon tearing through the figure's head with the ease of a knife piercing the softest of butters, instantly killing the spy before the right pistol hand had only half way moved up to fire in response. Houghton's lifeless body made a stone cold, chilling thud to the floor as inert, nothing-ness eyes looked upwards from the holed balaclava towards the cracked ceiling. The Master had told Stoker that he liked to leave unique 'calling cards' of his work for others to find, from which to generate fear, and perhaps admiration, from others for his murderous audacity. So too does Stoker, intending to leave the body here for discovery, knowing that this individual can only be from UNIT, that somehow a connection no matter how small had been made to this facility by this once clearly clever agent. But clever no more. Such a potential discovery by interlopers either civilian or militaristic had also been anticipated, as ever, by the Master. Theirs was a facility that must now be thoroughly wiped from existence. At the flick of a red button adorning a strange box-like contraption pulled from his inside coat pocket, the incredible technology around Stoker (some created by the Master alongside others stolen from numerous worlds) suddenly started to blink out of reality, as a red aura of power surged from all the gathered equipment and spread across all corners of the warehouse. A strangely quiet moan of extinction that built to a crescendo as the powerhouse technology snuffed itself out of reality once and for all, with not a trace to be discovered and yielded for forensics potential.
Uncaring at the equipment's loss, Stoker's visage showed similar, casual disregard whilst looking down at the body of the fallen spy, and of the violence he had wrought a few minutes earlier, knowing that much, much worse was to come for others of his race. Potentially millions of them...
The young man adjusted the near loosed red carnation on one of his his grey striped flared lapels, smelt it briefly, then, with a self-important air he relishes, swiftly departs the warehouse - two thick double doors seemingly of their own accord giving way just to him. Stoker's stealth movements, looking out for any possible surveillance by others, soon gives way to a confident stride that is soon swallowed up by the remaining exterior darkness, before the light of a new day starts to make its mark. Stoker whistles a quirky tune that only he self-indulgently recognises, before fully disappearing into the ether, much like the Devil himself would. He knows that this may well be Earth's last sunlight rays of hope before the Master's plans are fully initiated. And he is glad.
----
"Here, sir!"
The tall, active frame of Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart followed the echoing voice of Private Dicks across the other side of the ground floor, joining the normally happy-go-lucky, baby-faced soldier so keen to serve his commanding officer, as other members of the small UNIT retrieval squad began equally converging downwards from the upper floor points of the abandoned printing facility. The cold dawn air was body-chilling enough, the Brigadier thought, but the discovery here, now, was even more shattering - down to to his very soul. They all as one sorrily looked towards the deceased lone operative who'd been such an important part of the UNIT organisation these past eighteen months. Lethbridge-Stewart had no idea what Houghton, one of his finest deep-cover operatives, had been onto - indeed, Houghton had deliberately kept communiques to him vague, wanting to collect the full evidence needed, whatever it was. But that 'whatever it was' had now, beyond doubt, proved itself a clear and present danger, not just to the UK but potentially the world. And as soon as Houghton had operated the alert signal/homing device, he and his men had mobilised as quickly as possible to assist. Just not quick enough, sadly...
"There's no sign of anything about, sir," notes Corporal Holmes, whose older-looking, life-experienced face of stark character states the clearly obvious to his commanding officer. The man's only doing his duty, Lethbridge-Stewart glumly thinks to himself - no need to respond glibly. Especially not with the demoralizing discovery of Houghton's body before them. He gently but firmly pulls back the balaclava to look at the face of the dead spy, her lifeless hazel eyes revealed, the dark woolen cloth fully removed and showing the brutal extent of the massive forehead wound all too clearly, a wound wrought by an instantaneously brutal weapon shot of some kind that had totally destroyed the smart and confident brain within what was once an enigmatic, beautiful woman whom Lethbridge-Stewart admired and personally selected for deep cover surveillance work. Another fine UNIT member lost too early. Professional soldiers they may all be, nonetheless the troops alongside their leader were truly feeling the shock of Houghton's starkly vicious murder.
"UNIT never forgets its own, Houghton..." The Brigadier said gently and with respect to his fallen soldier, yet with conviction strong enough so as his comrades could hear and remember his words. "You will be avenged, I promise you..."
Raised back to full intimidating height, giving one further overall look at the eerie warehouse facility with quietly concentrated steely eyes, Lethbridge-Stewart had an instinct, a feeling, that a great darkness, a pure evil, something unique and deadly, had been at work here. A darkness now escaped, transplanted elsewhere...
"We've drawn attention to ourselves, Miss Shaw..."
It felt like a long time ago, a more innocent time, since Lethbridge-Stewart conversed that information to the once brusque but dedicated Dr. Elizabeth Shaw, a dedicated and attractive scientist who had now returned to Cambridge so as to resume her original interrupted duties, having been angrily seconded to UNIT the previous year. Words spoken at his early headquarters office that were clearly more prescient and ominous than ever...
It may prove a fruitless exercise, but the forensics boys would be called in just the same to examine every centimetre of the warehouse, as too would be vital assistance from the likely-aggrieved figure of the Doctor. Beyond that, all that could be done now was to keep an alert watch and wait for whatever lie ahead. If a fourth invasion of some kind by unknown forces was indeed on the cards for planet Earth, Lethbridge-Stewart would respond the only way he knew how - by being the best soldier and leader of UNIT he could possibly be...
As another UNIT jeep honked its horn and was let in via massive ground floor sliding doors once used for busy delivery vans, a move generating an air-flow disturbance that now saw discarded newspaper pages (adorned with black and white photos of 'Page Three Girls' happily displaying showing their wares) aimlessly moving across all corners of the scenario, strong grey clouds could now be distinctly seen in the distance lurking towards London. Clouds of the most ugly and disturbing kind setting their sights on the once crisp bright sky, ready to discharge their watery violence over the city and beyond. It's as if the Gods themselves had been angered by events here, he tensely thought to himself.
The Brigadier extended the antenna wire out from his pocket-removed pen walkie talkie, then communicated to a far away voice with clarity and action... "Put me through to UNIT Command Geneva..."
THE END
Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart was created by Mervyn Haisman and Henry Lincoln.
UNIT created by Derrick Sherwin
The Master was created by Barry Letts and Terrance Dicks
This story is respectfully dedicated to the one true 'Master': Roger Delgado.
