No. He had not sensed that it was a cry for anything other than death and revenge. But why?

The Doctor opened his eyes at last, staring at the console. Susan was on the verge of death, and already sunk into despair. She needed his help. Guiltily, he realised that he’d abandoned her for far too long, and she had been far too young when he had cut off all of her ties with her own heritage. At the time it had seemed to be the right thing to do… hadn’t it? He didn’t know.

But maybe now he could do something about it.

His hands moved towards the controls, to alter the TARDIS’s flight towards the co‐ordinates he’d gleaned from the telepathic circuits. And then he stopped.

They were set for his search for Sam… Thirty‐odd years after the Daleks had invaded Earth. Where Susan should be, before she sent the telepathic message… Perhaps he could take care of both tasks together. Discover what had happened to Susan, and search for Sam at the same time… Susan’s husband… what was his name? Oh, yes! David Campbell! He’d been high up in the resistance movement. He was bound to be a part of the restructuring that took place after the clean‐up. He might even be the best person to ask about Sam. If she was in New London, David would probably be the right person to talk to for information.

Yes. That was the answer. He smiled, suddenly. If he found out what had caused Susan’s problem, then perhaps he could prevent whatever had caused her to send that message in the first place. So it would be tweaking the laws of Time, and he would no doubt get a slap on the wrist the next time he visited Gallifrey. But what did that matter, compared to all of the complaints they undoubtedly had against him already? One more minor violation on his record. Well, laws should be tempered by compassion.

Enough thought, enough moodiness: it was time for action…

3

Eminent Domain

Donna couldn’t help being amused by the discomfort of Becca’s father, but she tried to keep it off her face and out of her voice. He was one of those people who are the backbone of the community – independent, strong, and generally quiet. He and his wife had raised a good family – at least six children that Donna had seen as they had come to gape in awe at a female knight and to stroke her warhorse – and they undoubtedly had as little to do with outsiders as possible. On the other hand, they could hardly ignore the fact that she had saved the life of their daughter.

‘I’m truly sorry, sir… ma’am…’ the father said, confused and uncertain. Knights were generally addressed as sir, and she’d faced this particular embarrassment before.

‘There’s no need for any titles,’ she said gently. ‘It’s just a job.’

‘Begging your pardon, but it’s more than that,’ the farmer replied. ‘Risking your life as you do, and all. But, as I were saying, I’m sorry that my Becca made you risk your life for to save her. I’ll see that she’s properly punished for it.’

‘And rewarded, too, I hope,’ Donna added.

The father looked confused. ‘Rewarded?’

‘For bringing home her prizes,’ Donna explained. ‘As healthy a litter of kittens as I’ve seen in many a year.’ The bundles of fur were on the floor, gathered around a dish of food, nibbling at it and playing with one another. ‘Becca told me how much you need their help with the rodents, and she only did what she did because she wanted to help.’

‘That’s as it may be,’ her father agreed stubbornly. ‘And I’m not saying that they won’t be a grand help and much appreciated. But she has to learn not to go off into the woods alone.’

‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Donna replied. ‘If she doesn’t learn, well, next time I’m unlikely to be there to save her. But I’d ask that you temper her punishment with appreciation.’

‘I knows best how to take care of my own,’ he said stubbornly. There was, at the same time, an unspoken accusation in his bold gaze: Why aren’t you taking care of your own? She’d seen it many times, and would undoubtedly see it as many times again. In this terribly underpopulated world, women were valued mostly for their fertility. And it was neither his nor anyone else’s business why she was not at home, tending a gaggle of her own brats. Donna ignored that aspect of his challenge.

‘I can see that you do,’ she agreed. ‘Well, I have to be on my way. I’ll stop by the next time my patrol brings me this way, and see how Becca’s doing.’

‘If there’s anything we can do for you, to show our gratitude…’ the hitherto‐silent mother said.

Donna smiled at the tired‐looking, grey‐haired woman, who could hardly be more than about ten years her senior. ‘Perhaps there is,’ she suggested. ‘When the next generation of cats comes along, I’d like the opportunity to purchase one from you.’

‘Purchase?’ the woman answered, as if she’d said something indecent. ‘We’ll give you your choice. Our word on that. It’s the least we can do.’

Donna inclined her head. ‘Then I thank you.’ She turned to the two girls still stroking the horse. Now, young ladies, if you’ll stand aside, I have to remount. Trust me, this armour’s heavy, and if I fall on either of you, it’ll break a limb or two. And not mine.’

Laughing, the girls scampered back. Donna wasn’t exaggerating about the weight of her armour. She used a portion of a log to stand on, getting her closer to saddle height. From this, she was able to swing a leg across the stallion’s back, and settled into place. One of the boys handed her the helmet, which pulled into place. ‘A good day to you, gentlefolk,’ she called, and then urged her steed into movement. She turned its head away from the farm, and back towards the London road. It was approaching evening, and she wanted to make it back before it got too dark.

She heard the door to the farmhouse close behind her and sighed. Becca was in for a strapping, that was obvious. It was harsh, but the punishment might save her life one day. What the girl had done was brave but extremely foolish. On the other hand, Donna could hardly fault the child, considering her own choice of career. She urged the horse onward, glad that at least Becca would live to lie on her stomach all night.

It had been pure coincidence that she had been close enough to hear the slyther roar, of course. Still, she had recognised the sound of the hunting call, and knew that something was in trouble. She’d never have guessed the prey to be a human child, but she hated slythers enough to kill them whatever their intended victims. One of the nastier little gifts the Daleks had left in their wake.

Donna had never known the Daleks, of course. They’d been dead almost a decade before she’d been born. But her father had fought them, and most of his men, too. And there were damaged casings all over London. Some were in museums, but others were rusting trophies in front yards. Many had been beheaded and used to hold flowers, which doubtless amused their owners: weapons of terror become containers of peace. Donna had always thought the Daleks looked evil, and the idea of using them for anything gentle appalled her. But, she realised, people coped in whatever ways they could, and it wasn’t her place to criticise them.

Her steed carried her almost automatically on the path that led homeward. She was starting to itch badly, and would enjoy removing her armour and having a good, long soak in a bath. Maybe even put on a skirt, and enjoy astonishing her colleagues. The armour was a pain, but the people, she’d been told, needed symbols of the government in action. And the knight was an almost universal stereotype of the gentle stranger. Donna had to admit that it worked: people did accept that she meant them only well when they saw her. But was it really worth wearing this horrible weight of metal?