Two Smiths

The tenth Doctor became human to hide from the Family of Blood in a sleepy town on the eve of the Great War. But both he and they are surprised when a second John Smith turns up, looking uncannily like the Doctor's seventh incarnation.

Characters: The seventh Doctor, Bernice Summerfield, The tenth Doctor, Martha Jones, and sundry folk from both versions of Human Nature
Warnings: Some schoolboy bullying and references to war.
Thanks to Calapine for a couple of random ideas, Lurky McLurklurk for superb beta reading, and Paul Cornell for building the sandpit in the first place. Dr Smith's biology lesson is cribbed from "The Human Eye: A design review" by Steven den Beste, but all errors are my own

Art by m_alodel (LJ | comment) and unithien_rerith (LJ | e-mail | comment)

Prologue

"I think [the New Adventures] were the heart and soul of Doctor Who for so long. Fans do find intricate and lovely ways of dealing with that 'continuity' stuff, and I hope they'll do so for me. And anyway, it's quite romantic and lovely in a way, that the same terrible, tragic thing happens to him a couple of times."
-- Paul Cornell, interviewed in Doctor Who Magazine issue 382

"My advice for those who die
Declare the pennies on your eyes."
-- George Harrison, "Taxman"

Before he could catch his breath, he saw the torturer raise the weapon again, and another blue-white beam of energy hit his chest, the now-familiar feeling of searing pain spreading out to cover his whole body. As before, he responded with an involuntary spasm, a wave that seemed to begin in his brain and cascade downward, defending against the attack. As it passed through him, he felt some muscles shrink and some grow, some bones strengthen and others reform, fractures and fissures knitting and healing. He felt scars smooth out into new skin. And though he couldn't feel it, he saw new hair cascading down his head, fine dark strands curtaining his view.

Dizzy with the afterglow, and dimly aware that he was at least four inches taller than he had been a moment ago, he stretched out his chest muscles for what seemed like the first time, while fresh stubble prickled as it poked its way through his temples.

On this occasion, he had enough time to draw a full breath into his virgin lungs before the torturer aimed the gun and fired again.

At some point he came to, noisy greyness fading to colour as if a television station were gradually being tuned in. He was sat in a small dark room at a nondescript table. Someone sat opposite and someone else, presumably a guard, stood at the door.

"What happened?" he said. That was weird. His voice was... well, what? Different? He couldn't tell. Thinking about it, he didn't know what it was supposed to sound like. But he was sure it wasn't as young as this. How old was he? He felt... thirty? Forty? Older? He wasn't sure. But his voice was that of a child.

"I'm asking the questions," said the woman sitting opposite him, wearily. "Now. Our intelligence suggested you could survive mortal injury a further three times. Even allowing for error, that has proven to be... an underestimate. Care to explain that?"

He frowned. That felt odd too, as if it were the first time his facial muscles had been asked to make such a movement. But he could remember frowning, couldn't he? Actually, no. But he was sure he had. He shook his head to try to clear it.

"I don't understand," he said, his voice still sounding strange, alien even. "How can someone survive mortal injury?"

The woman actually barked a laugh. "More mind games?"

"What?"

"You're obviously even more special than we thought. But you'll break eventually. Another afternoon of execution ought to do it."

So they weren't trying to torture him, but execute him? And he was refusing to die? But for how long? More than three times. Many more, by the sound of things. But each time was dimmer and dimmer in his memory. He could just about remember being shot at four, maybe five times. What had happened to him each time?

"Execution didn't work the first dozen times," he said, "why should it work the next?"

"A dozen? More like-" she smiled suddenly. "Clever. You're telling the truth, you don't actually remember this. You're just fishing for information. Like a true Interventionist."

The guard opened the door. Someone else came in, a stocky man of around fifty. He whispered to the woman. The prisoner caught the odd phrase, enough to confirm that they were trying, and failing, to execute him. Only now they seemed to change their mind. His ability to survive a limited number of assassination attempts was apparently expected, but not this many. They were debating whether it was worth changing tack, to try to discover the secret of perpetual regeneration.

Regeneration? Is that what it's called? Well, as good a name as any. Odd for a memory to just pop back in there.

The man stood, and said out loud, "it doesn't matter either way. It's as effective as a torture technique. He'll talk. Sooner or later." He was staring straight at the prisoner now. "We can keep this up for months if necessary."

"What use is a torture technique if I barely remember the pain?" the prisoner said, but the man ignored him.

"Take him to the cells. Put him in with Carl."

The woman responded in a lower voice, but not quiet enough for the prisoner not to hear. "But he's attempted escape on no less than fourteen separate occasions."

"And how many times has he succeeded in getting out of the citadel?"

"Well, none."

"Well then."

The guard grabbed him roughly and soon he was being escorted at gunpoint – not that he needed to fear that, apparently – down featureless corridors and stairways.

The cell door opened. A slim young man with blond hair looked up. "Hello. Who are you?"

The prisoner thought for a moment as the guard pushed him inside and locked the door. "I haven't the faintest idea! Ooh, I enjoyed that question, ask me another!"

The young man smiled. "I'm Carl. What are you in for?"

"I don't know that either, though apparently I'm very special. How about you?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Carl pointed to a symbol on his otherwise grey tunic. "I'm a deviant."

"Oh good, I usually get on so well with deviants! Do I? Apparently so. Hmm. Well, this is all very jolly, but let's try to get this door open shall we." The echoey sound of another door slamming suggested the guard had retreated to a reasonable distance.

"You'll never get that open. It's not as if there's even a real lock that you can pick. The door's held in place by a series of tiny but powerful magnets. You'd need fifty strong men leaning against it to budge it an inch."

"You're well informed. No wonder they locked you up."

"I'm with... a group. HABAFOM. You might have heard of us."

"No. Well, I might. I might be with them too. I might be their leader. Who knows?" The Doctor pushed at the door, and then frowned for a moment. "Ooh, I just got a flash of my name. At least I think I did. Something beginning with D."

"Dave?"

"No. I have the feeling I'm a little too portentous to go by Dave, but you're thinking, I like that." The boy frowned at Carl again. "No lock to pick, you say? But that just makes it easier. Locks get more and more sophisticated as civilisations do, but that just means there's more and more weak links in the chain to exploit. Take for example, locks with Artificial Intelligence that decide for themselves whether you're friend or foe. Foolproof. Until you tell one of them that you always lie, and let them think about it for a bit. Before you know it there's a faint whiff of burning and the door swings open on its own."

"Yeah, you probably are with HABAFOM. Either that or you've watched too much Mystery Science Theatre."

The Doctor grinned. Wait a minute! "That's it! I know who I am!"

Carl grinned back. "That's great! Who are you?"

"I'm the D-"

Timothy woke up suddenly. The light had gone on in the dorm and the other boys were staring at him. Most were still in their beds and looking sleepily over, but the House captains were shooting daggers at him.

"Well?" said Merryweather.

"Um?" said Timothy. "What's up?"

"You are, bug," said Merryweather. "You were shouting in your sleep. 'I'm the Dean! I'm the Dean!' Again and again. We know you're the Dean. Or rather, we know you're a Dean. I'm not sure the headmaster would take kindly to being told you're the Dean."

"I'm sorry. I was having a nightmare. I was being... executed. Or tortured."

Some of the boys laughed a little at this. Merryweather decided to milk it. "Well. Timothy Dean doesn't know the difference between being tortured and being executed. And this is the sort of man the country's going to be looking to, to defend her in wars to come. At least the way you're going you'll never actually make Officer class. Thank heavens for small mercies."

The boys laughed again, ever sycophantic to the captains. "I said I was sorry," said Timothy.

"Oh, don't be," said Merryweather, turning back and pulling the bedclothes over himself.

"Thank you, sir."

"No, I mean, don't be sorry now. We'll schedule you for a beating at eight o'clock tomorrow morning. You'll have plenty of time to be sorry then."

Timothy turned back to go to sleep. Where had the dream come from? It was so vivid. At least, he thought it had been. It had now faded to the point that he couldn't remember anything but random moments. The feeling of new muscles. His mind racing, sizing up his enemies, trying to trick them into revealing their hand. And the phrase "artificial intelligence". Whatever that might mean.

As he drifted back to sleep, a small red sphere in the drawer of his bedside table began to pulse with a faint crimson glow.

Go to chapter one