Earth's Champion
Sir Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart landed near a mansion abandoned since UNIT's early days. One of their 'easier' missions, lacking extraterrestrials, insane AIs, or mad scientists. Even so, nobody had wanted the place afterwards, and it wasn't in an economically attractive spot. Perfect for a dead man to gather his thoughts.
Final rest beckoned. Not the falsehood of the Nethersphere, but what Shakespeare termed the 'undiscovered country' from which none returned.
Near the end of his life, he'd accepted death and gone to sleep every night with the knowledge that he might not awaken again. He hadn't expected to end up in the tackiest afterlife imaginable, given the tour by a functionary who tried (and failed) to coerce him to delete his emotions. In life, he had borne and coped with emotional and physical pain: why should he do less in death?
Boards had fallen from the mansion's back doorway, which had warped enough for the locked door to open at a push. He entered, and his cybernetic eyesight adjusted to the darkness.
Silence to human ears, broken only by the sounds that old houses make, and the birdsong outside. Audio sensors picked up the skittering of small animals and of termites chewing wood. Other sensors told him the ambient temperature, the quality of the dust-filled air, and the background radiation count, among other things.
After his quasi-resurrection, he'd been half-dragged in pursuit of Boat One, his cybernetic body obeying commands from outside. When the rest of the Cybermen had attacked the plane, he had broken free of that control and sought a way to eliminate the others before his 'dysfunction' was detected.
Then the side panel had blown out, and he saw the TARDIS fall free, followed by a human figure. TARDIS meant Doctor: the salvation of Boat One, its personnel, and Kate. Save his friend: save everyone. He followed.
That falling figure was Kate, unconscious from the shock. He'd maneuvered below her, matching her speed, thankful for the automatic systems of his metal body. If he'd had to do it himself, they both would have splattered across the countryside. Instead, he took her in his arms and slowed his descent, looping his flight as he caught a familiar, hated, signal. The roar of air prevented him from hearing anything, but he thought he saw the TARDIS stop its fall and shoot upwards.
Kate couldn't have heard him even if she'd been conscious, but that hadn't stopped him talking to her, soothing her, even singing the lullabies (including the alien ones he'd learned from the Doctor) with which he'd comforted her in childhood.
The remaining shred of cyber-control had allowed him to follow the creature who had dared to harm his daughter and threaten Earth. Down, down, to a cemetery where new-born Cybermen lurched and wandered aimlessly.
He had set Kate gently in the grass and 'listened' to the plan to transform the entire population of Earth into Cybermen if the Doctor did not accept the offered army of the dead. Not on his watch, if he could help it.
As he had closed on the signal's source, he had heard the Doctor shout, "I am not a good man; I am not a bad man. I am not a hero: I am an idiot with a box and a screwdriver!"
He looked around what he identified as the mansion's kitchen. All the furnishings and decorations had been left in place. Even with the cobwebs, deterioration, and animal droppings, an ordinary room. Nothing unusual about it except him.
What broke you, old friend? he wondered, recalling a long-ago visit from a haunted Doctor who spoke only of trifles, and another from one he knew was near regeneration. What did you have to do?
Who was the woman who offered the Doctor an army to conquer the universe? Why did she need to know that she and the Doctor were not so different?
She tried to murder Kate and the world. That's all I need to know.
That was the father's reaction. The soldier had to know, even though he was certain she was now nothing but dust. Some enemies had a way of returning.
Two hearts, low body temperature. A Time Lord who knew the Doctor. But he could think of only one who could want to drag the Doctor down to the abyss, and she obviously wasn't the Master.
The Doctor had called to one of the other Cybermen, who had refused to obey commands despite being fully part of the hive mind. That one had led the revenant army into the sky to save the Earth.
Which left the woman who had tried to corrupt one of the best men in the universe.
When he had come close enough, he saw the Doctor ready to kill her.
No. This wasn't the Doctor. Not the man who'd tried to make peace between humans and Silurians, who always insisted that there were choices other than violence if all sides were willing to cooperate, who had refused to write off the Master as hopeless. I'm the killer in this team, he'd thought then, and fired his own weapon.
He walked from the deteriorating kitchen into the dining room, his vision overlaid with information on temperature, distance, and anything else he wished to know. Banishing the readouts left ghostly images without depth or shadow.
Ghosts of the past. He'd stood in this room as the UNIT technicians went over it, precursors to modern crime-scene technicians with their coveralls and instruments. The blood-spatter on the walls and floor had long-ago fed the micro-organisms that destroyed the wood and plaster. A fool of a henchman had thought his revolver a match for a fully-armed squad.
He'd flown away from the Doctor in fear and self-hatred. Fled the one person on the planet, perhaps in the universe, who would not look at him in fear or loathing. One word, and the Doctor could have taken him aboard the TARDIS; hidden him from the inevitable follow-up.
Why hadn't he done so? He would remain just as dead to Kate, and be safe from those who'd want to capture and dissect the rogue Cyberman. She'd never have to remember him this way.
He looked down at his body. Sensors had replaced his human senses and nameless fluids replaced blood. When he had held Kate, he'd known exactly how much pressure to use to keep her safe; could have told her exact body temperature to anyone who asked; known the tensile strength of her skin and the density of her bones and muscles. Not the same as embracing her with his human arms.
When alive, he'd rarely paid attention to the feel of his body except when injured or ill. The feel of the air on his skin and the ground under his feet, even the tap of his eyelids when he blinked: easily ignored during the business of living, now sorely missed.
The air in this mansion was no doubt musty, smelling of mold, mildew, animal droppings, and damp. Olfactory sensors had replaced his sense of smell: he knew the components, but not the odors as wholes.
Light slanted through a window in the drawing room, marking out the overturned and disarranged furniture. There'd been a bit of a fight here, he recalled. Two or three henchmen had tried to prevent UNIT entering the house. No deaths, fortunately.
Decorative mirrors dotted the walls. He stopped at one and studied his metal face. A dangerous urge formed.
Leave.
He'd died and been embalmed. How much time had passed since then? What did he look like?
No.
Yes.
I don't have human senses anymore. The nerves deteriorated the moment my heart stopped. I do not need to see what's left of me.
He lifted his hand, hesitated inches from his faceplate. Once I see, I will never forget. My brain has been replaced.
Better to know than to imagine. Get it over with and move on.
A scream ripped from what was left of his throat, rasping, weak, lost under the vocoder-generated howl. The next second, he smashed his fist through the mirror and through the lathe-and-plaster of the wall.
How can I feel this way I died I'm a damned machine not a man –
For far too long, yet not long enough, he drowned in the horror of his unlife, screaming as he blasted the walls, floor, and ceiling.
Exhaustion did not silence him, nor did the collapse of the room.
He just stopped, emotionally numb.
There was no catharsis in this destruction. No pain of broken bones when he'd punched the wall, no physical drain from his emotions, only the barest inconvenience.
He slammed through the front door into the daylight again.
True death beckoned. He could self-destruct in this body. Truly rest in peace.
Everything dies. Everything has its end.
I died, but is it my end?
A lifetime ago, he'd knocked out the Doctor and gone to face the Destroyer of Worlds. All he'd had was a revolver loaded with silver bullets and his determination. 'Pitiful. Can this world do no better than you as their champion?' it had mocked, rather than killing him right off.
'Probably. I just do the best I can,' he'd replied. 'Get off my world.'
Three shots saved the Earth.
But did Earth still need him? Kate led UNIT as well as, perhaps better than, he had done. The Doctor's many companions and friends didn't necessarily fade into the background: they did their part in protecting their planet.
A smile quirked his lips.
I was to be a sick gift, to break one of the best men I've ever known. He found a third option. I believe I found mine.
He looked at the faceplate in his hand. "Too bad UNIT has Excalibur."
Sir Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart, Earth's knight, donned his visor and looked up at the sky.
Author's note: I have this picture in my mind of the now-cyborg Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart with a sword, standing guard over Earth.