Part I/Chapter 5: "Chto delat'?"

 And the night wore on and October 24th became October 25th as the snow continued to fall on Petrograd.

 The Doctor followed Lenin into his office.

 "There is a bit of time before my presence is required at the Winter Palace, Doctor. Perhaps you have 'come up with something'?"

 "I think better when my mind is occupied." The Doctor fished around in his pockets. Lenin watched the strange Englishman carefully. Finally, with a successful grin, the Doctor placed his travel chess set on the desk between them. He grabbed two pawns and put his hands behind his back. "Shall we play?"

 Lenin chose the hand on the Doctor's left. The Doctor opened it, revealing a red pawn. "I go first," commented the Time Lord.

 "It has been over seventeen years since I have played chess, Doctor, but I seem to recall that the appropriate colors are white and black."

 "You could say that this set was not bought locally."

 Lenin picked up the red king and studied it thoughtfully. "They are black and white in England, as well."

 "Things are rarely black and white, Vladimir."

 "Many things are, Doctor. For example, all dissenters are enemies. The party must be absolute."

 The Doctor nodded his head absently, "I suspected you might say something like that. He picked up the white queen and glanced at the board. He'd already arranged all of his pawns - those were the easiest to place. "Queen on color..." he muttered, then placed the piece on the appropriate square. Briefly he wondered what Angela was up to.

 "Do you not also have a timer in your pocket, Doctor?"

 "Hmm... What? A timer? Why, whatever for?" Silently, he inquired why a Time Lord would need a timer.

 "What challenge is the game if we do not use one? No worthwhile decision is made without a time limit. Even this pleasant conversation is timed. Soon the soldiers and peasants will take the Winter Palace, and we will have Kerensky and his play government in our power. When that time comes, I shall have no more time to spare for you."

 "Isn't enough of your life controlled by time? Why subject your game to it as well? Relax, Vladimir. It would do you some good." The Doctor moved the king's pawn two spaces forward.

 Lenin stared at the board for a while. It was perhaps the most simple opening, and there were numerous responses to consider. Lenin finally chose a basic counter. "I gave up this game after leaving Siberia because it was a distraction. It is a game, a waste of time, and nothing more. There are more important things to consider."

 "I doubt Marcel Duchamp would agree with you... but I do know many who would. 'Life's too short for chess' and all that? Surely you've heard of Henry J. Byron? No? No." The Doctor advanced his queen's pawn forward two steps.

 Play continued. Pieces were lost. Exchanges were made. The ranks thinned.

 Lenin pondered for a moment and then moved his king's bishop. He glanced up at the Doctor. Rather than concentrating on the chess board, he had taken a picture off the desk and was staring at it. Lenin reached across the table and yanked the photograph out of the Doctor's hand.

 The Gallifreyan raised sad eyes to Lenin. "Is that how it all started, Vladimir?"

 Lenin opened a drawer on his side of the desk and placed within it the picture of a young man with facial features similar to his own. "What do you mean?"

 "So many people allow tragedies in their youths to direct their lives. Did you go to Kazan University so soon after just to separate yourself from home and grief? Since then you've been busy, busy, busy. In thirty years, have you never come up for air, Vladimir?"

 "There is no time for such trivialities."

 "All that time spent in the Swiss Alps - yet you never rested at all. All you do is think and write and plan. It's not healthy, Vladimir. You can't always be active. Sometimes you need to step back. Gain perspective. How can you understand what you're doing if you never reflect? I was once much like you, Vladimir. I understand how you work. You think but you don't *reflect*. You plan but you don't *comprehend*. You act but you don't *feel*. You lose but you don't *mourn*. Do you even know what this whole 'revolution' is about?"

 Lenin stood and slammed a fist on the table, upsetting some of the taken chess pieces. "Of course I do!" he shouted. The masses are incapable of fulfilling their socialist destiny if left to themselves! We must lead them."

 "Do you care about the people, Vladimir? Do you know what they look like? Do you know what they feel? Do you know anything about them? No, I'm afraid you are fooling yourself. That is not what this is all about."

 "Don't even presume to comprehend us, Doctor! This is not about Alexander. This is not about me; this is not about you; this is not about *anyone*! This is about Russia! This is about what is right!"

 Angrily he looked down at the board. He moved his only remaining bishop.

 The Doctor gazed at the board. "Chto delat'?" he mumbled to himself. "Isn't that always the question? What to do? What is to be done?"

 Just then there was a knock on the office door. "Come!" shouted Lenin, louder than necessary, as the Doctor advanced his queen. Stalin opened the door. Lenin glanced down at the desk and a harsh laugh escaped his lips. The Doctor's queen fell to a pawn. "A silly sacrifice Doctor."

 "To paraphrase Amy Lowell, 'A queen must be sacrificed now and again/To provide for the next generation of men.'" The Doctor continued pondering the board.

 "Troops have surrounded the Winter Palace, Comrade Lenin."

 "Good." Lenin addressed the Doctor. "All my life I have been asking the only question that matters to all of Russia's intelligentsia, 'What is to be done?' This, Doctor! *This* is what is to be done." Lenin walked around the desk. The Doctor swiveled in his chair, following the Bolshevik leader with his eyes. "I will go there now," Lenin said when he reached the door.

 The Doctor shook his head, letting a sigh escape his lips. He moved his remaining knight. "Checkmate."

 Lenin glanced back at the board and his eyes narrowed. "You will escort the Doctor. He will come along with us."

 Pulling out his pistol, Stalin dropped his voice to a whisper, "Is that such a good idea, Comrade? He may try to escape." Lenin turned back to the Doctor, fixing him with a glare as he answered Stalin, "He will not escape." His own eyes were met by a fearless piercing blue gaze. "Whatever you do, though, do not kill him."

 Lenin left the room and headed down the hallway. The Doctor heard a single word float back to the office.

 "Yet."

 Jadi woke like a shot, breathing heavily, trying to separate in his mind the nightmare from the onslaught of reality. Someone was tugging his arm urgently; there was a banging at the door.

 "Someone's not so happy that the door is locked, Jadi," Wil observed.

 "Open the door! Piotr, if you're in there, open the door!" a squeaky male voice demanded.

 "What do we do?" Wil asked.

 Jadi shook the sleep from his eyes and considered the situation. He pulled out his blaster. Wil looked at him questioningly.

 "Isn't that dead?"

 "I know that and you know that... The voice doesn't sound too threatening, but the noise could attract other company. Let him in."

 Wil balked. "What? You want me to go open the door? No, thank you."

 "Listen, *kid*, I have the gun. I will keep it trained on the door as you open it. You'll be fine. Now go open it before every crukking sod in this building hears that noise."

 Wil's stiffened at the condescension. Then he sighed. Jadi just rolled his eyes and gestured toward the door. Wil unlocked the door and opened it. A disheveled man in his thirties staggered into the room. Wil slammed the door behind the man and relocked it.

 "Thank you, Pi- Who are you?"

 "Gwilym Young, fool-for-hire, at your service. And this is Jadi." Wil gestured at the bounty hunter. The man turned to see who Wil was indicating. His eyes lighted on the strange-looking gun and he fainted.

 "If only it were always so easy," muttered Jadi.

 As she went, only one thought occurred to her. She wished the Doctor was there to tell her whether they would succeed. Whether the Tsar would be restored to the throne.

 But the Doctor was elsewhere, and the thought passed.

 As they walked down the street, Mikhail handed Angela a pistol. "It is already loaded. I am sorry, but we do not have much spare ammunition. You will have to make do with those few shots. Here, take this, too." He gave her a knife. "As you know, none of us intend to get close enough for knife fights to occur, but it is best to be prepared."

 Angela tucked the knife into her belt but kept a solid grip on the gun. What was she doing? Goddess, she was a hacker and a thief, and a few other things as well... but a revolutionary? Fighting to reinstate some outdated monarchy?

 But what other choice did she have?

 The man sat up slowly and put a hand to his head. When his vision had cleared, he stood. "I am Aleksandr Feodorovich Kerensky. You said your names were...?"

 "Jadi."

 "Wil."

 "Are you, um, with *them*?"

 "Who exactly is 'them'?" inquired Jadi.

 "The rabble outside. The rabble inside. The rabble."

 "I don't think we're quite rabble," Wil inserted.

 Kerensky continued as though he hadn't been interrupted. "The mindless masses. They approve of anyone who shouts 'Revolution'." Jadi nodded understandingly, thinking of Lana. "A few months ago, it was us. Now they are swayed by Lenin and his Bolsheviks."

 "Hey! That's the guy that nabbed me and the Doctor!" Will realized.

 "What?" Kerensky's rant stumbled to a halt.

 Wil gave a quick physical description of the man who had been polite enough to make sure they weren't shot to pieces in front of the TARDIS. And then polite enough to bind them and lead them away at gun point.

 "Yes, that is what Lenin looks like. You say he captured you and a companion?"

 Wil smirked at the idea of the Doctor being the one called a companion. "Yes... but I got away. For all we know, they still have the Doctor."

 "In these times it is not safe to assume that one's enemy's enemy is a friend. And yet--. It would not do to remain here. A locked door will do little to keep out the soldiers and the mob. And we can hardly trust them to find the Tsar's wine cellar and drink themselves silly. No, we won't be able to leave by one of the main exits."

 "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Who said anything about leaving, buddy?" demanded Jadi.

 "It is not a good idea to remain here. Some of their forces have managed to fight their way inside. If I am found I could be shot - or worse. This young man has escaped from the Bolsheviks; they will not be merciful when they find him. It is hardly advisable to stay. The masses are incapable of realizing what is best for themselves. They are being led like sheep. Only we will be the ones slaughtered."

 "But we can't go..." complained Wil. "We need to find the Doctor."

 "You said yourself that he might still be in Lenin's hands. If that is the case, he will be at the Smolny Institute, not here."

 "Would you be able to take us there?" Jadi asked.

 "You are indeed mad if you think I would walk into their den like that. No, I can get you out of the palace, and I can give you directions to the institute, but I will not go anywhere near there."

 "Okay, pal, how do we get out of here?" Jadi gestured at their surroundings with his defunct blaster.

 "Ah, my friend, you have chosen the perfect room for that." Kerensky approached the wall and knocked on the paneling in several places. When a hollow sound met his ears, he pulled out a penknife and pried the square loose, revealing a passage. Kerensky dragged out a chest and opened it. Within were numerous worn garments. He handed outfits to Wil and Jadi, who were looking at him, surprised and impressed.

 "Do not be so shocked," the deposed prime minister said. "I do not trust the populace and have had this route planned out since we took over the palace in February. Put those on." Kerensky himself began tying a scarf around his head.

 "You want us to dress up as women?" Jadi asked, incredulous.

 "It is necessary."

 Wil and Jadi donned the disguises and followed Kerensky into the tunnel, carefully fastening the panel so that their departure would (hopefully) be undetected.

 The Doctor stood and began gathering up the red and white pieces, always mindful of the gun trained on him. "Duchamp, how right you were -- will be. 'Still a victim of chess,' indeed."

 "Come, Doctor, you heard Comrade Lenin."

 "I will be with you in a moment, Josef. Just let me put the chess set away."

 "I do not trust you, Doctor."

 "What a coincidence! I don't trust you either." The Doctor picked up a handful of pawns. "Shouldn't you be off editing your little newspaper?"

 "Pravde is not a little newspaper. And I am not such a little man that I will spend my precious time constantly poring over article after article!" Stalin seemed to recall who he was talking to and stopped himself.

 "Comrade Lenin does not want you escaping, Doctor." Stalin gestured towards the door with his pistol.

 "He also doesn't want me dead -- yet. So I would be careful where I pointed that thing, if I were you."

 "I would not kill you unless necessary," offered Stalin with a sickly grin.

 "I would not believe that, even if necessary," replied the Doctor coolly. He walked passed Stalin into the hallway.

 The Doctor turned around to ask, "Which way do I go?" but the latter half of his question was drowned out by the loud noise of a gun being fired.

 It was, in her most humble opinion, a little too cold for a siege.

 "I--" Rassilon, that had hurt! "I really wish you hadn't done that, Josef. I like this frock coat a lot, and now you've ruined it. I see you're more of the Nigel Short type: 'Chess is ruthless: you've got to be prepared to kill people.' I would ask you if you're interested in a game, but, well, this hand is pretty useless right now..."

 "Shut up." Stalin grabbed the Doctor by the collar and yanked the Time Lord to his feet. The Doctor barely stifled a cry of pain at the sudden movement. "I doubt you'll be running off anywhere now."

 "I wasn't running off anywhere at the time you fired, I might point out. Thank you so much for giving me the benefit of the doubt."

 "Gratitude is a sickness suffered by dogs, Doctor. You may recall that you were escaping when first we met."

 "No. I was exploring. There's a difference. Might we bind this or something? These halls, dreary as they are, do not need a new coat of red."

 "We do not have time. Sorry, Doctor." Stalin offered the apology with a twisted smile, a malicious smile. It was the sort of smile that one hesitates to even call a smile. It was cold, and evil, and cruel. Much like the smiler.

 Stalin gave the Doctor a shove. The Doctor held in the gasp that tried to escape his lips and stumbled forward. As they continued down the corridor, the Doctor gently cradled his right arm and analyzed the damage. *Not too bad,* he tried to reassure himself. Stalin had been careful to avoid puncturing a lung or piercing a human heart.

 Thankfully, he hadn't accidentally hit the Doctor's second heart. *What would Romana say if I lost two regenerations to gunshot wounds?* he wondered.

 The Doctor concluded that Stalin had indeed been careful. No permanent damage had been done, and with a little warmth and rest his Time Lord constitution would take care of the mess. But these were not the best of times; indeed, he could make a case that they were close to the worst of times. And as they neared the front doors of the institute, the Doctor had to accept that warmth and rest were a long ways off.

 He had exaggerated when he had told Stalin the hand was useless, but the truth was not far off. The bullet had gone clean through his shoulder; the slightest movement of his right arm caused waves of pain to wash over him. In addition, he was losing blood. It was not serious yet, but the potential was there. How often did he end up bandaging companions or wrapping their swollen, twisted ankles? Where was a companion when *he* needed a nurse? *No, wait,* thought the Doctor, *I take that back.* Given the results of the last time he'd been shot, he'd happily deal with this wound on his own.

 Such ponderings came to a halt as they reached the front door of the Smolny Institute, and the Doctor was pushed out into the cold predawn.

 The streets around the Smolny Institute were fairly empty in the hour before sunrise on October 25, 1917. Lenin was just about to enter one of the two waiting automobiles when a commotion drew his attention to the door to the institute.

 The Doctor stumbled down the front stairs and slipped on the last step. He flailed his arms to catch his balance but ended up in a heap on the snowy ground.

 The Bolshevik leader began to comment, but a shot rang out. Lenin ducked behind the closest car and carefully glanced over it down the street. A group of around fifteen men was rushing toward the institute and the socialists gathered around it. The street filled with the cries of the wounded as gunfire was exchanged.

 Lenin carefully opened the door and slid into the automobile. "Drive!" he ordered. The car took off, but not without suffering a little damage. The rear window was shattered, but the political leader had escaped.

 Meanwhile, Stalin had ducked back into the building, shutting and barring the door. The Bolsheviks trapped outside used whatever cover they could but the fight did not last long. The streets were quiet again, except for the sounds of the dying.

 The hacker stood up and looked at the death all around her. She'd been in places where millions had died, and yet, this seemed far worse. These deaths were somehow more personal. Angela felt at a loss. What did she do now? Return to Mikhail's home to tell his family and Ivanov the bad news? Well, if she was going to do that, than she had better check to see if they had actually killed that Lenin guy who was so important.

 She carefully approached the Smolny Institute, both knife and gun in hand. As she got closer, she saw a familiar sight.

 "Doctor!" Angela shouted, rushing toward the figure in the green velvet frock coat. As she neared him, she noticed that blotches of the snow around him were stained red and a fair portion of his jacket was a blackish color.

 "Are you all right? Doctor?"

 He was curled up on the ground, eyes closed. A cold chill crept down Angela's spine. He didn't appear to be breathing--

 "Doctor!"

 The eyes snapped open. They were bright as ever, but Angela noticed something in them she hadn't seen before. Pain.

 "Did I ever mention, Angela, that I hate guns?"

 "Were you caught in the crossfire? Where were you hit? Are you all right?"

 "I'll be fine as long as no twentieth century doctors come near me. The bullet went right through; it will heal soon enough. And relax," he offered as he slowly and carefully shifted into a sitting position, "you don't have to worry about having shot me. This is from before we came out here."

 "Were you shot for trying to get away?"

 "No, I actually didn't even have a chance to try, for once. Our friend Stalin believes in acting, rather than reacting. It was so that I wouldn't attempt an escape."

 Angela's eyes widened. "A preemptive strike of sorts? That's... horrible," she finished lamely.

 The Doctor barked a harsh laugh. "Let me tell you a story. Once upon a time... a future time, given when we are - a man was trying to sleep at night. A barking dog prevented him from doing so. He ordered a guard to find the dog and shoot it. The barking continued, and soon the guard returned. The young soldier told the man that the dog belonged to a blind peasant and was the poor soul's only means of getting around. The man replied, 'Shoot the dog and send the peasant to the gulag.' That man was/is/will be Stalin."

 Angela wasn't sure how to respond to that. So she chose the only other option: change the subject. "We have to get you out of here and have that looked at, Doctor."

 "Yes, I suppose so." The Time Lord struggled to his feet with Angela's aid. He swayed a little, and she caught him. Looking down, the Doctor realized that the snow around him was extremely red. "Come along. We need to find some place rather warm so that I can take this jacket off and you can bind the wound." It occurred to the Doctor that actually getting the frock coat off would involve movements nearly as painful as being shot again. It was not something to look forward to.

 In fact, there wasn't much that he *was* looking forward to.

 To be continued...