Engines of War

by George Mann

  – Learning how to pick a lock with Ash, a 12-year-old boy with sandy blond hair, who’d been killed that night during a Dalek raid

  – Lying atop a building during a rainstorm, waiting for a Dalek patrol to pass by underneath, so that she might trigger the mine she had buried in the street that morning

  – Her first kiss with another girl from the rebel camp, the raven-haired Stephanie, who had taught her things that she could never have imagined

  – And Finch, who she had somehow forgotten. Finch, her partner in crime, her friend. Finch who had died during the ambush that had brought the Doctor tumbling from the sky; who’d been erased from existence by the temporal weapon of the new Dalek …

  Cinder felt tears streaming from her eyes, running down her cheeks, but they were not tears of pain. They were tears of sadness.

  Images of the Dalek base flickered through her mind – of running through corridors behind the Doctor, of exploding Daleks and obscene hatcheries. Of the laboratory where the Daleks were dissecting the Degradations, and of their flight through the ruins, all the way back to the TARDIS.

  Cinder wasn’t aware of the Castellan turning off the machine, but she felt the fire in her head begin to quell. The buzzing sound ceased suddenly. She slumped back in the chair, nauseous and dizzy. Her breath was coming in ragged, fitful gasps.

  She felt someone check the pulse at her throat. ‘She’ll survive,’ said the Castellan.

  ‘A pity,’ said Karlax. ‘I was looking forward to seeing the expression on the Doctor’s face when I told him the news.’

  The Castellan removed the rag from her mouth. She gasped for air. ‘He’ll kill you,’ she said, between shallow breaths. ‘He’ll kill you for this.’

  Karlax laughed. ‘Oh no, not the Doctor,’ he said. ‘The Doctor and I are old playmates. He doesn’t like to get his hands dirty.’

  Cinder closed her eyes. The world was spinning. She couldn’t risk slipping into unconsciousness around these men. If she did, there was every chance that she would never wake up again.

  ‘Water,’ she said, her voice a dry croak. She was parched, and there was an odd taste on her tongue, like aluminium.

  ‘Karlax, get her some water while I remove these straps, will you?’ said the Castellan. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. You’ve seen the evidence to support the Doctor’s claims, and you know what he was up to on Moldox. It’s time to leave the girl alone.’

  ‘If I must,’ replied Karlax, with venom, and quit the room.

  ‘Right,’ said the Castellan, once the door had closed behind Karlax. ‘Let’s get you out of here.’ He began unbuckling straps. ‘Quickly now, help me if you have the strength. I want to get you away from here before he’s back.’

  Cinder looked up at the man as, red-faced, he hurried to free her. She had no strength left with which to help him. It was all too little, too late. He was clearly the weakest sort of man, complicit in her torture, and now remorseful. She’d known people like this before. On Moldox, they didn’t survive for very long.

  The Castellan had finished unbuckling her, and bent down, cupping her out of the chair and lifting her into his arms. ‘I’ll take you somewhere you can sleep it off,’ he said, ‘while you wait for the Doctor to return.’ He staggered towards the door, kicking it open. ‘For what it’s worth, I think you’re right. The Doctor is a different man these days. If he gets hold of Karlax after this, I think he might just kill him.’

  Cinder, however, heard only a vague mumble, as she finally allowed herself to slip into peaceful oblivion.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Doctor and Rassilon returned to the High Council chamber via the transmat, to find Karlax waiting for them. He was sitting at the table wearing an anxious expression, his hands steepled beneath his chin.

  ‘Ah, Doctor. We were concerned for your whereabouts. No one seemed to know where you were.’

  ‘Concerned,’ echoed the Doctor. ‘Yes, I can believe you were concerned, Karlax.’

  The man gave a sickly smile. ‘I see that we had no need to worry, given that you were in the company of the Lord President.’

  Rassilon stepped down from the transmat podium. His face was impassive. ‘Karlax, gather the Council. I shall relate my instructions immediately.’ He turned to the Doctor. ‘Your presence is no longer required, Doctor. Find your assistant, and leave.’

  ‘You’re making a grave mistake, Rassilon,’ said the Doctor.

  ‘I am making the only choice I can. I shall hear no more of your insolence. I grow weary of it. Go now, before I am forced to silence you myself.’ He fixed the Doctor with an unswerving stare and his fingers tightened visibly around the shaft of his staff, as if to underline his point. The Doctor knew this was not an idle threat. Rassilon was quick to anger, and even quicker to act.

  Defiantly, the Doctor met his gaze. Then, with reluctance, he turned his back on the man. It seemed he was running out of options. Clearly, none of the High Council members were prepared to listen to reason. He decided he was going to have to find another approach, another way to stop them. Whatever happened, he couldn’t allow them to deploy the Tear, even if it meant acting against them and intervening in their plans.

  Without another word, he thundered from the room, heading for the observation room to find Cinder.

  ‘What have you done with her?’ growled the Doctor, bursting in through the doors of the High Council chamber. His jaw was set, and he was full of indignant ire. ‘Where is she, Karlax?’

  The High Council was, once again, in full session, and the assembled Time Lords ceased their chatter to look round at the Doctor as he marched towards them, glaring at Karlax, awaiting an answer.

  The aide was standing on the opposite side of the room, his back to the wall, just behind Rassilon’s left shoulder.

  ‘Your female companion, Doctor?’ said Karlax, with affected innocence. ‘Didn’t you leave her in the observation room to wait for you while you took your little – and I feel obliged to add, unauthorised – jaunt?’

  The Doctor slammed his fist down on the table. He’d searched the observation gallery and the surrounding rooms, and Cinder was nowhere to be seen. Something had clearly happened to her while he’d been away at the Death Zone. ‘Don’t play the innocent with me, Karlax. I know you’re up to something. Now tell me – where is she?’

  ‘I can honestly say, Doctor, that I have no idea,’ said Karlax, with a satisfied grin. He folded his arms across his chest. ‘If you’ve misplaced her, perhaps you might consider investing in a more effective leash.’

  The Doctor drew a deep breath. He knew Karlax was behind Cinder’s disappearance. He knew it. He was furious with himself for leaving her so exposed, as he’d raced off after Rassilon into the Death Zone. He’d foolishly thought there was less chance of her coming to harm, here in the Time Lord Capitol. They were supposed to be civilised. This was why he travelled alone, nowadays. The War had changed everything, changed everyone, and he didn’t want the responsibility. He wasn’t sure he could protect them any more.

  This, however, was just like Karlax. He was an opportunist. He’ll have seen his chance and seized it, whisked Cinder off as a way of getting to the Doctor.

  He bunched his fists, so hard that he felt his fingernails digging into the flesh of his palms. ‘I’m warning you, Karlax …’ he said.

  The Castellan hesitantly got to his feet. He coughed nervously into his fist. ‘I know where she is, Doctor,’ he said levelly. ‘I’ll show you.’ He pushed his chair back, its legs scraping rudely on the marble, and walked around the table until he was standing by the harp. All eyes in the room were on him, and the Doctor noted that Karlax had fixed the Castellan with a particularly menacing stare.

  The Castellan paused, glanced at Rassilon – whose features remained impassive – and then reached for the harp. His fingers plucked clumsily at the strings, his hands trembling. He was reading the notes detailed in the painting on the wall, recreating them on the real harp. The Docto
r understood what was about to happen – he had seen this before.

  After a moment the melody came to an end, and a panel in the wall, just behind the plinth upon which the harp rested, slid open to reveal a hidden control room. Lights winked from an array of dusty old computer panels and consoles. And there, sprawled in a chair, was Cinder.

  The Doctor rushed over to her, barging past the Castellan and into the small antechamber. She was barely conscious; her head was flopped across her left shoulder, so that her bright orange hair fell in strands across her face. Her eyes were closed, her breathing ragged.

  Gently, the Doctor repositioned her head, brushing the hair from her forehead. She was pale and cold, her skin clammy to the touch. Her eyelids fluttered, trying to open. He checked her pulse, and sighed in relief as he realised it was still strong and regular.

  ‘What happened?’ he said, softly. ‘What did they do to you, Cinder?’

  Her mouth opened, but all that came out was an indecipherable mumble. ‘Mm … mmm …’

  He leaned closer, putting his ear close to her mouth so that he could feel her warm breath against his cheek.

  ‘M … mind … probe …’ she said, with what seemed like a gargantuan effort. She seemed to fold back into the chair, the last of her energy spent.

  The Doctor straightened up, turning slowly to face the expectant faces in the other room. He felt the white heat of fury building inside his chest. ‘The mind probe!’ he bellowed, causing the Castellan, who was still standing by the harp, to wince.

  The Doctor stormed from the room, making a beeline for Karlax, who – seeing what was coming – began to circle the table, seeking to put a barrier between himself and the Doctor.

  The Doctor was not interested in playing games of cat and mouse with the obsequious fool, and so, rather than attempt to chase him around the table, he tossed the Castellan’s chair out of the way and leapt up onto the table, to the startled gasps of the rest of the High Council.

  Sending papers fluttering to the floor with every step, he marched across the table top towards Karlax, who was now pinned in the corner, with nowhere left to run. He cowered as the Doctor hopped down from the table.

  Two strides put him directly in front of the aide, and without losing his momentum, the Doctor thrust out his hand, grabbed the man by the throat and shoved him back against the wall, hard enough that he squealed in pain as his head struck the plaster.

  ‘Tell me why I shouldn’t just throttle you now, Karlax?’ barked the Doctor. Spittle flecked Karlax’s face, and he flinched, his eyelids fluttering in panic.

  ‘L … Lord … President …?’ he stammered, squirming in the Doctor’s grasp.

  The Doctor glanced round at Rassilon to gauge his reaction. The Lord President appeared entirely uninterested in what was happening, as if he were simply waiting for it all to blow over. This, in itself, only added to the Doctor’s rage.

  ‘Begging for your master, eh?’ laughed the Doctor, returning his attention to Karlax. ‘Now who’s straining on a leash? I could kill you before he so much as looked at you again, you snivelling toad.’

  ‘But of course, you won’t,’ said Rassilon, from behind him. He heard the tap-tap-tap of Rassilon’s gauntleted fingers on the surface of the table. A warning, the Doctor knew – that gauntlet held unimaginable power, including the ability to dematerialise a person, just like the new Dalek weapon. Rassilon was reminding him where he was.

  The Doctor sighed. ‘No. I won’t.’ He released Karlax by pushing him to the floor, where he sank to his knees, scrabbling at his throat. ‘But trust me, Karlax – it wouldn’t leave a stain on my conscience.’

  ‘Are you finished with your little rebellion now, Doctor?’ said Rassilon. ‘It grows wearisome.’

  The Doctor rounded on the President. ‘Did you know about this, Rassilon? Did you know what they were going to do?’

  Rassilon’s lips curled into a thin smile. ‘Oh, no, Doctor. That was all down to Karlax and the Castellan here, using their initiative. The results, however, have been most enlightening.’

  The Doctor looked at the Castellan, who wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘You might have killed her!’ he said. ‘She’s human. Her mind isn’t strong enough to withstand the probe. What could you possibly hope to gain?’

  ‘It’s just as you said, Doctor,’ mewled Karlax, climbing to his feet and dusting down his robes. ‘Her perspective proved most valuable. We’ve now been able to corroborate your story. We’re fully appreciative of the Dalek threat.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ said the Doctor.

  ‘That the High Council have endorsed my recommendation, Doctor,’ said Rassilon, rising to his feet. ‘You’re just in time to see the order given.’ He turned to his aide. ‘Karlax, you may give the order. The Tear of Isha is to be deployed.’

  ‘Yes, Lord President,’ said Karlax, eyeing the Doctor.

  ‘Castellan, tell Commander Partheus to ready his fleet,’ continued Rassilon. ‘He is honoured this day. He shall carry the Tear deep into the Tantalus Eye, and with him, the hopes of all Time Lords, living, dead and still to be. We will strike a hard blow to the Daleks this day. They shall know the fury of the Time Lords.’

  ‘And you shall know mine,’ said the Doctor quietly. He could not – would not – allow this to happen. So many lives, on so many worlds. There had to be a better way.

  ‘Doctor?’ said Rassilon. ‘You have something to add?’

  ‘I’ll stop you,’ he said. ‘Understand that, Rassilon. I refuse to allow you to deploy the Tear of Isha.’

  ‘You refuse?’ said Rassilon, his tone incredulous. ‘You will directly disobey a decision of the High Council, of the Lord President?’

  ‘It’s nothing I haven’t done before,’ said the Doctor. ‘It means nothing.’ He looked at them each in turn. ‘You’re all mad,’ he said, exasperated. ‘You’ve forgotten who you are. You’ve allowed the War to make you desperate and blind. Look at you all, hiding up here in your robes and fancy headdresses, pretending you know what’s really going on out there, telling yourselves you’re so damn important. Well, let me tell you the truth: you’re wrong! You’re just wrong.’

  He jabbed his finger at Rassilon. ‘If you allow him to do this, to commit genocide on this scale, then we’re every bit as bad as the Daleks. Can’t you see that? You’re so obsessed with your own, petty survival that you’ve lost sight of the bigger picture. If this is what the Time Lords have become, then we don’t deserve to survive.’

  The room was silent for the moment. The Doctor tried to regain his breath. Rassilon was the first to speak. ‘Am I to understand, Doctor, that you intend to move against us?’

  The Doctor met his gaze. He could feel all the eyes in the room on him. He glanced at Cinder, still semi-conscious in the chair. ‘Yes,’ he said, with steely determination. ‘If that’s what it takes. I do it for your own good, for the good of the Time Lords. I’m trying to save you from yourselves. The path you are taking, Rassilon – it doesn’t lead to victory. If you do this, it will be the end of the Time Lords. Ask Borusa if you doubt me,’ he added, bitterly.

  He marched across the room towards Cinder. It was time to leave Gallifrey, and he doubted he’d ever return. There was no looking back. He’d had enough.

  ‘Seize him,’ said Rassilon. ‘Him and the girl. Throw them in a cell and impound his TARDIS.’

  The Doctor felt hands grab him from behind, twisting his arm up behind his back. He struggled, but to no avail. The Castellan was younger, and stronger, and adept at carrying out orders, no matter how unsavoury. ‘Better still,’ continued Rassilon, ‘scrap it. It’s a decrepit old thing and of no use to us. The Doctor is a renegade and he will not be allowed to interfere with our plans. Once the Tear of Isha has neutralised the Dalek threat, he will be tried and found wanting.’

  The Doctor heard Karlax calling for more guards. It was useless putting up a fight – for now, at least. His chance would come. He had to believe that.

  As the Cas
tellan dragged him off to the sound of Karlax’s sniggering laugh, the Doctor took one last look at Cinder. He hadn’t wanted the responsibility, but he’d assumed that mantle now, regardless. Not just for Cinder, but for the entirety of her race, all those billions of people being held prisoner on the occupied worlds of the Spiral. Judging by the current state of affairs, they were better off with the Daleks than with his own people.

  The Time Lords were about to cross a line they could never come back from, and there was only him, an old, tired warrior, standing in the way.

  He wasn’t going to be able to do very much from the inside of a cell.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Cinder stirred. The side of her face was pressing against something cold and hard. Her head throbbed as if someone were using her skull for a bass drum, bang, bang, bang, and for a moment she had no idea where she was, or what she had been doing to get there.

  Had she been at the grain alcohol again? She was sure there hadn’t been a party last night. She’d been out on an ambush, but then something had happened, and –

  She sat up with a start, and, moments later, when the world came with her and she swooned, she wished she hadn’t. Lights danced before her eyes like sunspots, obscuring her view. She took a deep breath, which encouraged a painful, racking cough. She blinked away the fog.

  She was sitting in a cell, on a low bunk formed from a slab of rough stone. Across from her, the Doctor sat slumped against the wall, his feet jutting out in front of him. He peered at her myopically. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  ‘Where are we?’ she said. Her mouth was dry. She rubbed the back of her neck.

  ‘In a cell,’ he said, redundantly.

  ‘A cell?’

  ‘Yes, beneath the Capitol on Gallifrey. Do you remember …?’

  ‘The mind probe,’ she said. ‘How could I forget?’

  The Doctor sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I shouldn’t have left you. I shouldn’t even have brought you here, to Gallifrey, and got you mixed up in all of this.’