Doctor Who: Engines of War

by George Mann

  Most terrifying of all was his face, which appeared to be trapped in a cycle of endless transition, accompanied by the soft glow of regenerative energy. It twisted and reformed as the Doctor watched, passing through the likenesses of all Borusa’s previous incarnations – or at least the ones the Doctor recognised – as well as many others he did not. His eyes flickered with bright, electrical energy, as he stared, unseeing, down at Rassilon.

  This, then, was Rassilon’s ‘possibility engine’.

  ‘Tell me, Borusa, what do you see?’ said Rassilon, almost reverentially.

  ‘I see Gallifrey burning,’ croaked Borusa, his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I see the end of all things, the darkness that cleanses. I see the moment, the very moment, when all things shall cease to be.’

  Rassilon bunched his gauntleted fist. ‘Then that is what we must change,’ he said. ‘What of the Tantalus Eye? The Doctor brings us news of a Dalek weapon, a doomsday device that could bring about our destruction.’

  For a moment, Borusa didn’t answer, but turned his head as if looking away, seeking a vision of the future. ‘The Doctor speaks the truth,’ he said. ‘The Dalek plan draws close to its zenith. If left unchecked, they will eradicate Gallifrey and all of her children from history.’

  ‘Then we must act,’ said Rassilon. ‘We are left with no choice.’

  Borusa’s head turned, and his weird, crackling eyes seemed to fix on the Doctor, who was still lurking in the shadows by the door. The Doctor felt a shudder of nervous anticipation. Had Borusa seen he was here? Would he reveal it?

  ‘There is another here,’ said Borusa, answering the Doctor’s question. ‘Come forward, Doctor.’

  Well, he supposed it was too late to make a run for it now. He stepped into the light to see Rassilon twist around, raising his gauntleted hand. The metal fist began to glow, taking on a bright, blue sheen, humming with energy. He held it out, spreading his fingers, as if at any moment he might clench them again, crushing the Doctor. Instead, he lowered it to his side, and the blue glow began to recede.

  ‘I might have killed you, Doctor, for your intrusion. You are not welcome here,’ he said.

  The Doctor ignored him, looking up at Borusa, lashed to the monstrous device. ‘Rassilon, what have you done?’

  ‘A thing of majesty, is it not?’ crowed Rassilon, unable to resist the temptation to show off. ‘This, Doctor, is my possibility engine.’

  ‘It’s appalling,’ said the Doctor. ‘Monstrous.’

  ‘It is a gift. Borusa brings enlightenment. His reward is to see all the wonders of the universe, in all their myriad forms.’

  ‘And all the horrors, too, by the sound of it,’ said the Doctor. ‘What have you done to him?’

  ‘His timeline has been retro-evolved,’ said Rassilon. ‘He is trapped in an iterative regenerative cycle, always changing, always becoming more.’

  ‘More?’ said the Doctor. ‘It sounds terribly like a prison, to me.’

  ‘You lack imagination, Doctor. This machine – it has freed Borusa of the prison of the flesh. It has unlocked his true potential. He is free to wander all of time and space inside his own mind. Every permutation of reality is his to navigate, every single possibility.’

  ‘And Borusa? What of you?’ asked the Doctor.

  ‘I see,’ answered Borusa, simply. ‘I see everything.’

  ‘It’s an abomination,’ said the Doctor. ‘What you’ve done here – it diminishes us all.’

  ‘You’re wrong, Doctor. Borusa has transcended. He represents the future. He is the lucky one, the first of us to be truly free.’

  The Doctor shook his head. ‘Can’t you see it, Rassilon. What this means? By doing this to Borusa, you’re reducing us to the same level as the Daleks. You’re altering us, making us something less than we are. It’s only one step removed from deleting our capacity for empathy, for emotion. Where will it lead? Soldiers without a conscience? Metal travel units?’

  ‘You’re being melodramatic, Doctor,’ said Rassilon. ‘It’s one man.’

  ‘It always starts with one man, Rassilon,’ replied the Doctor solemnly.

  ‘I have done only what was necessary,’ said Rassilon. ‘What no one else was prepared to do. Borusa understood what was required of him. The possibility engine represents our salvation. With it, we might see the weave of all possible futures. We can choose our own destiny, selecting only the most fortuitous paths. We can measure the potential outcomes of all of our offensives against the Daleks, ensuring our victory at every turn. We can bring an end to the War!’

  ‘Go on, then,’ said the Doctor. ‘Ask it. Ask it whether there’s a way to deploy the Tear of Isha without murdering all of those people.’

  Rassilon looked defiant. ‘Very well,’ he said. He turned to Borusa. ‘Borusa, the Castellan’s plan to deploy the Tear of Isha into the Tantalus Eye – will it work? Will it put an end to the Dalek threat in that sector, and destroy their new temporal weapon? Will it save us?’

  Borusa rolled his head from side to side, emitting a low moan. After a moment, he spoke. ‘It will work. The Tear will close the Eye, and the Dalek weapon will be neutralised.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Rassilon.

  ‘The reprieve will be only temporary, however,’ continued Borusa. ‘The darkness still comes. It will smother all things. The age of the Time Lords draws to a close.’

  ‘You see?’ said the Doctor. ‘Even your own machine warns you that this is not the solution. The Tear isn’t the answer. It’s not going to stop them.’

  ‘It’ll buy us time!’ said Rassilon. ‘Valuable time to prepare, to strategise, to further consult the possibility engine.’

  ‘And at what cost?’ said the Doctor. ‘You claim to be better than the Daleks, that it is our duty to survive this war, to bring peace and stability to the universe – and yet you are happy to re-engineer the very essence of your own people to turn them into strategic assets, to obliterate entire civilisations to get your own way. How is that any better? How is it different?’

  ‘You sound as if you prefer the Daleks to your own people, Doctor,’ said Rassilon. ‘Am I to take you for a traitor now?’

  ‘I hate the Daleks for everything they represent,’ replied the Doctor, his voice level. He was trying not to lose his cool, despite the fact that every fibre of his being was telling him to wrestle Rassilon to the ground, to try to knock sense into the idiotic man before it was too late. ‘I don’t wish to end up hating my own people for the very same reasons,’ he added.

  Rassilon remained silent, as if contemplating the Doctor’s words.

  The Doctor glanced up, looking into Borusa’s disorientating, shifting face. ‘Borusa – is there a means by which the Tear can be deployed into the Tantalus Eye without causing the deaths of the people inhabiting the twelve worlds of the Spiral?’

  ‘No,’ said Borusa, without hesitation. ‘I see no thread of possibility in which the human colonists survive if the Tear is deployed.’

  The Doctor turned to Rassilon. ‘Then surely you have your answer?’

  ‘I have only an awareness of the consequences of my actions, Doctor. This changes nothing,’ said Rassilon. His tone was firm, final. ‘The decision has already been made. The Tear will be deployed. I had thought to spare your precious humans, if Borusa could show us a means to do so. Alas, he has not. The time has come to act.’ He crossed to the console and initiated the command to lower Borusa’s cradle back onto the tomb.

  The Doctor trailed after him. ‘You cannot do this, Rassilon. It changes everything. I warn you now – you will never come back from this decision.’

  ‘It is already done,’ came the response, stern and final. ‘Come. I shall speak again to the High Council.’ He made for the door.

  With sinking hearts, the Doctor followed Rassilon back to the transmat station.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Cinder had been pacing the observation lounge for at least half an hour, and with every step her frustration was m
ounting. She wanted to do something. The Doctor had told her to remain here and stay out of trouble, but that simply wasn’t Cinder’s style. She’d never been comfortable staying still for very long, and she doubted she ever would.

  With a groan of irritation she went to the window, peering out over the city.

  Night had fallen, and with it, the stars.

  The stars. She’d read about them, of course, understood exactly what they were – but she’d never seen them for herself. Not until now. All those years, growing up on Moldox, the night sky had always been tainted by the fluctuating auroras that, to her, described colourful dreams, drifting off into the ether as people slept. Of course, she now knew them to be caused by the temporal radiation leaking from the Tantalus Eye – the very same radiation that the Daleks were harnessing to power their weapons.

  Somehow, that made it seem less beautiful. This, in itself, wasn’t anything new. Everything she’d ever loved, the Daleks had taken from her. Everything beautiful, they had spoiled. That was what the Daleks did. They took. They pillaged. And now they’d even tainted the sky.

  Cinder was done with that, though. She’d found a way off Moldox with the Doctor, and she would no longer allow herself to be diminished, by the Daleks, or anyone else.

  She stared up at the twinkling constellations. The stars were like pinpricks of light, holes in the fabric of the sky, through which she could observe the glow of distant universes. She’d never imagined there would be so many of them. She understood, intellectually, that the universe was populated with countless billions of stars, but seeing them shining overhead was something else entirely. It was startlingly beautiful.

  She wondered how many people were out there, just like her, looking up to the sky and feeling hopeful. Perhaps she’d get to visit some of those places with the Doctor, once the war was over. She’d like that, and she could tell that he needed it too. It would do him good to get away from it all, to remember who he really was. She could tell that the War was eroding him. He’d become calloused, hardened to it, but she was certain there was much more to him than that – another man, buried away somewhere beneath the curmudgeonly exterior.

  She sighed, glancing at the door. How long had he said he’d be? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to have a little look around? How much trouble could she really be?

  Cinder made her mind up. Perhaps she could even discover something useful, something that might help the Doctor to persuade the Time Lords against deploying their doomsday device. She knew he would. She had to have faith in him. The alternative was unthinkable.

  She crossed the door, half expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t. She opened it just enough to peer out. The passageway beyond was empty. She didn’t want to go far. She could probably find her way back to the War Room or the council chamber, but any further afield she risked incurring the wrath of the Castellan and his guards.

  She stepped through the door, closing it behind her, then screamed as a hand grabbed her firmly by the shoulder.

  Karlax made a tutting sound, and she squirmed, trying to break free. He was too strong, and had caught her off guard.

  ‘Thought you’d go for a little wander, did you?’ he said. His breath was hot on the back of her neck. ‘Well, we can’t have that. What would the Castellan say? Hmmm?’ He moved around behind her, pinning her arms behind her back. ‘In fact,’ he continued, ‘I think we should go and find out, don’t you?’

  ‘Let me go, Karlax,’ she said. ‘The Doctor will be back any minute.’

  Karlax laughed. ‘Oh, I’m afraid that doesn’t trouble me in the slightest, young lady. Not one bit. He’s not here now, and that’s all that matters. I’ll have everything I need by the time he finds you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she said, beginning to feel frightened. What did the odious little man have in mind?

  ‘Oh, it’s nothing to worry about,’ he cooed, clamping a hand over her mouth to stifle any screams. ‘Just a little test I need to run. The Castellan has a machine, you see, known as a mind probe…’

  Panicked, Cinder kicked back, jamming her heel into Karlax’s shin. He yelped, but didn’t relinquish his grip. In retaliation, he pushed her arm further up her back until it threatened to break and the intensity of the pain made her swoon. As she fell limp and delirious into his arms, he dragged her away into a side room, where the Castellan was waiting.

  ‘Are you sure you want to go through with this, Karlax?’ said the Castellan. He was stooped over her, strapping her in to a hard, metal chair, and tightening the straps around the helmet they had forced over her head. ‘It’s just – she’s only human. There’s a risk it might kill her.’

  ‘Irrelevant,’ said Karlax. ‘As long as you get me the information I require, I couldn’t care less what happens to her. In fact, it might teach the Doctor a valuable lesson if she does die.’

  At this, Cinder struggled violently against the bonds, bucking in the chair, but the Castellan had done his job well, and there was no chance of her breaking free. She couldn’t even call for help, as they’d gagged her as soon as Karlax had bundled her into the room.

  She’d managed to scratch Karlax’s face with her fingernails during the ensuing struggle, drawing blood, but it had been only a small victory, a fleeting moment of satisfaction, before the horror of her situation had really set in. She was trapped in the room with these two men and their machine, and no one even knew she was here. Whether she liked it or not, they were going to use their mind probe on her.

  Cinder found herself wondering how often they had occasion to use it. Judging by the look of anticipation on Karlax’s face, it wouldn’t surprise her to learn that he used at any opportunity he could. Clearly, amongst his other virtues, he had a well-developed sadistic streak.

  She was strapped into the high-backed chair, facing a bank of glass monitor screens. Presently they showed only static snow, white noise, but she assumed this was where any memories they managed to extract from her mind would play out for the others to watch.

  She could see her own reflection in the polished glass. She looked dwarfed by the chair, and the cables rising from the helmet to the ceiling might have been long strands of fibrous hair, standing on end as if charged with static electricity.

  It reminded her of the glass incubation chambers she had seen on the Dalek ship, and she only wished she had the same opportunity now to sabotage the machine before they had chance to activate it.

  ‘Get on with it,’ said Karlax. He was watching the door, clearly nervous that the Doctor might burst in at any moment to interrupt proceedings.

  ‘I’m working as fast as I can,’ replied the Castellan. ‘If I don’t get the levels right we’ll fry her brain before you get anything out of her head.’

  Karlax was pacing, his hands behind his back. He looked imperious, full of self-import, and Cinder smiled at the site of the three angry gouges on his left cheek. With any luck, she’d be able to offer him a matching set for the other cheek when this was over with.

  The Castellan stepped back. ‘I’m ready,’ he said.

  Karlax ceased his pacing and moved behind the chair, out of sight. For the first time, the Castellan, standing beside the chair, looked down and met her gaze. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘This is going to hurt.’ He flicked the switch.

  At first, nothing happened. She heard a gentle buzzing sound coming from behind her left ear, and all she could feel was a warm tickling sensation at the front of her skull. It was uncomfortable, but not painful. She glanced at the monitors, but they continued to display nothing but dancing static.

  She concentrated on the buzzing, as it seemed to grow in intensity. With it, the pressure inside her head began to mount. Pain blossomed, and she bit down on the gag. Still, the heat and the pressure continued to increase, until she was sure that at any moment it was going to cause her skull to crack.

  She rocked forward in the chair, her vision blurring. The pain was like a white light, searing and bright, and there was no way of shutting
it down or escaping it. She tried to scream, but choked back on the rag in her mouth.

  The memories came in a sudden flurry, cascading through her mind as a series of stuttering images. Curiously, they were the devoid of colour, like ancient black-and-white photographs being sorted in her mind’s eye. They played out of sequence: a snippet here, a snippet there, fragments of her childhood, of her time with the rebels on Moldox, her recent time with the Doctor.

  She forced her eyes open to see these scenes unfolding on the monitors, the story of her life being replayed in a bizarre, looping sequence.

  She saw faces, people talking to her, and although she could hear nothing, the tastes and smells were fresh, as if she were experiencing them again for the very first time.

  She saw her brother, gambolling about like a monkey, pulling silly faces at her. She watched her mother serving dinner in their homestead, her father reading her a bedtime story. And then she watched them die all over again, exterminated by the metal monsters, who seemed to come out of nowhere, tumbling from the sky in a glowing discs, lighting bonfires with their screaming weapons.

  They had burst in through the kitchen wall, five of them, rasping in their oily, mechanical voices, all gold and bronze and barking commands. She hadn’t understood a word of it, but when they started firing and her father collapsed on the living room floor, steam rising from his lifeless body, she had understood enough to run and hide.

  Just moments before the Daleks had arrived, Cinder’s mother had been emptying the kitchen bin, and in the chaos, Cinder snuck onto the porch, quickly overturning it and ducking inside. She cowered in there while the Daleks razed her homestead to the ground.

  She’d never seen her family again, not even their corpses.

  The memories continued to rise unbidden into her consciousness. Now, they came with startling clarity, and excruciating pain:

  – Coyne teaching her how to aim a rifle, targeting the burnt-out shell of a Skaro Degradation he’d destroyed earlier that day in an ambush

  – 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