Prologue
A long time ago...
The Girl watched the red streak in the sky, her eyes following it West to East then back again. It’d been there weeks without fading, like a scar across the face of the silver clouds, and she was beginning to think it might stay there forever.
It wasn’t a natural phenomena, of course; it was put there by a leaking warp drive as the ship it belonged to was shot from the sky. The Girl had seen it happen -- the final dreadnaught in the Rebel fleet, it was, set upon by thirty Loyalist fighters, barraging it with round after round until the whole thing caught alight, and went careening into the ground. She’d watched it happen, cowering beneath the stone arches of her father’s summerhouse. All the grass plains from where she was now to the feet of the mountains had belonged to her family for generations.
The Rebellion was over now, and finally they could sleep without the sound of bells ringing all night. Soldiers were reunited with their children, villagers were allowed to leave their refuge camps, and commandeered land was returned to its ancestral owners. The weight of all the fighting lingered heavy on families all over the planet, however, and the Boy and the Girl felt it as much as anyone.
The Boy was her friend. He was a strange and paradoxical little specimen, she always thought. His radical views and dreams were at odds with his quaint, conservative nature. All the same, she felt pairbound to him; he was much poorer than her, with no land or real family to speak of. He was lonely, but so was she, and somehow, despite being miles apart, they came to meet in the middle of their isolation.
“What are you doing?” The Girl asked the Boy. He’d been silent for nearly an hour now, sitting in his patch of grass, and she was beginning to grow bored.
“Do the Driftbaloons migrate over here in the winter?” he asked her, oblivious, as ever, to how a conservation is supposed to go.
“Normally,” she answered, sighing. “They might avoid the warp-leak this year, though. Why?”
“That means they must drop their pollen here, but none of it grows. There’s only ever the grass.”
“So?”
“So the grass strangles everything else here. It doesn’t allow anything other lifeforms to take root. I mean, listen: there aren’t even any birds singing.”
“Urgh, you’re so depressing, do you know that?” The Girl flicked a pebble at him. “I asked you round because I thought you might cheer things up a bit. Ever since father got back from the Rebellion it’s been awful. He spends his whole time in the summerhouses in the north. He even sleeps there. And mother isn’t speaking to me, either. Father’s changed, and he’s changing everything around him.”
“I heard he was first through the breach,” the Boy replied. He stood now, holding a blade of the grass up to the sun to examine it.
“I heard he crapped his pants.”
“You shouldn’t mock. War is a terrible thing. It takes a toll on people.”
“Then he shouldn’t have gone.”
“It doesn’t change what happened to him,” the Boy was actually looking at her now. She’d never tell him, but the Girl loved the way he looked at her, especially when they were debating something. It gave her a feeling she couldn’t describe. It was intoxicating, addicting, almost. She wanted it to never end.
“Would you have gone?” she asked him.
“You know I wouldn’t.”
“Well then, how can you defend him?”
The Boy sighed. “I don’t know. I’m a science student, not a philosophy one.”
“Ah, but is there a difference?” the Girl grinned. “Besides, it’s an ethical question. Not a philosophical one.”
The Boy shrugged, and went back to examining his blade of grass.
Damn, she thought, cursing she let the debate get away from her. She grasped for other questions. “What would you go to war for, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Not much. Wars are never really won. People always stay at war, even when the fighting is done. They’re just fighting their demons, you see.”
A lumped formed in the Girl’s throat. She’d been waiting a long time for an opportunity to ask him a question. She didn’t know what the question would be, only that it’d be an important one. Was now the right time? Would it ruin things?
She threw caution to the wind, and asked him anyway:
“Would you go to war for me?”
The expression on the Boy’s face was totally unreadable to her. It was sad, and confused, and reluctant, too, and other things. He opened his mouth to answer...
...and a clap of thunder interrupted him. It was a high-pitched thing, like a short and strangled scream that echoed across the plains.
Another electron storm was coming. They were by-products of the weapons used to quash the Rebellion; devastating things that would scourge the environment over and over and over. They were meant to subsist soon, or so the politicians kept saying, but to the Girl’s mind that didn’t seem to be happening.
She swallowed her pride -- the answer could wait for another day. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get inside.”
The Girl watched the red streak in the sky, her eyes following it West to East then back again. It’d been there weeks without fading, like a scar across the face of the silver clouds, and she was beginning to think it might stay there forever.
It wasn’t a natural phenomena, of course; it was put there by a leaking warp drive as the ship it belonged to was shot from the sky. The Girl had seen it happen -- the final dreadnaught in the Rebel fleet, it was, set upon by thirty Loyalist fighters, barraging it with round after round until the whole thing caught alight, and went careening into the ground. She’d watched it happen, cowering beneath the stone arches of her father’s summerhouse. All the grass plains from where she was now to the feet of the mountains had belonged to her family for generations.
The Rebellion was over now, and finally they could sleep without the sound of bells ringing all night. Soldiers were reunited with their children, villagers were allowed to leave their refuge camps, and commandeered land was returned to its ancestral owners. The weight of all the fighting lingered heavy on families all over the planet, however, and the Boy and the Girl felt it as much as anyone.
The Boy was her friend. He was a strange and paradoxical little specimen, she always thought. His radical views and dreams were at odds with his quaint, conservative nature. All the same, she felt pairbound to him; he was much poorer than her, with no land or real family to speak of. He was lonely, but so was she, and somehow, despite being miles apart, they came to meet in the middle of their isolation.
“What are you doing?” The Girl asked the Boy. He’d been silent for nearly an hour now, sitting in his patch of grass, and she was beginning to grow bored.
“Do the Driftbaloons migrate over here in the winter?” he asked her, oblivious, as ever, to how a conservation is supposed to go.
“Normally,” she answered, sighing. “They might avoid the warp-leak this year, though. Why?”
“That means they must drop their pollen here, but none of it grows. There’s only ever the grass.”
“So?”
“So the grass strangles everything else here. It doesn’t allow anything other lifeforms to take root. I mean, listen: there aren’t even any birds singing.”
“Urgh, you’re so depressing, do you know that?” The Girl flicked a pebble at him. “I asked you round because I thought you might cheer things up a bit. Ever since father got back from the Rebellion it’s been awful. He spends his whole time in the summerhouses in the north. He even sleeps there. And mother isn’t speaking to me, either. Father’s changed, and he’s changing everything around him.”
“I heard he was first through the breach,” the Boy replied. He stood now, holding a blade of the grass up to the sun to examine it.
“I heard he crapped his pants.”
“You shouldn’t mock. War is a terrible thing. It takes a toll on people.”
“Then he shouldn’t have gone.”
“It doesn’t change what happened to him,” the Boy was actually looking at her now. She’d never tell him, but the Girl loved the way he looked at her, especially when they were debating something. It gave her a feeling she couldn’t describe. It was intoxicating, addicting, almost. She wanted it to never end.
“Would you have gone?” she asked him.
“You know I wouldn’t.”
“Well then, how can you defend him?”
The Boy sighed. “I don’t know. I’m a science student, not a philosophy one.”
“Ah, but is there a difference?” the Girl grinned. “Besides, it’s an ethical question. Not a philosophical one.”
The Boy shrugged, and went back to examining his blade of grass.
Damn, she thought, cursing she let the debate get away from her. She grasped for other questions. “What would you go to war for, then?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Not much. Wars are never really won. People always stay at war, even when the fighting is done. They’re just fighting their demons, you see.”
A lumped formed in the Girl’s throat. She’d been waiting a long time for an opportunity to ask him a question. She didn’t know what the question would be, only that it’d be an important one. Was now the right time? Would it ruin things?
She threw caution to the wind, and asked him anyway:
“Would you go to war for me?”
The expression on the Boy’s face was totally unreadable to her. It was sad, and confused, and reluctant, too, and other things. He opened his mouth to answer...
...and a clap of thunder interrupted him. It was a high-pitched thing, like a short and strangled scream that echoed across the plains.
Another electron storm was coming. They were by-products of the weapons used to quash the Rebellion; devastating things that would scourge the environment over and over and over. They were meant to subsist soon, or so the politicians kept saying, but to the Girl’s mind that didn’t seem to be happening.
She swallowed her pride -- the answer could wait for another day. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s get inside.”
The Eighth Doctor Adventures
Series 4 - Episode 9
Darksong
Written by James Blanchard
Jasmine woke to a clap of thunder. She was being battered by huge rain drops, each hammering her with the speed of bullets -- she worried that if she didn’t get in shelter soon, they’d hammer through to her brain.
She was sprawled on a wide stone floor, for some reason, a wide circle of eerie grey-green stone that seemed to shift and bend under the puddled water. Jasmine forced herself to her feet, fighting against the rain, and with a shivering hand pushed her hair from her eyes.
It’s so cold, was all she could think, initially. Has this place ever seen the sun?
She had no idea where ‘this place’ was. She understood what it was better, though that knowledge still only extended to ‘wet’ and ‘cold’.
Thunder roared again, and a flash of lightning illuminated Jasmine’s view. Marking the end of her stone disc was some kind of railing, another piece of ornate stone made of interlocking shapes, winged and twisted. She was on a balcony, she realised, looking out over some greater darkness.
She breathed deep, steeling herself against the rain, and put one frozen foot forward, then another, then another, until she reached the edge, and clasped her hand atop some strange stone bird for support.
What she saw made Jasmine colder still. Her balcony was hundreds of feet from the ground, so far up she surely should have been blown over the side. She had no idea just how high up she was -- when she looked down, there seemed to be no floor to the world, only a dense, dark gloom, out of which hundreds -- or maybe thousands -- of pale stone buildings rose.
Jasmine’s own tower seemed perfectly cylindrical, round and smooth all the way down to the gloom, broken only by the occasional balcony. Other towers were different; some were rectangular, others full of sloped edges and strange angles like some abstract sculpture. A few seemed even decorative, their peaks carved into the shapes of alien birds, wings outstretched, wielding beaks and talons. Like soldiers they stood, tall grey-green sentinels in irregular formation, drinking in the darkness, stretching out as a far as Jasmine’s eye could see.
A city, she realised. A dead city. No light seemed to come from the buildings -- not single window blinked or beacon flickered. There wasn’t even any starlight, with thick black rainclouds smothering the entire sky, horizon to horizon. Only the towers stood, silent and unmoving, eerily stark against the night, as if they were giving off their own kind of light, or at least the darkness was somehow passing them by.
Jasmine shivered, violently. Her teeth clattered so hard that she bit her tongue. If she didn’t get out of this rain soon, she’d catch a chill, and -- if she couldn’t find anyone to help her -- a chill was something not worth risking.
This is a city. These are buildings. Which means you can get inside them.
She spun around, looking back to the stone of her own tower, and praying that her logic made sense. Sure enough, she spotted a half-oval in the wall, picked out by dark gaps between the stone -- a door.
She rushed over, careful to avoid slipping in the puddles, and pressed herself against the surface of the door, squeezing her hands through the gap and throwing all her weight behind trying to open it. It took her five solid minutes of serious pushing that left her lungs out of breath and her shoulders burning, but, finally, she created a gap big enough to fit through. Jasmine slipped inside.
Inside was dryer, and warmer, too, though remained dark. Only dim little fairy lights strewn across the ceiling offered any illumination. The walls and floor were the same kind of stone as outside, it seemed, but the bottom half had been given over to wooden panelling -- they were beautifully carved, depicting flowers, vines, trees, and -- again -- birds.
They like their birds here, Jasmine thought as she trudged her way down the corridor. She hoped she wouldn’t need to go too far; her sodden clothes were exhausting to walk around in, and rubbing the rivulets of water from her eyes had left them red and raw.
She was sprawled on a wide stone floor, for some reason, a wide circle of eerie grey-green stone that seemed to shift and bend under the puddled water. Jasmine forced herself to her feet, fighting against the rain, and with a shivering hand pushed her hair from her eyes.
It’s so cold, was all she could think, initially. Has this place ever seen the sun?
She had no idea where ‘this place’ was. She understood what it was better, though that knowledge still only extended to ‘wet’ and ‘cold’.
Thunder roared again, and a flash of lightning illuminated Jasmine’s view. Marking the end of her stone disc was some kind of railing, another piece of ornate stone made of interlocking shapes, winged and twisted. She was on a balcony, she realised, looking out over some greater darkness.
She breathed deep, steeling herself against the rain, and put one frozen foot forward, then another, then another, until she reached the edge, and clasped her hand atop some strange stone bird for support.
What she saw made Jasmine colder still. Her balcony was hundreds of feet from the ground, so far up she surely should have been blown over the side. She had no idea just how high up she was -- when she looked down, there seemed to be no floor to the world, only a dense, dark gloom, out of which hundreds -- or maybe thousands -- of pale stone buildings rose.
Jasmine’s own tower seemed perfectly cylindrical, round and smooth all the way down to the gloom, broken only by the occasional balcony. Other towers were different; some were rectangular, others full of sloped edges and strange angles like some abstract sculpture. A few seemed even decorative, their peaks carved into the shapes of alien birds, wings outstretched, wielding beaks and talons. Like soldiers they stood, tall grey-green sentinels in irregular formation, drinking in the darkness, stretching out as a far as Jasmine’s eye could see.
A city, she realised. A dead city. No light seemed to come from the buildings -- not single window blinked or beacon flickered. There wasn’t even any starlight, with thick black rainclouds smothering the entire sky, horizon to horizon. Only the towers stood, silent and unmoving, eerily stark against the night, as if they were giving off their own kind of light, or at least the darkness was somehow passing them by.
Jasmine shivered, violently. Her teeth clattered so hard that she bit her tongue. If she didn’t get out of this rain soon, she’d catch a chill, and -- if she couldn’t find anyone to help her -- a chill was something not worth risking.
This is a city. These are buildings. Which means you can get inside them.
She spun around, looking back to the stone of her own tower, and praying that her logic made sense. Sure enough, she spotted a half-oval in the wall, picked out by dark gaps between the stone -- a door.
She rushed over, careful to avoid slipping in the puddles, and pressed herself against the surface of the door, squeezing her hands through the gap and throwing all her weight behind trying to open it. It took her five solid minutes of serious pushing that left her lungs out of breath and her shoulders burning, but, finally, she created a gap big enough to fit through. Jasmine slipped inside.
Inside was dryer, and warmer, too, though remained dark. Only dim little fairy lights strewn across the ceiling offered any illumination. The walls and floor were the same kind of stone as outside, it seemed, but the bottom half had been given over to wooden panelling -- they were beautifully carved, depicting flowers, vines, trees, and -- again -- birds.
They like their birds here, Jasmine thought as she trudged her way down the corridor. She hoped she wouldn’t need to go too far; her sodden clothes were exhausting to walk around in, and rubbing the rivulets of water from her eyes had left them red and raw.
By what seemed like a vent, hammered bolted into the stone wall, she found a heavy steel wrench. Lugging it around made her arm ache, but knowing she had something to swing if need be made her much happier.
Eventually, she found the shrine.
WE WILL BE REBORN, it proclaimed, in large, crude letters. SHE IS OUR SAVIOUR. The shrine was a huge piece of canvas in a dark wooden frame, at least six feet tall, and near as wide as Jasmine’s arm-span. The floor around it was covered in boxes and thick blankets, and candles, so many that Jasmine couldn’t couldn’t count. The rising heat from them made her sleepy.
WE WILL BE REBORN, she read again. SHE IS OUR SAVIOUR. On the tall canvas itself were watercolours -- amateurish, she thought, but vibrant, and oddly compelling. The background was a field of orange and silver clouds, upon which stood a woman in a dress, black and silhouetted, arms outstretched. In place of a head, she had a raven, huge black wings spreading out behind her shoulders.
They really like their birds here.
She didn’t know how safe she would be here, but the warmth was too tempting to just move away from, and it seemed as good a place as any to stop and rest. So Jasmine used the wrench to pull a vine of the fairy lights down, bringing them suspended just below the level of her head, and nicely within the warmth of the candles. She took off her trainers and tied them to the lights by the laces, and did the same with her socks, leaving her barefoot -- the stone floor was cold, but at least she could move without making a wet squelching sound, if it came to that.
Then she pulled her jumper over her head, using it as a towel as best she could to dry her hair, and draped it over the lights to dry, before doing the same with her jeans. That left her only with her underwear, which she kept on.
Jasmine felt obscene, stranded in an alien city, wearing only her bra and pants, clutching a rod of heavy steel. It was like being trapped in a low-rent horror movie. But her clothes needed drying, and she wasn’t too cold by the candles, so she made do.
I need somewhere to hide, she though. Just somewhere to tuck myself away while I rest, so it’s less likely someone will sneak up on me. The corridor stretched a good way in both directions -- backwards was nothing, and forwards held god-knows-what. Jasmine decided stay near the candles, instead pushing the bottom of the canvas forward a foot or so, giving her just enough space to crawl behind it, and curl up around her wrench.
Only then, safe-ish and resting, did Jasmine finally allow herself to think about what the hell was going on.
We were in the TARDIS, she remembered. And then we weren’t. The Doctor was talking endlessly, as ever, but then his voice seemed to go quiet, and his form blurry. Everything went white, then everything went black. Then she woke up here.
The ‘how’ of being plucked from the TARDIS didn’t matter so much, she reasoned. No doubt it was some kind of transmat beam or teleporter, or something. What mattered was the ‘why’. Who’d kidnapped her, only to leave her here, unguarded, and seemingly unwatched? Had they taken the Doctor too? Or was he still aboard the ship?
She yawned, and her eyelids began to droop. Sleeping seemed a poor idea, stranded alone as she was, but she lost the battle, and drifted into dream...
Jasmine was back home. Back in the flat she lived in with her nan, though wherever she looked she couldn’t find her. Eventually, she came to the kitchen, and found a blonde woman sat there, with a cup of a tea and a plate of custard creams. Her eyes were a cold blue, and her smile was colder still.
“Autumn?” Jasmine asked when she saw her.
Autumn looked up from her tea. “Autumn?” she repeated, but never waited for an answer. “Sit.”
Jasmine did as she was bid. “What do you want?” she asked, hugging her arms to herself protectively. She realised she was soaking wet again.
Autumn did not speak. Instead, strange lights began to dance around her. Jasmine looked down, and shrieked in terror -- fire was all around Autumn’s feet, creeping up her legs, spreading across the floor, consuming the table and chairs. In a moment, the whole room was ablaze. She turned to flee, but there was no door any more.
Autumn stood as the furniture collapsed into firewood. The flames worked their way up her body, her skin darkening and cracking and smoking, until her whole body was black and made of shadow.
“What are you?!” Jasmine screamed as the creature moved towards her. “What do you want?!”
Autumn laughed, in a dry, choked voice, and said: “You will be reborn.” She reached a blackened hand to Jasmine’s throat, fire leaping from one woman to another. “I am your saviour.”
Black wings forced their way from Autumn’s head, stretching out wide and terrible, and the raven screamed.
Jasmine woke sweating, and cradling the wrench like a baby.
Whoever you are, I will find you, she vowed to herself silently, and crawled out from behind the canvas. Trapping me here. Sending me nightmares. I’m going to find you for that, and the Doctor will too.
It was impossible to tell how long she’d slept -- the corridor was filled with the same gloom as before, and there were no windows to show if it was night or day. If they have day on this planet.
She must’ve slept for some time, though, as her clothes were just about dry, and even beginning to approach warm. She put them on as quickly as she could, and hugged herself tight for a moment, enjoying the feeling of warmth seeping back into her muscles, mild as they were.
Jasmine hauled her wrench onto her shoulder, grateful for its presence, and decided to carry on down the corridor, away from where she entered. She’d find somewhere eventually.
Tap-tap-tap.
Footsteps. It could only be footsteps. All the new-found warmth in Jasmine’s body fled, and she froze.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
It was louder now, and undeniably someone making their way up the corridor. Jasmine forced herself to move, pushing herself flat against the wall and listening intently.
A new noise. Talking? No...singing, it was singing. Faint at first, but growing louder with each tap-tap-tap.
“Somewhere beyond the sea
She’s there watching for me...”
The voice was hoarse, throaty and tuneless. It has a cruel edge, too. I’ll get no help from him. Gently, she began to walk away from the singer, keen to make as little noise as possible. She gripped the wrench so hard her knuckles turned white.
“If I could fly like birds on high
Then straight into her arms
I’d go sailin’...”
He was moving faster than it sounded. Jasmine could see a shadow now, beginning to loom out of the darkness. If I run, he’ll hear me. If I don’t, he’ll catch me anyway. Everything seemed to have turned cold again, and Jasmine’s teeth were began to clatter once more, so loud she swore they’d be echoing across the entire city. Shut up, shut up, shut up! she told them.
The shadow was inching closer, becoming bolder and more distinct. Just from its outline, Jasmine could tell its owner was tall, and gaunt, and made of something hard and cruel. This wasn’t a friendly place, and it hadn’t bred friendly people.
But there was hope, at last, in the form of a door, built into the inside wall. It wasn’t stone or wood or made of anything she’d seen so far, but a cold, industrial metal, starkly out of place with the art-deco nature of the place. It looked to be opened by a huge, steel wheel. Like one on a ship, Jasmine thought, though she couldn’t decide if she meant one for the sea or one for space. The Doctor’s rubbing off on me.
It was her best option. She launched at it, putting all her strength into moving the wheel, wincing at each sharp, metallic creeeeeeeeeeeek the thing made. Eventually, it opened just enough for Jasmine to force her way through. Once on the other side, she fumbled desperately for a way to close it behind her, but found nothing. She ran into the darkness, leaving the door open just a crack behind her.
And it was dark in here. She’d stumbled into some huge antechamber, filled with a high ceiling and faraway walls where even her breath echoed -- or, at least, she thought she was in an antechamber. It was almost pitch-black.
Am I ever going to see sunlight again? She found herself wondering. Even after only a day, Jasmine’s heart ached for the sun of her home world, even if it was a dim, wan thing that hid behind the clouds of Great Britain.
Her eyes were adjusting, at least. Just a tiny bit as she wandered, wrench held defensively, but enough to make out that the room was full of pillars. Her heart clattered in her chest, just in time with the gentle echoes of her footfalls.
The darkness never seemed to stay still. Shades of shadow varied wherever Jasmine’s eyes darted, not much, but enough to play tricks on her eyes and make her head ache. Some shadows seemed to move, detaching themselves from the greater darkness and floating away, like oil on water in the black of night. Some were short, some were wide; others were tall, and a few were thin. All were vertical.
My eyes aren’t playing tricks. I’m not alone in here.
Dread filled Jasmine as the realisation came to her. People made of darkness stalked all around her, silently appearing one moment, disappearing behind a pillar the next. But none of them saw her. Were they blind? Or did they just not care?
She carried on to (what she thought might be) the middle of the antechamber, hoping to get a greater sense of her surroundings. The reverberating silence was beginning to break. She could hear the gentlest, faintest of wailings, a pathetic collection of gasps and sobs she had to strain to hear. She prayed to god it wasn’t her crying, but when she put a hand to her cheek, it was dry. At least the Doctor will know I was brave.
She followed the sound, hoping that maybe she’d find another lost soul in here. It took at least a minute or so to find the source, but the truth of it became clear -- one of the shadow people was crying.
Maybe they are just people, lost in the dark. Will I end up one of them? She pushed the thought away. The person cloaked in darkness was seemingly on its knees, racked with sobs as it hugged itself. Its shoulders trembled uncontrollably, and it whispered to itself in a woman’s voice, “My baby. My sweet baby. Why can’t I see his face? Oh, my son, he was my son!”
Jasmine couldn’t hold back any longer; empathy was stirred through her heart, sending fire through her veins, til she was sure it would burn through her chest. “Are you okay?” she whispered.
The thing turned to her, and screamed. It was an inhuman cry, filled with an animal hate and anger. It was high and sharp and full of pain, and ecstasy, and mad anguish. It had no face, per se, only the impression of a face, ill-defined features drenched in a darkness, like a faraway memory of a person who once had a son. The shadow began to boil, and an angry golden light danced beneath its folds, turning it into a flaming, deadly candle.
She didn’t remember doing it, but Jasmine’s muscles tightened, and the wrench came swinging down, cutting into the creature and slamming into the stone floor with a loud crash. The thing scattered into a hundred shadows, and fled from the noise.
I’m dead, Jasmine’s mind burbled at her. I’m going to die here. A difference voice replied: No you aren’t. Not yet. Not today. Then it laughed.
It took her a moment to realise it wasn’t her mind laughing, but a deep, hoarse voice, tuneless and cruel.
The door to the antechamber swung open with a scream, and a pale cone of light split the room in half.
“Now then,” the voice called into the darkness. “Every child of Darksong knows not to enter a syphon room. I’m surprised the Faces haven’t torn you apart already. So what’s going on, eh? Come into the light, little friend, and let me have a look at you.”
“No thanks, mate,” Jasmine whispered to herself. She tried to sound hard, to give herself confidence, but her voice was shaking too bad. She darted backwards, away from the light as fast as she dared, trying to find the far wall.
“Another little bird come to roost?” the voice called again, the echoes clattering about her. “But this isn’t your nest, is it, sweet starling? Or are you cuckoo, perhaps?”
Jasmine kept backing up, groping for a wall behind her. Just keep your distance, she told herself. Keep your distance and he won't find you. Her hand brushed a pillar, but her wrench clanged against it too, throwing out a high-pitched note that made her cringe.
“Oh, she sings!” Deep laughter bounced around the darkness. “A mockingbird, then. I best bring you back for the children.”
She found the back wall. The oval of light made by the door, wan and meek though it was, was her only hope. The idea of escaping made her want to cry. Inch by inch she moved herself, ignoring the taunts yielded by her pursuer, until she was certain she could run in a line, and straight out of the door.
Deep breath, Jasmine. The Doctor’s waiting.
She got her wrench ready to swing with all the momentum of her run, in case she needed to. She counted -- one, two, three -- and took a step forward.
A bolt of red light zinged from the darkness, blinding Jasmine for a single second. She shrieked as the red-hot strike of lightning careened past her face and sheared her wrench in two. Then there were hands; strong, rough hands grabbing her out of the black and throwing her against the wall. She tried to swing the glowing remnants of her weapon, but it was no use, and her assailant knocked them from her with a single blow.
“It seems I have you caged, little bird.” Even in the darkness, Jasmine could make out the sharpness of the man’s face; his nose was hooked and pointed, his brow almost cartoonishly angular, and from ear-to-ear a crooked slash made his smile.
She tried to struggle, but his forearms pressed against her chest held her tight. “Seems to me you’re in the wrong place, sweet one. Only the true children of Darksong are allowed on these levels, and all true children know not to disturb the Faces. So what are you, exactly? One of the gloom-dwellers, clambering out the dark? You’re pale enough for it, that’s for sure.” He pushed his face close to hers. “You have the honour of speaking to Tartarius Slate, Chief Lieutenant of this particular tower. And of the whole of Darksong, as it happens. Now, little bird, what’s your name?”
She kicked him, but he barely seemed to notice. “Now, now,” Slate said, faintly amused. “I showed you a courtesy, telling you my name. You owe one in return.”
“Jasmine,” she spat, her voice still trembling. “My name’s Jasmine.”
“Jasmine. What a lovely name. Thank you for telling me.” Slate reached a long hand into his jacket, and after a moment, pulled out an enormous needle. “And now, Jasmine, I’m going to harvest you.”
Oh, God, please don’t! She panicked, wriggling and kicking and screaming as loud as she could, but he was too strong. With his shoulder he slammed her further into the wall, and with his free hand pressed his fingers into her neck, trying to find a vein.
But when he did, he stopped, and his smile died.
“Either you have a serious medical condition, Jasmine, or you only have one heart. Who are you? Where are you from?”
Jasmine gulped. If telling him would stop him killing her, then holding onto the information was worthless. “I’m human. A human being, from Earth.”
For a few moments, the information didn’t seem to register on Slate’s face. Then, he let her down (though, not gently) and regarded her coolly. “It seems the saviour’s prophecy is coming to fruition. No doubt the Doctor’s lurking around, too. I’d best set my men to finding him. But first...” He got behind her, shoving her towards the door, and setting her on a march.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. Still being alive was giving her some courage back, bit by bit. “Where are you taking me?”
“Where do you think, little bird?” Slate replied. The grin has returned to his face. “I’m taking you to The Master.”
***
The Doctor woke in an orphanage. He knew where he was immediately. I always know an orphanage when I see one.
Empty houses were something the Doctor often woke up in. This one was no exception -- rows of beds and cots filled the room on either side. The beds seemed hard and cheap, but still a damn-sight more comfortable than the cold stone floor. You could’ve teleported me onto one of them, he thought. Whoever you are.
He pushed himself to his feet, knees aching like the old man he was, and surveyed his surroundings.
No children had lived here for a long time. Or, at least, no children had been looked after; the beds were unmade, the linen and mattresses left thread-bare by hungry moths. Above the cots, mobiles full of stars and birds were frozen in place by rust. There were hardly any toys about the place, save for a few battered dolls collapsed forlornly at the ends of beds. The rest seem to have fled with the children, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of dust across the shelves.
The Doctor drew his coat closer to himself. I hope it wasn’t always this cold. No child should go to sleep shivering. He resolved to find his way out of this place, and to figure out where he was more broadly.
The first flight of steps he came upon led both up and down. Mentally he flipped a coin, then decided to do the opposite, descending into what appeared to be a nursery.
This level was in an even worse state than the bedroom -- it seemed as though a fire had raged some time ago, leaving the carpet beneath the Doctor’s shoes little more than a layer of black ash, and singed the pale green walls black. Posters of happy, smiling children had their edges burned away, leaving the mascots with nothing but broad, eyeless grins in a sea of black. Worse still was the huge hole in the far wall, seemingly blown wide open by a bomb or canon, throwing debris tens of meters across the room and letting the cold rain of the night splash rhythmically into the nursery.
And when the Doctor approached the breach, and looked out into the regiment of pale green towers, he knew exactly where he was. Darksong. The Stone City.
The Doctor had only been a boy when Gallifrey went to war with itself. The Rebellion mostly passed him by, truth be told, though plenty of his peers bore the burden of broken families and dead parents.
Darksong was, once, the third great city of Gallifrey, lying in the strange, cool region far to the north, where both sets of sunlight never quite touched. And everyone thought it was cold back then. Look how it ended up. Darksong lacked the cultural might of Arcadia, and the political majesty of the Capitol, but it made up for it in other ways. The founders of Darksong were experts in genetic engineering, able to create creatures both beautiful and terrifying, beating back diseases and holding the environment in perfect balance. Eventually, they turned their expertise to the people of Darksong -- they found a way to harvest and commodify regeneration energy itself.
The rulers of Darksong hailed it as an amazing breakthrough; soon, the lifespan of the Time Lord would be even longer, and there would be no need to adhere to rules of regeneration. Through them, Gallifrey would become a pantheon of living, breathing gods.
Not everyone was so pleased, though. The smaller cities bleated and complained of becoming subject to more and more of Darksong’s rule, whilst the priests of Arcadia called it an abomination, an affront to the gods of all Gallifrey that every dominion should reject and denounce. And in the Capitol, the President and his cabinet stroked their chins and consulted their scrolls, wondering if Darksong could ever be a threat.
But no amount of nay-saying would hold back the rulers of Darksong -- Philosopher Kings, they styled themselves, the Banishers of Shadows and Disciples of the Light. Technocrats and fantasists, more like, who didn’t know what they were dealing with. The Doctor studied the city closely, peering into the endless veil of night. Banishers of Shadows indeed.
Darksong wasn’t a real military power -- to force the Capitol to bow to them, they had to strike quick, and hard. They chose one night, late in the year, to do it; a few saboteurs were smuggled aboard a repairs ship, destined to reach the Arcadian battle fleet, anchored in orbit, just a day before a massive solar flare was due to strike the planet. Once aboard, the Darksong engineers secretly deactivated the magnetic shield protecting the ships from the radiation. The next day, a wave of solar energy smashed into the fleet, burning each and every vessel, and all the crew too. In less than an hour the biggest military force on Gallifrey was burned to cinders -- along with a hundred thousand people.
You could watch them burn from the surface, the Doctor remembered. It was like a hundred new stars in the sky.
Darksong thought it had struck a crippling blow to their enemies; the Capitol would be in a disarray, and give them time to mount a siege and force a surrender. But the Capitol had something Darksong did not -- TARDISes.
The technology of Time Travel in the Capitol outmatched Darksong so much that the war was over in a fortnight. Chronoloops, Black Hole Converters, Stellar Manipulators and as few as a hundred war TARDISes tore through the enemy forces like a knife through the heart. But Darksong refused to surrender, its Philosopher Kings descending into madness and fantasy, throwing whatever old, young or sick soldiers they could find into the war, summoning crude monsters to raid and vanquish the peasant villages, and even resorting to ancient and faltering nuclear weapons.
So the Time Lords destroyed them.
A missile, armed with the most powerful Chronoloop ever created, was launched into the heart of Darksong, escorted all the way by battle TARDISes. Once it reached the city, in the dead of night, the blast cracked time wide open; the whole of Darksong was thrown into a nether-world, trapped in the same few hours, doomed to repeat themselves over and over again. A prison of eternal night, where the cold and the rain would eventually wear the once-great city down to nothing, as if it never existed at all.
It was too much, the Doctor reflected, looking back over his shoulder to the ruined nursery, his thoughts lingering on the rusted mobiles and discarded dolls. There were innocents here. Children. They shouldn’t have been punished for what their leaders did.
The Capitol knew it could have won the war without destroying the city. But they did it anyway. It’s always the same. Those at the top fight, and the people at the bottom drown in the spilt blood.
Why am I here? I was only a child, he thought. He did it consciously, as if projecting the thought, hoping someone might hear. I wouldn’t have fought, anyway. Is that what it’s about? Making me feel survivor’s guilt? Well, good luck, whoever you are. You’re going to have to do better than this.
In the corner of his eye, a shadow moved. Will I have to banish it? the Doctor thought, keeping still. Gently, he turned around, not rushing to make it known he’d noticed anything. The room was still empty -- though a small pile of rubble seemed somewhat displaced.
He went back to the staircase, listening closely for any movement. He heard none, but found a new set of small, wet footprints, leading up, and back into the bedroom.
Up the steps he followed them, keeping his footfalls as light as possible. Each of his movements seemed to disturb the unnatural light of the stairwell, just a smidgen, making the shadows around him dance and judder to the tiniest degree.
He made it back to the bedrooms, finding them just as solemn as before. The Doctor took a deep breath through his nose. The dust’s been disturbed a little. But I don’t smell anyone.
He followed his nose down the room, all the way to the end. Eventually, he reached the very last bed, unmade and moth-eaten. There wasn’t even a pillow, though the Doctor hoped there had been, once.
Once the bed had housed a child -- one with no family, and nowhere to go. But now, underneath the stone frame, the Doctor sensed it had a new inhabitant. Come on, Doctor, he thought to himself. You’re used to monsters under the bed.
He gave himself a moment, then dropped to his hands and knees as quick as he could, looking into the darkness beneath the mattress. For a moment, a pair of wide, grey eyes stared back at him.
Then it ran.
The little shadow thing leapt from beneath the bed and scrambled towards the door, so quick the Doctor’s eyes could barely keep up. It was fast -- impossibly fast -- but the Doctor was fast, too, and had long legs besides, and with three quick leaps he was ahead of it, stopping it from leaving.
The thing backed up, shrinking away from him, shivering with fear. Its big, grey eyes pleaded from behind a black mask, wet with tears.
“You’re a child?” the Doctor thought. Or maybe said. He wasn’t quite sure; the child was tiny, probably younger than six, skinny and indistinct. The clothes were black and plain, covering them head to toe. Even the greyness of the eyes weren’t of note -- the grey was more an absence of colour, than a colour in its own right.
Only the mask stood out. Black, again, but beautiful and trimmed with silver vines, gently snaking for the corner of the lacquer lips. Sliver eyelashes fanned from the almond-shaped eyes, like the wings of some elegant bird, starlight dancing across its feather against the night.
“Was this your home?” the Doctor asked, softly. He crouched slowly, bringing himself to the child’s level, understanding just how terrifying he must have seemed. The child gave no answer, except to continue shaking with fear.
“It’s okay,” he carried on. “I promise you I wont hurt you. Cross my hearts.” He pointed to his chest, the left side, then right. “Two. Just like you, right?” It seemed to give the child no comfort.
The Doctor sighed. Be patient, old man. You know what it’s like to be a lost child. “My name’s the Doctor. Will you tell me yours?”
For a while, the Doctor thought they wouldn’t answer. But, eventually, came a quiet voice from behind the mask: “No.”
A girl’s voice. At least we’re getting somewhere. “No? Why not?” She seemed to have gone a mute again. “Come on, I told you mine. Do you have a name?”
“No.”
“Oh, now you’re being-” he was halfway through the sentence when it struck. No. She said no. The girl didn’t even have a name. God, what happened to this city when we destroyed it?
He could have wept for her then. But he didn’t -- someone had to stay strong for all the lost children. “No?” he tried to keep his voice cheerful. “No is a good name. Really unique. The more grammatically weird the name the better, that’s what I say!” He put on his cheesiest grin. “So, can I call you No, No?”
Slowly and carefully, No nodded.
“Good,” the Doctor painted on his grin. “Was this where you lived?”
“No,” said No. “My friend did. I was looking for her. But she’s not here.”
What’s your friend’s name? the Doctor almost asked, before realising she probably didn’t have a name, either. “Why are you looking for her, No?”
“She...there were men. Disciples...they came in a patrol, changed their routine. We weren’t hiding...the harvest...we were...”
“Split up?” the Doctor finished for her -- recounting the story was clearly painful for her. “What’s the harvest?” he asked her.
But No’d gone quiet again. She gave no verbal answer; instead, she just reached a hand to her black mask, touching the corner of the eyes as if to wipe away a tear.
Eventually, she found the shrine.
WE WILL BE REBORN, it proclaimed, in large, crude letters. SHE IS OUR SAVIOUR. The shrine was a huge piece of canvas in a dark wooden frame, at least six feet tall, and near as wide as Jasmine’s arm-span. The floor around it was covered in boxes and thick blankets, and candles, so many that Jasmine couldn’t couldn’t count. The rising heat from them made her sleepy.
WE WILL BE REBORN, she read again. SHE IS OUR SAVIOUR. On the tall canvas itself were watercolours -- amateurish, she thought, but vibrant, and oddly compelling. The background was a field of orange and silver clouds, upon which stood a woman in a dress, black and silhouetted, arms outstretched. In place of a head, she had a raven, huge black wings spreading out behind her shoulders.
They really like their birds here.
She didn’t know how safe she would be here, but the warmth was too tempting to just move away from, and it seemed as good a place as any to stop and rest. So Jasmine used the wrench to pull a vine of the fairy lights down, bringing them suspended just below the level of her head, and nicely within the warmth of the candles. She took off her trainers and tied them to the lights by the laces, and did the same with her socks, leaving her barefoot -- the stone floor was cold, but at least she could move without making a wet squelching sound, if it came to that.
Then she pulled her jumper over her head, using it as a towel as best she could to dry her hair, and draped it over the lights to dry, before doing the same with her jeans. That left her only with her underwear, which she kept on.
Jasmine felt obscene, stranded in an alien city, wearing only her bra and pants, clutching a rod of heavy steel. It was like being trapped in a low-rent horror movie. But her clothes needed drying, and she wasn’t too cold by the candles, so she made do.
I need somewhere to hide, she though. Just somewhere to tuck myself away while I rest, so it’s less likely someone will sneak up on me. The corridor stretched a good way in both directions -- backwards was nothing, and forwards held god-knows-what. Jasmine decided stay near the candles, instead pushing the bottom of the canvas forward a foot or so, giving her just enough space to crawl behind it, and curl up around her wrench.
Only then, safe-ish and resting, did Jasmine finally allow herself to think about what the hell was going on.
We were in the TARDIS, she remembered. And then we weren’t. The Doctor was talking endlessly, as ever, but then his voice seemed to go quiet, and his form blurry. Everything went white, then everything went black. Then she woke up here.
The ‘how’ of being plucked from the TARDIS didn’t matter so much, she reasoned. No doubt it was some kind of transmat beam or teleporter, or something. What mattered was the ‘why’. Who’d kidnapped her, only to leave her here, unguarded, and seemingly unwatched? Had they taken the Doctor too? Or was he still aboard the ship?
She yawned, and her eyelids began to droop. Sleeping seemed a poor idea, stranded alone as she was, but she lost the battle, and drifted into dream...
Jasmine was back home. Back in the flat she lived in with her nan, though wherever she looked she couldn’t find her. Eventually, she came to the kitchen, and found a blonde woman sat there, with a cup of a tea and a plate of custard creams. Her eyes were a cold blue, and her smile was colder still.
“Autumn?” Jasmine asked when she saw her.
Autumn looked up from her tea. “Autumn?” she repeated, but never waited for an answer. “Sit.”
Jasmine did as she was bid. “What do you want?” she asked, hugging her arms to herself protectively. She realised she was soaking wet again.
Autumn did not speak. Instead, strange lights began to dance around her. Jasmine looked down, and shrieked in terror -- fire was all around Autumn’s feet, creeping up her legs, spreading across the floor, consuming the table and chairs. In a moment, the whole room was ablaze. She turned to flee, but there was no door any more.
Autumn stood as the furniture collapsed into firewood. The flames worked their way up her body, her skin darkening and cracking and smoking, until her whole body was black and made of shadow.
“What are you?!” Jasmine screamed as the creature moved towards her. “What do you want?!”
Autumn laughed, in a dry, choked voice, and said: “You will be reborn.” She reached a blackened hand to Jasmine’s throat, fire leaping from one woman to another. “I am your saviour.”
Black wings forced their way from Autumn’s head, stretching out wide and terrible, and the raven screamed.
Jasmine woke sweating, and cradling the wrench like a baby.
Whoever you are, I will find you, she vowed to herself silently, and crawled out from behind the canvas. Trapping me here. Sending me nightmares. I’m going to find you for that, and the Doctor will too.
It was impossible to tell how long she’d slept -- the corridor was filled with the same gloom as before, and there were no windows to show if it was night or day. If they have day on this planet.
She must’ve slept for some time, though, as her clothes were just about dry, and even beginning to approach warm. She put them on as quickly as she could, and hugged herself tight for a moment, enjoying the feeling of warmth seeping back into her muscles, mild as they were.
Jasmine hauled her wrench onto her shoulder, grateful for its presence, and decided to carry on down the corridor, away from where she entered. She’d find somewhere eventually.
Tap-tap-tap.
Footsteps. It could only be footsteps. All the new-found warmth in Jasmine’s body fled, and she froze.
Tap-tap-tap-tap.
It was louder now, and undeniably someone making their way up the corridor. Jasmine forced herself to move, pushing herself flat against the wall and listening intently.
A new noise. Talking? No...singing, it was singing. Faint at first, but growing louder with each tap-tap-tap.
“Somewhere beyond the sea
She’s there watching for me...”
The voice was hoarse, throaty and tuneless. It has a cruel edge, too. I’ll get no help from him. Gently, she began to walk away from the singer, keen to make as little noise as possible. She gripped the wrench so hard her knuckles turned white.
“If I could fly like birds on high
Then straight into her arms
I’d go sailin’...”
He was moving faster than it sounded. Jasmine could see a shadow now, beginning to loom out of the darkness. If I run, he’ll hear me. If I don’t, he’ll catch me anyway. Everything seemed to have turned cold again, and Jasmine’s teeth were began to clatter once more, so loud she swore they’d be echoing across the entire city. Shut up, shut up, shut up! she told them.
The shadow was inching closer, becoming bolder and more distinct. Just from its outline, Jasmine could tell its owner was tall, and gaunt, and made of something hard and cruel. This wasn’t a friendly place, and it hadn’t bred friendly people.
But there was hope, at last, in the form of a door, built into the inside wall. It wasn’t stone or wood or made of anything she’d seen so far, but a cold, industrial metal, starkly out of place with the art-deco nature of the place. It looked to be opened by a huge, steel wheel. Like one on a ship, Jasmine thought, though she couldn’t decide if she meant one for the sea or one for space. The Doctor’s rubbing off on me.
It was her best option. She launched at it, putting all her strength into moving the wheel, wincing at each sharp, metallic creeeeeeeeeeeek the thing made. Eventually, it opened just enough for Jasmine to force her way through. Once on the other side, she fumbled desperately for a way to close it behind her, but found nothing. She ran into the darkness, leaving the door open just a crack behind her.
And it was dark in here. She’d stumbled into some huge antechamber, filled with a high ceiling and faraway walls where even her breath echoed -- or, at least, she thought she was in an antechamber. It was almost pitch-black.
Am I ever going to see sunlight again? She found herself wondering. Even after only a day, Jasmine’s heart ached for the sun of her home world, even if it was a dim, wan thing that hid behind the clouds of Great Britain.
Her eyes were adjusting, at least. Just a tiny bit as she wandered, wrench held defensively, but enough to make out that the room was full of pillars. Her heart clattered in her chest, just in time with the gentle echoes of her footfalls.
The darkness never seemed to stay still. Shades of shadow varied wherever Jasmine’s eyes darted, not much, but enough to play tricks on her eyes and make her head ache. Some shadows seemed to move, detaching themselves from the greater darkness and floating away, like oil on water in the black of night. Some were short, some were wide; others were tall, and a few were thin. All were vertical.
My eyes aren’t playing tricks. I’m not alone in here.
Dread filled Jasmine as the realisation came to her. People made of darkness stalked all around her, silently appearing one moment, disappearing behind a pillar the next. But none of them saw her. Were they blind? Or did they just not care?
She carried on to (what she thought might be) the middle of the antechamber, hoping to get a greater sense of her surroundings. The reverberating silence was beginning to break. She could hear the gentlest, faintest of wailings, a pathetic collection of gasps and sobs she had to strain to hear. She prayed to god it wasn’t her crying, but when she put a hand to her cheek, it was dry. At least the Doctor will know I was brave.
She followed the sound, hoping that maybe she’d find another lost soul in here. It took at least a minute or so to find the source, but the truth of it became clear -- one of the shadow people was crying.
Maybe they are just people, lost in the dark. Will I end up one of them? She pushed the thought away. The person cloaked in darkness was seemingly on its knees, racked with sobs as it hugged itself. Its shoulders trembled uncontrollably, and it whispered to itself in a woman’s voice, “My baby. My sweet baby. Why can’t I see his face? Oh, my son, he was my son!”
Jasmine couldn’t hold back any longer; empathy was stirred through her heart, sending fire through her veins, til she was sure it would burn through her chest. “Are you okay?” she whispered.
The thing turned to her, and screamed. It was an inhuman cry, filled with an animal hate and anger. It was high and sharp and full of pain, and ecstasy, and mad anguish. It had no face, per se, only the impression of a face, ill-defined features drenched in a darkness, like a faraway memory of a person who once had a son. The shadow began to boil, and an angry golden light danced beneath its folds, turning it into a flaming, deadly candle.
She didn’t remember doing it, but Jasmine’s muscles tightened, and the wrench came swinging down, cutting into the creature and slamming into the stone floor with a loud crash. The thing scattered into a hundred shadows, and fled from the noise.
I’m dead, Jasmine’s mind burbled at her. I’m going to die here. A difference voice replied: No you aren’t. Not yet. Not today. Then it laughed.
It took her a moment to realise it wasn’t her mind laughing, but a deep, hoarse voice, tuneless and cruel.
The door to the antechamber swung open with a scream, and a pale cone of light split the room in half.
“Now then,” the voice called into the darkness. “Every child of Darksong knows not to enter a syphon room. I’m surprised the Faces haven’t torn you apart already. So what’s going on, eh? Come into the light, little friend, and let me have a look at you.”
“No thanks, mate,” Jasmine whispered to herself. She tried to sound hard, to give herself confidence, but her voice was shaking too bad. She darted backwards, away from the light as fast as she dared, trying to find the far wall.
“Another little bird come to roost?” the voice called again, the echoes clattering about her. “But this isn’t your nest, is it, sweet starling? Or are you cuckoo, perhaps?”
Jasmine kept backing up, groping for a wall behind her. Just keep your distance, she told herself. Keep your distance and he won't find you. Her hand brushed a pillar, but her wrench clanged against it too, throwing out a high-pitched note that made her cringe.
“Oh, she sings!” Deep laughter bounced around the darkness. “A mockingbird, then. I best bring you back for the children.”
She found the back wall. The oval of light made by the door, wan and meek though it was, was her only hope. The idea of escaping made her want to cry. Inch by inch she moved herself, ignoring the taunts yielded by her pursuer, until she was certain she could run in a line, and straight out of the door.
Deep breath, Jasmine. The Doctor’s waiting.
She got her wrench ready to swing with all the momentum of her run, in case she needed to. She counted -- one, two, three -- and took a step forward.
A bolt of red light zinged from the darkness, blinding Jasmine for a single second. She shrieked as the red-hot strike of lightning careened past her face and sheared her wrench in two. Then there were hands; strong, rough hands grabbing her out of the black and throwing her against the wall. She tried to swing the glowing remnants of her weapon, but it was no use, and her assailant knocked them from her with a single blow.
“It seems I have you caged, little bird.” Even in the darkness, Jasmine could make out the sharpness of the man’s face; his nose was hooked and pointed, his brow almost cartoonishly angular, and from ear-to-ear a crooked slash made his smile.
She tried to struggle, but his forearms pressed against her chest held her tight. “Seems to me you’re in the wrong place, sweet one. Only the true children of Darksong are allowed on these levels, and all true children know not to disturb the Faces. So what are you, exactly? One of the gloom-dwellers, clambering out the dark? You’re pale enough for it, that’s for sure.” He pushed his face close to hers. “You have the honour of speaking to Tartarius Slate, Chief Lieutenant of this particular tower. And of the whole of Darksong, as it happens. Now, little bird, what’s your name?”
She kicked him, but he barely seemed to notice. “Now, now,” Slate said, faintly amused. “I showed you a courtesy, telling you my name. You owe one in return.”
“Jasmine,” she spat, her voice still trembling. “My name’s Jasmine.”
“Jasmine. What a lovely name. Thank you for telling me.” Slate reached a long hand into his jacket, and after a moment, pulled out an enormous needle. “And now, Jasmine, I’m going to harvest you.”
Oh, God, please don’t! She panicked, wriggling and kicking and screaming as loud as she could, but he was too strong. With his shoulder he slammed her further into the wall, and with his free hand pressed his fingers into her neck, trying to find a vein.
But when he did, he stopped, and his smile died.
“Either you have a serious medical condition, Jasmine, or you only have one heart. Who are you? Where are you from?”
Jasmine gulped. If telling him would stop him killing her, then holding onto the information was worthless. “I’m human. A human being, from Earth.”
For a few moments, the information didn’t seem to register on Slate’s face. Then, he let her down (though, not gently) and regarded her coolly. “It seems the saviour’s prophecy is coming to fruition. No doubt the Doctor’s lurking around, too. I’d best set my men to finding him. But first...” He got behind her, shoving her towards the door, and setting her on a march.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. Still being alive was giving her some courage back, bit by bit. “Where are you taking me?”
“Where do you think, little bird?” Slate replied. The grin has returned to his face. “I’m taking you to The Master.”
***
The Doctor woke in an orphanage. He knew where he was immediately. I always know an orphanage when I see one.
Empty houses were something the Doctor often woke up in. This one was no exception -- rows of beds and cots filled the room on either side. The beds seemed hard and cheap, but still a damn-sight more comfortable than the cold stone floor. You could’ve teleported me onto one of them, he thought. Whoever you are.
He pushed himself to his feet, knees aching like the old man he was, and surveyed his surroundings.
No children had lived here for a long time. Or, at least, no children had been looked after; the beds were unmade, the linen and mattresses left thread-bare by hungry moths. Above the cots, mobiles full of stars and birds were frozen in place by rust. There were hardly any toys about the place, save for a few battered dolls collapsed forlornly at the ends of beds. The rest seem to have fled with the children, leaving behind nothing but a thin layer of dust across the shelves.
The Doctor drew his coat closer to himself. I hope it wasn’t always this cold. No child should go to sleep shivering. He resolved to find his way out of this place, and to figure out where he was more broadly.
The first flight of steps he came upon led both up and down. Mentally he flipped a coin, then decided to do the opposite, descending into what appeared to be a nursery.
This level was in an even worse state than the bedroom -- it seemed as though a fire had raged some time ago, leaving the carpet beneath the Doctor’s shoes little more than a layer of black ash, and singed the pale green walls black. Posters of happy, smiling children had their edges burned away, leaving the mascots with nothing but broad, eyeless grins in a sea of black. Worse still was the huge hole in the far wall, seemingly blown wide open by a bomb or canon, throwing debris tens of meters across the room and letting the cold rain of the night splash rhythmically into the nursery.
And when the Doctor approached the breach, and looked out into the regiment of pale green towers, he knew exactly where he was. Darksong. The Stone City.
The Doctor had only been a boy when Gallifrey went to war with itself. The Rebellion mostly passed him by, truth be told, though plenty of his peers bore the burden of broken families and dead parents.
Darksong was, once, the third great city of Gallifrey, lying in the strange, cool region far to the north, where both sets of sunlight never quite touched. And everyone thought it was cold back then. Look how it ended up. Darksong lacked the cultural might of Arcadia, and the political majesty of the Capitol, but it made up for it in other ways. The founders of Darksong were experts in genetic engineering, able to create creatures both beautiful and terrifying, beating back diseases and holding the environment in perfect balance. Eventually, they turned their expertise to the people of Darksong -- they found a way to harvest and commodify regeneration energy itself.
The rulers of Darksong hailed it as an amazing breakthrough; soon, the lifespan of the Time Lord would be even longer, and there would be no need to adhere to rules of regeneration. Through them, Gallifrey would become a pantheon of living, breathing gods.
Not everyone was so pleased, though. The smaller cities bleated and complained of becoming subject to more and more of Darksong’s rule, whilst the priests of Arcadia called it an abomination, an affront to the gods of all Gallifrey that every dominion should reject and denounce. And in the Capitol, the President and his cabinet stroked their chins and consulted their scrolls, wondering if Darksong could ever be a threat.
But no amount of nay-saying would hold back the rulers of Darksong -- Philosopher Kings, they styled themselves, the Banishers of Shadows and Disciples of the Light. Technocrats and fantasists, more like, who didn’t know what they were dealing with. The Doctor studied the city closely, peering into the endless veil of night. Banishers of Shadows indeed.
Darksong wasn’t a real military power -- to force the Capitol to bow to them, they had to strike quick, and hard. They chose one night, late in the year, to do it; a few saboteurs were smuggled aboard a repairs ship, destined to reach the Arcadian battle fleet, anchored in orbit, just a day before a massive solar flare was due to strike the planet. Once aboard, the Darksong engineers secretly deactivated the magnetic shield protecting the ships from the radiation. The next day, a wave of solar energy smashed into the fleet, burning each and every vessel, and all the crew too. In less than an hour the biggest military force on Gallifrey was burned to cinders -- along with a hundred thousand people.
You could watch them burn from the surface, the Doctor remembered. It was like a hundred new stars in the sky.
Darksong thought it had struck a crippling blow to their enemies; the Capitol would be in a disarray, and give them time to mount a siege and force a surrender. But the Capitol had something Darksong did not -- TARDISes.
The technology of Time Travel in the Capitol outmatched Darksong so much that the war was over in a fortnight. Chronoloops, Black Hole Converters, Stellar Manipulators and as few as a hundred war TARDISes tore through the enemy forces like a knife through the heart. But Darksong refused to surrender, its Philosopher Kings descending into madness and fantasy, throwing whatever old, young or sick soldiers they could find into the war, summoning crude monsters to raid and vanquish the peasant villages, and even resorting to ancient and faltering nuclear weapons.
So the Time Lords destroyed them.
A missile, armed with the most powerful Chronoloop ever created, was launched into the heart of Darksong, escorted all the way by battle TARDISes. Once it reached the city, in the dead of night, the blast cracked time wide open; the whole of Darksong was thrown into a nether-world, trapped in the same few hours, doomed to repeat themselves over and over again. A prison of eternal night, where the cold and the rain would eventually wear the once-great city down to nothing, as if it never existed at all.
It was too much, the Doctor reflected, looking back over his shoulder to the ruined nursery, his thoughts lingering on the rusted mobiles and discarded dolls. There were innocents here. Children. They shouldn’t have been punished for what their leaders did.
The Capitol knew it could have won the war without destroying the city. But they did it anyway. It’s always the same. Those at the top fight, and the people at the bottom drown in the spilt blood.
Why am I here? I was only a child, he thought. He did it consciously, as if projecting the thought, hoping someone might hear. I wouldn’t have fought, anyway. Is that what it’s about? Making me feel survivor’s guilt? Well, good luck, whoever you are. You’re going to have to do better than this.
In the corner of his eye, a shadow moved. Will I have to banish it? the Doctor thought, keeping still. Gently, he turned around, not rushing to make it known he’d noticed anything. The room was still empty -- though a small pile of rubble seemed somewhat displaced.
He went back to the staircase, listening closely for any movement. He heard none, but found a new set of small, wet footprints, leading up, and back into the bedroom.
Up the steps he followed them, keeping his footfalls as light as possible. Each of his movements seemed to disturb the unnatural light of the stairwell, just a smidgen, making the shadows around him dance and judder to the tiniest degree.
He made it back to the bedrooms, finding them just as solemn as before. The Doctor took a deep breath through his nose. The dust’s been disturbed a little. But I don’t smell anyone.
He followed his nose down the room, all the way to the end. Eventually, he reached the very last bed, unmade and moth-eaten. There wasn’t even a pillow, though the Doctor hoped there had been, once.
Once the bed had housed a child -- one with no family, and nowhere to go. But now, underneath the stone frame, the Doctor sensed it had a new inhabitant. Come on, Doctor, he thought to himself. You’re used to monsters under the bed.
He gave himself a moment, then dropped to his hands and knees as quick as he could, looking into the darkness beneath the mattress. For a moment, a pair of wide, grey eyes stared back at him.
Then it ran.
The little shadow thing leapt from beneath the bed and scrambled towards the door, so quick the Doctor’s eyes could barely keep up. It was fast -- impossibly fast -- but the Doctor was fast, too, and had long legs besides, and with three quick leaps he was ahead of it, stopping it from leaving.
The thing backed up, shrinking away from him, shivering with fear. Its big, grey eyes pleaded from behind a black mask, wet with tears.
“You’re a child?” the Doctor thought. Or maybe said. He wasn’t quite sure; the child was tiny, probably younger than six, skinny and indistinct. The clothes were black and plain, covering them head to toe. Even the greyness of the eyes weren’t of note -- the grey was more an absence of colour, than a colour in its own right.
Only the mask stood out. Black, again, but beautiful and trimmed with silver vines, gently snaking for the corner of the lacquer lips. Sliver eyelashes fanned from the almond-shaped eyes, like the wings of some elegant bird, starlight dancing across its feather against the night.
“Was this your home?” the Doctor asked, softly. He crouched slowly, bringing himself to the child’s level, understanding just how terrifying he must have seemed. The child gave no answer, except to continue shaking with fear.
“It’s okay,” he carried on. “I promise you I wont hurt you. Cross my hearts.” He pointed to his chest, the left side, then right. “Two. Just like you, right?” It seemed to give the child no comfort.
The Doctor sighed. Be patient, old man. You know what it’s like to be a lost child. “My name’s the Doctor. Will you tell me yours?”
For a while, the Doctor thought they wouldn’t answer. But, eventually, came a quiet voice from behind the mask: “No.”
A girl’s voice. At least we’re getting somewhere. “No? Why not?” She seemed to have gone a mute again. “Come on, I told you mine. Do you have a name?”
“No.”
“Oh, now you’re being-” he was halfway through the sentence when it struck. No. She said no. The girl didn’t even have a name. God, what happened to this city when we destroyed it?
He could have wept for her then. But he didn’t -- someone had to stay strong for all the lost children. “No?” he tried to keep his voice cheerful. “No is a good name. Really unique. The more grammatically weird the name the better, that’s what I say!” He put on his cheesiest grin. “So, can I call you No, No?”
Slowly and carefully, No nodded.
“Good,” the Doctor painted on his grin. “Was this where you lived?”
“No,” said No. “My friend did. I was looking for her. But she’s not here.”
What’s your friend’s name? the Doctor almost asked, before realising she probably didn’t have a name, either. “Why are you looking for her, No?”
“She...there were men. Disciples...they came in a patrol, changed their routine. We weren’t hiding...the harvest...we were...”
“Split up?” the Doctor finished for her -- recounting the story was clearly painful for her. “What’s the harvest?” he asked her.
But No’d gone quiet again. She gave no verbal answer; instead, she just reached a hand to her black mask, touching the corner of the eyes as if to wipe away a tear.
“No,” the Doctor said again, keeping his tone as level as possible. “I really need you to help me. I don’t belong here. Someone stole me from my home, and dropped me in here, you understand? Someone powerful. They want me for something, and I don’t think it’s good. I need to find them, and stop them. And I had a friend. I have to find her, too.”
“A friend? Stolen?”
“That’s right. She’s not like us. She wont be safe, she’s only a human,” the Doctor said. Jasmine will never understand the things in this place. The darkness unleashed. Autumn might have. She could always find new ways to think. And she’d have killed me for it.
“A human...in Darksong...” No’s voice was quivering again. “It was said you’d come. A human girl, and her Time Lord, too.”
“Said? Said by who?”
“The Saviour!” she hissed. “The Saviour said the human girl had a white shadow, a ghost trapped inside her, and when the ghost was freed it would destroy your chains and give you wings. ‘All of us will fly together,’ the Saviour said. ‘As a murder of crows, we’ll take this world.’”
“Don’t believe everything a prophet tells you, No. Anyone who uses prophecy for anything other than business shouldn’t be trusted.” The Doctor wiped his brow. At least I’ve learned one thing: this saviour has plans for me.
“Can you take me to him? This saviour?”
“No!” No recoiled, pulling away from the Doctor. “I can’t! She’s surrounded by guards. Disciples, too. Bad people. They’ll harvest me again.”
“Again?”
No looked at her feet, lowering her head as if ashamed, as if she’d let slip some secret. She raised a hand to her mask, unconsciously, it seemed. No, I won't press her on it this time.
“No, I promise I can take care of you. You don’t have to take me all the way. Just show me where I’m going, then I can come back for you.”
“You can’t. They’ll capture you.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” he tossed his head nonchalantly. “I’m very good at escaping. I’ve got forty-six life sentences and not served a single one.”
Still No shivered and shrunk away. Getting through to her seemed almost impossible.
“No,” the Doctor sighed, resolving to try one last time. “Finding this saviour might be the only chance I have at getting my friend back. Darksong is a big city, No. And cold. I think you know that. If I know what he wants, I can stop him. Maybe I can help some people out of the city, too. Back to the Capitol where it’s warm and bright. Things have changed since the Rebellion. There’s a new President, and she’s a good woman. I know she’d settle refugees, especially children."
The Doctor faltered, suddenly remembering the events in the Matrix. There was a new President, but not the one he was thinking of. Still, it was too late to break his promise. "I can do all that for you, No, but first I need to know where he is.”
No stayed silent. I’m done, the Doctor thought. I can’t get more from her. He went to get back to his feet, mind rushing on the best way to leave No here but keep her safe, when No said:
“She. The Saviour’s a she.”
“Okay. She. Does she have a name, or is she like you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fair enough. So you’ll take me to her?”
“If you promise,” No said, trying to summon courage to her strained, frightened voice. “If you promise you won't let them harvest me.”
“No,” the Doctor answered. “With me around, no one is getting anywhere near you.”
The little girl in the black mask seemed to breathe deep, though her lips didn’t move. “She’s at the top of the tower, in the main syphon. She calls it the Ball Room. I’ll show you the way.”
No stretched out her hand, and the Doctor took it, holding it gently. Step by step, she lead him out of the nursery, and up the steps.
Stuck in a dark orphanage, the Doctor thought as he followed. Holding the hand of a girl without a name. I never thought that’d happen twice.
****
Jasmine’s legs were burning as they approached the top of the tower. The stairs seemed endless; great stone things, each over a foot tall, they felt more like climbing a mountain than a building. Her heart was pounding so fast she feared it’d give in altogether. Maybe Slate will lend me one of his.
Somehow she doubted it.
Tartarius Slate wasn’t fazed by the steps. The man marched like a machine, his legs swallowing each step without ever breaking pace. How he didn’t lose his breath and managed to carry on rambling, recounting, and, of course, threatening the whole journey amazed her. Well, it would’ve done, if she could think of anything other than her poor, poor legs.
She’d stopped listening to Slate’s stories at least an hour ago. Or maybe it was longer. She had no idea how long her stay in the city had been -- the endless darkness had ruined her sense of time.
What she did know, now Slate had told her, was that she was on Gallifrey, trapped in a rebel city ruined by the dastardly Capitol. No time for the Time Lords. How’s that for irony? She might have laughed, if she had the breath.
“Not far now, little bird,” Slate said, carrying on his upwards march. “Soon the Saviour will look upon you for herself.”
The Saviour. Jasmine’s mind went back to the watercolour she’d slept behind the night (or maybe the day) before. The image seemed seared in her mind; the woman made of shadow, a great raven for a head, and, of course, those burning clouds. The dream of Autumn haunted her, too.
Why would I dream of her? Jasmine knew it could be no coincidence. Not with the Master in play.
The memories of Autumn -- or, maybe, Autumn’s memories -- played heavily on her during the journey. Her mind wondered to new scenarios of the old person thrust into her life; she pictured Autumn as her teacher, as a friend in the playground, as someone’s mum come to pick up her daughter from music class. It was like her wits were leaking out of her brain, cascading down the stairs like rainwater.
It’s just all the steps, she told herself, still climbing, climbing, climbing. It was the repetition sending her round the bend. That, or that evil vermin of a Time Lord. She resolved to find out exactly what the enemy was doing; nobody was going to get away with treating her that way.
Maybe I am starting to think like Autumn.
Jasmine wished she was back behind that painting. She might’ve been cold, wet, feverish and half-naked, but at least she wasn’t ready to collapse like an exhausted child. Maybe I should ask him to carry me. That’ll be a laugh.
“Just one more flight, little bird,” Slate said, almost in answer to her thoughts, his rough tones echoing up and down the stairs.
“Oh thank god,” Jasmine gasped, letting her eyes roll back into her head in relief. “I swear if I had to listen to you call me ‘little bird’ much more, I’d throw myself down the steps.”
He laughed at that. “It’s not god you should be thanking. We gave up on the gods here a long time ago. Thank the Saviour. It’s their plans that saved you from the harvest.”
Jasmine didn’t respond. She didn’t have the energy.
True to Slate’s word, the flight was the final one. At the top of the tower, they came to no door; instead, Jasmine was faced with a huge and bolted steel arch, leading into a large room that seemed the only well lit place in the entire city.
Slate didn’t enter, instead taking a step to one side. “Go in by yourself. The Saviour will want to get a good look at you without me twisting your arm.” The crooked slash of a grin was back on his face, and Jasmine knew there’d be no argument.
She took one heavy step, and entered the room.
The room was full of people, all busying themselves with things, be it lights or decoration. No one stood out as the Master, and no one paid attention to her. This is a ballroom, Jasmine realised. It was obvious now she looked closer; the floor was wooden and highly polished, echoing her heavy trainers with each step. Art-deco sculptures and flower arrangements littered the place, and the lights were clearly being prepared to be moody and atmospheric. Right at the back of the hall stood another heavy steel arch, only this one was closed shut, with two equally enormous doors.
In the darkest area of the room, down the far right-hand side, a woman tinkered with a piano. Jasmine made her way there.
“I’m looking for the Master,” she said, bluntly, hoping to mask just how scared she was.
The woman raised her head. She was in shadow, mostly; silhouetted against the gleam of the woman floor. The dress she wore seemed crude, her hair feathered and messy. “You’ll find her if you go to the centre. Of the dance floor, obviously” she said, disinterested, and went back to her room.
Jasmine turned, and made a b-line for the centre. The person she saw there seemed to fit the bill. In control. Manipulative. A control freak. Yes, that looks like how the Doctor described her. Minus the beard. The Master on the dance floor wore a sharp outfit of black velvet, the shoulders and sleeves flared and pointed. Her skin was olive, her hair a black-coloured bun tied tight above her head. Her eyes were as sharp as the rest of her, dark brown like an owl's, eyeing a clip board held tight in front of her.
Jasmine strode up to her. Keep calm. She wants you for something, so she won't damage you. Just hold on til the Doctor gets here. Once within a few feet, she announced her presence with a cough.
The Master raised her eyes. “Ah,” she said, without a hint of amusement. “Seems the transmat beam found you after all. I was worried Slate would never find you in all these towers.”
“You have me. I’m here. What do you want?”
“Me?” the Master’s faced turned puzzled. “What do I want? Well, to make sure the ball runs smoothly, mostly.”
“Ball? What ball?”
“This ball. We are in a ballroom, after all,” the Master still gave no smile. “The ball is for you, and the Doctor. The Graduation Ball, we’re calling it. Your final dance.”
Not if we have anything to do with it. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I was told to.”
“Oh right yeah, because you were-” Jasmine stopped mid-sentence. She went cold as reality dawned on her. “You doing it...because you were told to?”
“That’s correct, Miss Rivers.”
Rivers. “Sparks. My name’s not Rivers, it’s Jasmine Sparks.”
A shrug. “It’s irrelevant. You’ll still dance at the ball.”
Jasmine’s throat was dry. She looked left and right, at all the people in the room, now staring at her. If it’s not her, then who?
“What’s going on here?” Jasmine asked, unable to think of anything useful to say. “What are you doing?”
“What I am doing?” The olive-skinned woman straightened her back, and held up her head up high. “What I always do. I obey my Master.” She sank to to one knee, her head bowed in deference, and the whole room followed.
Jasmine turned around, and the Master -- the real Master -- stepped away from the piano, and into the light.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she called as she strode across the room, passing kneeling disciples with a ghostly elegance. Her voice was rich with command and passion; a preacher's voice, made fulsome by her smiles, both real and hidden. “The journey up here can be daunting. Not everyone makes it. Still, you’re here now, and you wont have to worry about all that climbing any more. From all the way up here, you can fly.”
The Master stopped her approach just an arm's length from Jasmine. Her grin was wide and wolfish, like a predator’s, and the gleam caught in her icy blue eyes burned like cold fire. “My assistant, Nihila,” she explained, gesturing to the olive-skinned woman. “She’s so very helpful. I’d be lost without her.” Nihila didn’t react.
The Master’s dress was a dark purple, almost black, with vines made of lace swirling around her hips, and the strings of her bodice curved in a V shape, making her cleavage angular and hawkish. The sleeves were short, covering barely the Time Lady’s shoulders; instead her arms were covered by a pair of black lace sleeves, almost see-through against her skin, which reached her hands and intertwined with her long, slender fingers.
Her hair was a shock of chestnut brown, feathery and cascading past her shoulders in messy, lazy waves. Jasmine thought she could make out the faint remnants of purple streaks, now turned a quiet blue against the natural colour. The way her face held her smile gave an aurora of manic genius -- she was truly unpredictable, and truly dangerous. The Master’s skin was so pale as to look like snow, and the black lipstick she wore made her look like some beautiful, terrible lich. The Ghost Queen of the Ghost City, Jasmine thought.
The Master sighed. “You know, I wish I could have known you better, Autumn. I think we could have been wonderful friends, so long as we kept off each other’s turf.” She chuckled. “Was the universe truly big enough for two broads like us?”
Jasmine scowled. She’s playing games with me. “My name is Jasmine. Not Autumn.”
“Hmm, I’m not so sure,” the Time Lady looked Jasmine up-and-down, rolling her tongue across her teeth in thought. “I think your name’s whatever I decide to call you, bitch.”
The Master reached out to touch Jasmine’s face. She recoiled, but her captor was too fast. “Hey, come on now, I won't hurt you. I’m your host, remember?” she grabbed Jasmine’s hair, pulling the two women’s faces within an inch of each other. Gently she ran a thumb across Jasmine’s face, brushing her cheek, then her lip. The Master bit her own as she spoke. “We are similar though, right? We’ve both lived big lives. Lots of lives, at once. The difference is, I can remember mine. I can accept and quantify all my different identities. I know all the faces, and all the names of the people who owned them. I’ve been hundreds of different people. And, of course, just me.
“But you? No, you couldn’t do that. It’d send you mad. You can be Autumn, or Jasmine, but not both. You shunt away your old personality to make room for the new.” She tutted in disgust. “Humans. You’re so...flat. Your lives are so two=dimensional. Not like us. The creature that lies beneath a Time Lord’s face...you think you’re scared now, Autumn? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Jasmine stared at her with contempt. I won't let her beat me. “My name is Jasmine.”
“Oh, sweetheart. You keep telling yourself that.”
“So what’s this about, then?” Jasmine spat. “This city, a ball. What is it you want?”
“The same as ever. An army. Conquest. A chance to pull apart the Doctor’s grim façade and show the one he loves just how wretched he really is.” The Master released Jasmine’s face and stepped back, beginning to circle her. Still the disciples knelt in silence.
“The army I already have,” the Master continued. “Conquest will happen anyway, with or without me. And the other thing...well, that’s why you’re here. It’s why we’re all here. This is your Graduation Dance, Autumn. Time for you to grow up.”
My name is Jasmine! Her mind screamed. “You won't do it. I believe in the Doctor.” That only made the Master roll her eyes. “You can try. But you won't force us apart. And he’ll beat you, like always.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll beat me. He beats everyone, does the Doctor. The Cybermen, the Daleks...but he’ll have to beat you, too.” Her circle was finished, and the human and the Time Lady stood face-to-face once again. “Time Lords don’t make threats. But we do keep promises. And I promise you, human, that once this night is done, your precious Doctor will never be your hero again. He has a secret, you know. This whole world has a secret. And it isn’t one you alone have the shoulders to bear.” She cocked her head. The grin was gone; only cold, quiet fury remained. “That said, two of you might just manage it.”
Jasmine was cold. Not just physically, but her heart was cold, too. That’s what real fear feels like. The cold.
The Master straightened her head, and the grin returned. “Nihila, I don’t expect it’ll be long until our guest’s date arrives. She can’t get on the floor looking like that.” Nihila rose, along with the others in the ball room, and roughly took Jasmine’s arm. “We have just the perfect dress for you in the back, Autumn. I expect you’ll recognise it.” Nihila began dragging her away, as the Master turned around and strode back to her piano.
“Right then!” she called. “Back to the grindstone. We need to get this blasted instrument working. What good is a dance with no music?”
***
The steps seemed endless -- how precisely No, being only a little girl, was taking them at such a rate was beyond, the Doctor believed, anything science could explain.
They were nearing the top now, No had said, some time back. Only two, or three, or four more flights of steps to go.
About thirty flights back, they’d come across one of the launch pods.
“What’s this?” the Doctor asked. The thing seemed to be some kind of glass bubble, built into the specific floor of the tower. Beyond the round steel door, there was some kind of flight mechanism, suspended on an internal floor.
“The launch pods,” No answered from behind her mask. “They were supposed to be an evacuation tool, back in the days of the Kings. If a virus or monster got out the residents could use them to escape to city, go to Arcadia or the Capitol, or one of the smaller cities. In the Rebellion they were refitted for combat. Given shields, mounted stasers, that kind of thing. The Night came before they could be used, though.”
No turned her attention back to the steps. “Come on,” she said, and they carried on upwards.
Most of the journey was done in silence; No didn’t like to talk. Not that I blame her, the Doctor thought. If I’d lived my whole life in the shadows, hiding from everyone, fearing anyone, I’d keep quiet too.
As he pondered, No stopped on a seemingly unremarkable flight of steps. “There’s only one more floor before your reach the Ball Room,” No said, he voice flat, staring at her feet. “I’ve brought you here, like I promised. Now will you keep me safe?”
“You have, No. Thank you.” the Doctor fished around in his (impressively large) pockets, eventually pulling out a small glass marble. “Here,” he said, tossing it to No. She caught it easily. “That’s a miniature data slice from the Matrix. All the systems here still work on the same principle as the Capitol, which means you can use that to hack your way all around the city. There wont be a door you can’t unlock, and not one you can’t lock behind you. Go to the nearest launch pod and lock yourself in. I’ll come back for you when it’s safe. I promise.”
No looked down at the marble. “Just hold it up the door, and think,” the Doctor told her. After a time, No looked up, nodded, and ran back down the stairs.
I hope I can keep that promise, he thought as he continued to climb the steps. At least if I’m killed, she’ll have the slice. Every pod in the city is free for her now.
He knew when he’d reached the right level -- through the big steel arch at the top of the stairs, he saw people dancing.
The lights were dimmed. A piano played Que Sera Sera softly, as men and women pressed against each other in a slow, romantic dance.
“I see why they call it the ball room,” he muttered to himself as he stepped inside. The suits and dresses of the dancers were dusty and moth-eaten, unused for decades until now. Just like the beds and cots. Seems this Saviour is bringing the city back to life, piece by piece.
He scanned the room further, looking for someone who might be this ‘saviour’. After a second, his eyes rested on a woman with olive skin, and a tight black bun for a hairstyle, dancing with a rugged looking man with a crooked slash for a smile. She looks in control, thought the Doctor, and began to make his way to her. He only took a single step, before a hand gently rested on his back. “Might I have this dance?” he heard a voice ask, and before he realised it he was dancing with a woman, wearing black lipstick.
He knew her. He always knew her. The lips might change -- the colour, the size, the way they curved from one side to the other -- but he always knew the smile that played upon them.
“Master,” the Doctor said, his tone chilly.
“Doctor,” the Master smiled, more warmly. “What do you think of my city?”
“It’s dark. And the weather sucks. It’s like Seattle but worse. And you need to sort the central heating out, the grandmas will be dropping like flies.”
The Master laughed at that. She’s so pale, the Doctor thought, noticing just how corpse-like her face had become. How long has she been in the dark?
“Darksong was dying, before I arrived. People were starving and losing hope. But I’ve given them order, something to believe in. And soon I’ll give them wings.”
“Mm-hmm,” the Doctor said. Truth be told, he was struggling to keep up with her steps. “You’ve really nailed the preaching business down. Though I haven’t seen many miracles. How did you ‘arrive’, anyway? I thought you’d be dead.”
The Master shrugged. “I escaped.”
“Escaped from death to rule this place?”
“You know what they say. Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven.”
“’They’ don’t really say that. It was more like, one guy. In one poem.” The Doctor looked around again, peering into the darkest spaces. “So where’s Jasmine, then?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play games with me. Jasmine. Where is she?”
“Oh, you mean your human pet, don’t you?” She sniffed, and pulled her best contemptuous face. “You must have a tiny attention span, given how quickly you get through them. Even I’ve never been so bored to go through the same women twice.”
“Hypocrite. I know I’ve seen that face on you before. Suits you, though I think it probably suits the woman you stole it from better.”
“Ha! Touché,” the Master swept her mane of feathers away from her face, as if giving the Doctor a better look. “Her name was Jasmine too, now I think about it. Worked in IT or logistics, or something dull like that. She had a cat, and boyfriend too, though she didn’t really love him. She didn’t really love anyone, did Jasmine.”
“Even so, you stole it all from her.”
“Careful,” the Time Lady said, her smile fading and face hardening. “You shouldn’t throw stones in that glass house of yours.”
The Doctor shifted uncomfortably. She’s right. I guess we’re both hypocrites.
“What’s all this about, then,” he asked, changing the subject. “I love dancing. Prophecy, not so much. And I definitely don’t like dark cities full of insane rebels like you.”
“Less of the insane, thank you! Some of the people have genuine mental illnesses,” she bit her lip. “Though, some of them are just kinda horrible.”
“What do you want, Master? You didn’t bring me here to dance.”
“Well, I did. But you’re not wrong, I have some other things in mind. Starting with your human pet. Your strays are so loyal to their owner, aren’t they? The gallant Doctor, swooping in, saving the day, standing firm against the forces of evil. How would they feel if they knew the truth?”
The Doctor frowned. “What truth?”
“The only truth that matters, my dear Doctor. The truth no one on this world talks about. The truth you’ve lied and lied and lied about, since the day you ran away.” The Master leaned in close, so close the Doctor thought she meant to kiss him, but instead she put her lips to his ears, and whispered: “Do you remember when we were kids, just after the Rebellion was crushed? I asked you a question that you still haven’t answered.”
“I remember,” the Doctor lied, but he wasn’t about to make her angry.
“I’ll get an answer from you tonight. Count on that.”
The Doctor pulled back from her. She’s been stuck in this city too long. That makes her more dangerous than ever.
“Enough games,” he said. “Tell me where Jasmine is. Now.”
“She isn’t far. But you’ve brought me a very special girl, so thank you, for that. She’s unique, as humans go. As close to a Time Lord as you can get, outside of Gallifrey. Imagine if humans could regenerate? They’d end up like her, I’d bet.”
“All very interesting, ethically. I still want to know where she is.”
The Master sighed and rolled her eyes. “Philosophically, not ethically. You never learn, do you? But whatever; if you want her, I’ll give her to you. But you have the choice to just leave, too. Take one of the launch pods, head to Arcadia. They’ll be able to find your TARDIS. Just leave her here, and we won't follow you.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because if you insist on taking her back, I’ll have to show her the truth. And I’m not sure you want that.”
“Leave her here? At the mercy of you and your thugs? I don’t think so. Give her back to me.”
“You sure?”
“Give her back to me.”
“Last chance to back out...”
The Doctor made his mouth a hard line, and let the fire enter his eyes. I’m not playing games any more.
The Master shrugged, and untangled herself from the dance. “Fair enough, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Look behind you. I told you she wasn’t far.”
The Doctor turned, peering into the gloom. He didn’t see her at first, scanning as he was all the other dancers in the room, but eventually his eyes settled on a woman at the back, in a striking blue dress.
It doesn’t suit her, were the Doctor’s first thoughts. The colour’s too cold. The darkness of Jasmine’s hair, her brown eyes, her rosy complexion, none of it went with the icy blue. It would’ve suited Autumn, though.
It took a moment, but Jasmine saw him, too. She gave the briefest smile, like a sigh of relief. The Master leaned behind up behind him, and whispered: “Go on. Run to her.”
So he did.
The pair ran across the dance floor, ignoring all the suited men and dressed up women, racing into each other’s arms. Their embrace lasted only a second, but it was the first time either of them had been warm since they arrived in Darksong.
Then the firing started.
Red bolts of light smashed into the ground around them, whizzing past their heads and singeing their hair. Jasmine screamed, and the Doctor pulled her down as they dropped to the floor, shielding her head from the blasts. Around them a ring of small and sporadic, white-hot fires had been made.
When the shooting stopped, the Doctor and Jasmine looked up. Each of the dancers surrounded them, aiming their stasers right at the pair, each one primed to kill. There was no escape now.
The Doctor heard clapping, and the sound of a woman whooping and howling.
The Master made her way through the firing squad, tears of laughter rolling down her face. “This is so good!” she called, a manic grin spread across her face. “God. I’m loving this. This story has everything -- ghosts and ghouls, secrets and suspense, a twist in the second act. It’s a shame we’re so close to the end, but then, that’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it? So what do you say, Autumn?”
She raised her arm, and snapped her fingers. Behind the Doctor, a pair of enormous steel doors began to open with a scream, revealing a pitch-dark beyond.
The Master turned her eyes back to Jasmine. “I think it’s time you learnt the truth.”
TO BE CONTINUED
“A friend? Stolen?”
“That’s right. She’s not like us. She wont be safe, she’s only a human,” the Doctor said. Jasmine will never understand the things in this place. The darkness unleashed. Autumn might have. She could always find new ways to think. And she’d have killed me for it.
“A human...in Darksong...” No’s voice was quivering again. “It was said you’d come. A human girl, and her Time Lord, too.”
“Said? Said by who?”
“The Saviour!” she hissed. “The Saviour said the human girl had a white shadow, a ghost trapped inside her, and when the ghost was freed it would destroy your chains and give you wings. ‘All of us will fly together,’ the Saviour said. ‘As a murder of crows, we’ll take this world.’”
“Don’t believe everything a prophet tells you, No. Anyone who uses prophecy for anything other than business shouldn’t be trusted.” The Doctor wiped his brow. At least I’ve learned one thing: this saviour has plans for me.
“Can you take me to him? This saviour?”
“No!” No recoiled, pulling away from the Doctor. “I can’t! She’s surrounded by guards. Disciples, too. Bad people. They’ll harvest me again.”
“Again?”
No looked at her feet, lowering her head as if ashamed, as if she’d let slip some secret. She raised a hand to her mask, unconsciously, it seemed. No, I won't press her on it this time.
“No, I promise I can take care of you. You don’t have to take me all the way. Just show me where I’m going, then I can come back for you.”
“You can’t. They’ll capture you.”
“Oh, I doubt it,” he tossed his head nonchalantly. “I’m very good at escaping. I’ve got forty-six life sentences and not served a single one.”
Still No shivered and shrunk away. Getting through to her seemed almost impossible.
“No,” the Doctor sighed, resolving to try one last time. “Finding this saviour might be the only chance I have at getting my friend back. Darksong is a big city, No. And cold. I think you know that. If I know what he wants, I can stop him. Maybe I can help some people out of the city, too. Back to the Capitol where it’s warm and bright. Things have changed since the Rebellion. There’s a new President, and she’s a good woman. I know she’d settle refugees, especially children."
The Doctor faltered, suddenly remembering the events in the Matrix. There was a new President, but not the one he was thinking of. Still, it was too late to break his promise. "I can do all that for you, No, but first I need to know where he is.”
No stayed silent. I’m done, the Doctor thought. I can’t get more from her. He went to get back to his feet, mind rushing on the best way to leave No here but keep her safe, when No said:
“She. The Saviour’s a she.”
“Okay. She. Does she have a name, or is she like you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Fair enough. So you’ll take me to her?”
“If you promise,” No said, trying to summon courage to her strained, frightened voice. “If you promise you won't let them harvest me.”
“No,” the Doctor answered. “With me around, no one is getting anywhere near you.”
The little girl in the black mask seemed to breathe deep, though her lips didn’t move. “She’s at the top of the tower, in the main syphon. She calls it the Ball Room. I’ll show you the way.”
No stretched out her hand, and the Doctor took it, holding it gently. Step by step, she lead him out of the nursery, and up the steps.
Stuck in a dark orphanage, the Doctor thought as he followed. Holding the hand of a girl without a name. I never thought that’d happen twice.
****
Jasmine’s legs were burning as they approached the top of the tower. The stairs seemed endless; great stone things, each over a foot tall, they felt more like climbing a mountain than a building. Her heart was pounding so fast she feared it’d give in altogether. Maybe Slate will lend me one of his.
Somehow she doubted it.
Tartarius Slate wasn’t fazed by the steps. The man marched like a machine, his legs swallowing each step without ever breaking pace. How he didn’t lose his breath and managed to carry on rambling, recounting, and, of course, threatening the whole journey amazed her. Well, it would’ve done, if she could think of anything other than her poor, poor legs.
She’d stopped listening to Slate’s stories at least an hour ago. Or maybe it was longer. She had no idea how long her stay in the city had been -- the endless darkness had ruined her sense of time.
What she did know, now Slate had told her, was that she was on Gallifrey, trapped in a rebel city ruined by the dastardly Capitol. No time for the Time Lords. How’s that for irony? She might have laughed, if she had the breath.
“Not far now, little bird,” Slate said, carrying on his upwards march. “Soon the Saviour will look upon you for herself.”
The Saviour. Jasmine’s mind went back to the watercolour she’d slept behind the night (or maybe the day) before. The image seemed seared in her mind; the woman made of shadow, a great raven for a head, and, of course, those burning clouds. The dream of Autumn haunted her, too.
Why would I dream of her? Jasmine knew it could be no coincidence. Not with the Master in play.
The memories of Autumn -- or, maybe, Autumn’s memories -- played heavily on her during the journey. Her mind wondered to new scenarios of the old person thrust into her life; she pictured Autumn as her teacher, as a friend in the playground, as someone’s mum come to pick up her daughter from music class. It was like her wits were leaking out of her brain, cascading down the stairs like rainwater.
It’s just all the steps, she told herself, still climbing, climbing, climbing. It was the repetition sending her round the bend. That, or that evil vermin of a Time Lord. She resolved to find out exactly what the enemy was doing; nobody was going to get away with treating her that way.
Maybe I am starting to think like Autumn.
Jasmine wished she was back behind that painting. She might’ve been cold, wet, feverish and half-naked, but at least she wasn’t ready to collapse like an exhausted child. Maybe I should ask him to carry me. That’ll be a laugh.
“Just one more flight, little bird,” Slate said, almost in answer to her thoughts, his rough tones echoing up and down the stairs.
“Oh thank god,” Jasmine gasped, letting her eyes roll back into her head in relief. “I swear if I had to listen to you call me ‘little bird’ much more, I’d throw myself down the steps.”
He laughed at that. “It’s not god you should be thanking. We gave up on the gods here a long time ago. Thank the Saviour. It’s their plans that saved you from the harvest.”
Jasmine didn’t respond. She didn’t have the energy.
True to Slate’s word, the flight was the final one. At the top of the tower, they came to no door; instead, Jasmine was faced with a huge and bolted steel arch, leading into a large room that seemed the only well lit place in the entire city.
Slate didn’t enter, instead taking a step to one side. “Go in by yourself. The Saviour will want to get a good look at you without me twisting your arm.” The crooked slash of a grin was back on his face, and Jasmine knew there’d be no argument.
She took one heavy step, and entered the room.
The room was full of people, all busying themselves with things, be it lights or decoration. No one stood out as the Master, and no one paid attention to her. This is a ballroom, Jasmine realised. It was obvious now she looked closer; the floor was wooden and highly polished, echoing her heavy trainers with each step. Art-deco sculptures and flower arrangements littered the place, and the lights were clearly being prepared to be moody and atmospheric. Right at the back of the hall stood another heavy steel arch, only this one was closed shut, with two equally enormous doors.
In the darkest area of the room, down the far right-hand side, a woman tinkered with a piano. Jasmine made her way there.
“I’m looking for the Master,” she said, bluntly, hoping to mask just how scared she was.
The woman raised her head. She was in shadow, mostly; silhouetted against the gleam of the woman floor. The dress she wore seemed crude, her hair feathered and messy. “You’ll find her if you go to the centre. Of the dance floor, obviously” she said, disinterested, and went back to her room.
Jasmine turned, and made a b-line for the centre. The person she saw there seemed to fit the bill. In control. Manipulative. A control freak. Yes, that looks like how the Doctor described her. Minus the beard. The Master on the dance floor wore a sharp outfit of black velvet, the shoulders and sleeves flared and pointed. Her skin was olive, her hair a black-coloured bun tied tight above her head. Her eyes were as sharp as the rest of her, dark brown like an owl's, eyeing a clip board held tight in front of her.
Jasmine strode up to her. Keep calm. She wants you for something, so she won't damage you. Just hold on til the Doctor gets here. Once within a few feet, she announced her presence with a cough.
The Master raised her eyes. “Ah,” she said, without a hint of amusement. “Seems the transmat beam found you after all. I was worried Slate would never find you in all these towers.”
“You have me. I’m here. What do you want?”
“Me?” the Master’s faced turned puzzled. “What do I want? Well, to make sure the ball runs smoothly, mostly.”
“Ball? What ball?”
“This ball. We are in a ballroom, after all,” the Master still gave no smile. “The ball is for you, and the Doctor. The Graduation Ball, we’re calling it. Your final dance.”
Not if we have anything to do with it. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because I was told to.”
“Oh right yeah, because you were-” Jasmine stopped mid-sentence. She went cold as reality dawned on her. “You doing it...because you were told to?”
“That’s correct, Miss Rivers.”
Rivers. “Sparks. My name’s not Rivers, it’s Jasmine Sparks.”
A shrug. “It’s irrelevant. You’ll still dance at the ball.”
Jasmine’s throat was dry. She looked left and right, at all the people in the room, now staring at her. If it’s not her, then who?
“What’s going on here?” Jasmine asked, unable to think of anything useful to say. “What are you doing?”
“What I am doing?” The olive-skinned woman straightened her back, and held up her head up high. “What I always do. I obey my Master.” She sank to to one knee, her head bowed in deference, and the whole room followed.
Jasmine turned around, and the Master -- the real Master -- stepped away from the piano, and into the light.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” she called as she strode across the room, passing kneeling disciples with a ghostly elegance. Her voice was rich with command and passion; a preacher's voice, made fulsome by her smiles, both real and hidden. “The journey up here can be daunting. Not everyone makes it. Still, you’re here now, and you wont have to worry about all that climbing any more. From all the way up here, you can fly.”
The Master stopped her approach just an arm's length from Jasmine. Her grin was wide and wolfish, like a predator’s, and the gleam caught in her icy blue eyes burned like cold fire. “My assistant, Nihila,” she explained, gesturing to the olive-skinned woman. “She’s so very helpful. I’d be lost without her.” Nihila didn’t react.
The Master’s dress was a dark purple, almost black, with vines made of lace swirling around her hips, and the strings of her bodice curved in a V shape, making her cleavage angular and hawkish. The sleeves were short, covering barely the Time Lady’s shoulders; instead her arms were covered by a pair of black lace sleeves, almost see-through against her skin, which reached her hands and intertwined with her long, slender fingers.
Her hair was a shock of chestnut brown, feathery and cascading past her shoulders in messy, lazy waves. Jasmine thought she could make out the faint remnants of purple streaks, now turned a quiet blue against the natural colour. The way her face held her smile gave an aurora of manic genius -- she was truly unpredictable, and truly dangerous. The Master’s skin was so pale as to look like snow, and the black lipstick she wore made her look like some beautiful, terrible lich. The Ghost Queen of the Ghost City, Jasmine thought.
The Master sighed. “You know, I wish I could have known you better, Autumn. I think we could have been wonderful friends, so long as we kept off each other’s turf.” She chuckled. “Was the universe truly big enough for two broads like us?”
Jasmine scowled. She’s playing games with me. “My name is Jasmine. Not Autumn.”
“Hmm, I’m not so sure,” the Time Lady looked Jasmine up-and-down, rolling her tongue across her teeth in thought. “I think your name’s whatever I decide to call you, bitch.”
The Master reached out to touch Jasmine’s face. She recoiled, but her captor was too fast. “Hey, come on now, I won't hurt you. I’m your host, remember?” she grabbed Jasmine’s hair, pulling the two women’s faces within an inch of each other. Gently she ran a thumb across Jasmine’s face, brushing her cheek, then her lip. The Master bit her own as she spoke. “We are similar though, right? We’ve both lived big lives. Lots of lives, at once. The difference is, I can remember mine. I can accept and quantify all my different identities. I know all the faces, and all the names of the people who owned them. I’ve been hundreds of different people. And, of course, just me.
“But you? No, you couldn’t do that. It’d send you mad. You can be Autumn, or Jasmine, but not both. You shunt away your old personality to make room for the new.” She tutted in disgust. “Humans. You’re so...flat. Your lives are so two=dimensional. Not like us. The creature that lies beneath a Time Lord’s face...you think you’re scared now, Autumn? You haven’t seen anything yet.”
Jasmine stared at her with contempt. I won't let her beat me. “My name is Jasmine.”
“Oh, sweetheart. You keep telling yourself that.”
“So what’s this about, then?” Jasmine spat. “This city, a ball. What is it you want?”
“The same as ever. An army. Conquest. A chance to pull apart the Doctor’s grim façade and show the one he loves just how wretched he really is.” The Master released Jasmine’s face and stepped back, beginning to circle her. Still the disciples knelt in silence.
“The army I already have,” the Master continued. “Conquest will happen anyway, with or without me. And the other thing...well, that’s why you’re here. It’s why we’re all here. This is your Graduation Dance, Autumn. Time for you to grow up.”
My name is Jasmine! Her mind screamed. “You won't do it. I believe in the Doctor.” That only made the Master roll her eyes. “You can try. But you won't force us apart. And he’ll beat you, like always.”
“Oh, I’m sure he’ll beat me. He beats everyone, does the Doctor. The Cybermen, the Daleks...but he’ll have to beat you, too.” Her circle was finished, and the human and the Time Lady stood face-to-face once again. “Time Lords don’t make threats. But we do keep promises. And I promise you, human, that once this night is done, your precious Doctor will never be your hero again. He has a secret, you know. This whole world has a secret. And it isn’t one you alone have the shoulders to bear.” She cocked her head. The grin was gone; only cold, quiet fury remained. “That said, two of you might just manage it.”
Jasmine was cold. Not just physically, but her heart was cold, too. That’s what real fear feels like. The cold.
The Master straightened her head, and the grin returned. “Nihila, I don’t expect it’ll be long until our guest’s date arrives. She can’t get on the floor looking like that.” Nihila rose, along with the others in the ball room, and roughly took Jasmine’s arm. “We have just the perfect dress for you in the back, Autumn. I expect you’ll recognise it.” Nihila began dragging her away, as the Master turned around and strode back to her piano.
“Right then!” she called. “Back to the grindstone. We need to get this blasted instrument working. What good is a dance with no music?”
***
The steps seemed endless -- how precisely No, being only a little girl, was taking them at such a rate was beyond, the Doctor believed, anything science could explain.
They were nearing the top now, No had said, some time back. Only two, or three, or four more flights of steps to go.
About thirty flights back, they’d come across one of the launch pods.
“What’s this?” the Doctor asked. The thing seemed to be some kind of glass bubble, built into the specific floor of the tower. Beyond the round steel door, there was some kind of flight mechanism, suspended on an internal floor.
“The launch pods,” No answered from behind her mask. “They were supposed to be an evacuation tool, back in the days of the Kings. If a virus or monster got out the residents could use them to escape to city, go to Arcadia or the Capitol, or one of the smaller cities. In the Rebellion they were refitted for combat. Given shields, mounted stasers, that kind of thing. The Night came before they could be used, though.”
No turned her attention back to the steps. “Come on,” she said, and they carried on upwards.
Most of the journey was done in silence; No didn’t like to talk. Not that I blame her, the Doctor thought. If I’d lived my whole life in the shadows, hiding from everyone, fearing anyone, I’d keep quiet too.
As he pondered, No stopped on a seemingly unremarkable flight of steps. “There’s only one more floor before your reach the Ball Room,” No said, he voice flat, staring at her feet. “I’ve brought you here, like I promised. Now will you keep me safe?”
“You have, No. Thank you.” the Doctor fished around in his (impressively large) pockets, eventually pulling out a small glass marble. “Here,” he said, tossing it to No. She caught it easily. “That’s a miniature data slice from the Matrix. All the systems here still work on the same principle as the Capitol, which means you can use that to hack your way all around the city. There wont be a door you can’t unlock, and not one you can’t lock behind you. Go to the nearest launch pod and lock yourself in. I’ll come back for you when it’s safe. I promise.”
No looked down at the marble. “Just hold it up the door, and think,” the Doctor told her. After a time, No looked up, nodded, and ran back down the stairs.
I hope I can keep that promise, he thought as he continued to climb the steps. At least if I’m killed, she’ll have the slice. Every pod in the city is free for her now.
He knew when he’d reached the right level -- through the big steel arch at the top of the stairs, he saw people dancing.
The lights were dimmed. A piano played Que Sera Sera softly, as men and women pressed against each other in a slow, romantic dance.
“I see why they call it the ball room,” he muttered to himself as he stepped inside. The suits and dresses of the dancers were dusty and moth-eaten, unused for decades until now. Just like the beds and cots. Seems this Saviour is bringing the city back to life, piece by piece.
He scanned the room further, looking for someone who might be this ‘saviour’. After a second, his eyes rested on a woman with olive skin, and a tight black bun for a hairstyle, dancing with a rugged looking man with a crooked slash for a smile. She looks in control, thought the Doctor, and began to make his way to her. He only took a single step, before a hand gently rested on his back. “Might I have this dance?” he heard a voice ask, and before he realised it he was dancing with a woman, wearing black lipstick.
He knew her. He always knew her. The lips might change -- the colour, the size, the way they curved from one side to the other -- but he always knew the smile that played upon them.
“Master,” the Doctor said, his tone chilly.
“Doctor,” the Master smiled, more warmly. “What do you think of my city?”
“It’s dark. And the weather sucks. It’s like Seattle but worse. And you need to sort the central heating out, the grandmas will be dropping like flies.”
The Master laughed at that. She’s so pale, the Doctor thought, noticing just how corpse-like her face had become. How long has she been in the dark?
“Darksong was dying, before I arrived. People were starving and losing hope. But I’ve given them order, something to believe in. And soon I’ll give them wings.”
“Mm-hmm,” the Doctor said. Truth be told, he was struggling to keep up with her steps. “You’ve really nailed the preaching business down. Though I haven’t seen many miracles. How did you ‘arrive’, anyway? I thought you’d be dead.”
The Master shrugged. “I escaped.”
“Escaped from death to rule this place?”
“You know what they say. Better to rule in hell than serve in heaven.”
“’They’ don’t really say that. It was more like, one guy. In one poem.” The Doctor looked around again, peering into the darkest spaces. “So where’s Jasmine, then?”
“Who?”
“Don’t play games with me. Jasmine. Where is she?”
“Oh, you mean your human pet, don’t you?” She sniffed, and pulled her best contemptuous face. “You must have a tiny attention span, given how quickly you get through them. Even I’ve never been so bored to go through the same women twice.”
“Hypocrite. I know I’ve seen that face on you before. Suits you, though I think it probably suits the woman you stole it from better.”
“Ha! Touché,” the Master swept her mane of feathers away from her face, as if giving the Doctor a better look. “Her name was Jasmine too, now I think about it. Worked in IT or logistics, or something dull like that. She had a cat, and boyfriend too, though she didn’t really love him. She didn’t really love anyone, did Jasmine.”
“Even so, you stole it all from her.”
“Careful,” the Time Lady said, her smile fading and face hardening. “You shouldn’t throw stones in that glass house of yours.”
The Doctor shifted uncomfortably. She’s right. I guess we’re both hypocrites.
“What’s all this about, then,” he asked, changing the subject. “I love dancing. Prophecy, not so much. And I definitely don’t like dark cities full of insane rebels like you.”
“Less of the insane, thank you! Some of the people have genuine mental illnesses,” she bit her lip. “Though, some of them are just kinda horrible.”
“What do you want, Master? You didn’t bring me here to dance.”
“Well, I did. But you’re not wrong, I have some other things in mind. Starting with your human pet. Your strays are so loyal to their owner, aren’t they? The gallant Doctor, swooping in, saving the day, standing firm against the forces of evil. How would they feel if they knew the truth?”
The Doctor frowned. “What truth?”
“The only truth that matters, my dear Doctor. The truth no one on this world talks about. The truth you’ve lied and lied and lied about, since the day you ran away.” The Master leaned in close, so close the Doctor thought she meant to kiss him, but instead she put her lips to his ears, and whispered: “Do you remember when we were kids, just after the Rebellion was crushed? I asked you a question that you still haven’t answered.”
“I remember,” the Doctor lied, but he wasn’t about to make her angry.
“I’ll get an answer from you tonight. Count on that.”
The Doctor pulled back from her. She’s been stuck in this city too long. That makes her more dangerous than ever.
“Enough games,” he said. “Tell me where Jasmine is. Now.”
“She isn’t far. But you’ve brought me a very special girl, so thank you, for that. She’s unique, as humans go. As close to a Time Lord as you can get, outside of Gallifrey. Imagine if humans could regenerate? They’d end up like her, I’d bet.”
“All very interesting, ethically. I still want to know where she is.”
The Master sighed and rolled her eyes. “Philosophically, not ethically. You never learn, do you? But whatever; if you want her, I’ll give her to you. But you have the choice to just leave, too. Take one of the launch pods, head to Arcadia. They’ll be able to find your TARDIS. Just leave her here, and we won't follow you.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because if you insist on taking her back, I’ll have to show her the truth. And I’m not sure you want that.”
“Leave her here? At the mercy of you and your thugs? I don’t think so. Give her back to me.”
“You sure?”
“Give her back to me.”
“Last chance to back out...”
The Doctor made his mouth a hard line, and let the fire enter his eyes. I’m not playing games any more.
The Master shrugged, and untangled herself from the dance. “Fair enough, you can’t say I didn’t warn you. Look behind you. I told you she wasn’t far.”
The Doctor turned, peering into the gloom. He didn’t see her at first, scanning as he was all the other dancers in the room, but eventually his eyes settled on a woman at the back, in a striking blue dress.
It doesn’t suit her, were the Doctor’s first thoughts. The colour’s too cold. The darkness of Jasmine’s hair, her brown eyes, her rosy complexion, none of it went with the icy blue. It would’ve suited Autumn, though.
It took a moment, but Jasmine saw him, too. She gave the briefest smile, like a sigh of relief. The Master leaned behind up behind him, and whispered: “Go on. Run to her.”
So he did.
The pair ran across the dance floor, ignoring all the suited men and dressed up women, racing into each other’s arms. Their embrace lasted only a second, but it was the first time either of them had been warm since they arrived in Darksong.
Then the firing started.
Red bolts of light smashed into the ground around them, whizzing past their heads and singeing their hair. Jasmine screamed, and the Doctor pulled her down as they dropped to the floor, shielding her head from the blasts. Around them a ring of small and sporadic, white-hot fires had been made.
When the shooting stopped, the Doctor and Jasmine looked up. Each of the dancers surrounded them, aiming their stasers right at the pair, each one primed to kill. There was no escape now.
The Doctor heard clapping, and the sound of a woman whooping and howling.
The Master made her way through the firing squad, tears of laughter rolling down her face. “This is so good!” she called, a manic grin spread across her face. “God. I’m loving this. This story has everything -- ghosts and ghouls, secrets and suspense, a twist in the second act. It’s a shame we’re so close to the end, but then, that’s what we’re all here for, isn’t it? So what do you say, Autumn?”
She raised her arm, and snapped her fingers. Behind the Doctor, a pair of enormous steel doors began to open with a scream, revealing a pitch-dark beyond.
The Master turned her eyes back to Jasmine. “I think it’s time you learnt the truth.”
TO BE CONTINUED
Next Time: Dancers on a StringThe Doctor has a secret, and this time, it will be told.
Can the Doctor keep his promise to No? Will an encounter with the Master be enough to push Jasmine over the edge? What are the Faces? And is Autumn Rivers really dead? Dancers on a String will be published on Saturday 15th October. |
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