From "The Blue Book of Cardiff" (Torchwood File DR-54966^27)
I'm writing now so that if we don't make it, you'll know what happened to me. Hell of a time to write in a diary, you might be thinking. But I have to rest sometime. And I've no intention of dying mysteriously.
Amy is sleeping. We've both had a few good scares, and there's worse to come. Three days ago (only three days!) the prison was attacked by an advance guard from the Gorgoran Empire. Less than an hour ago the first invasion ship arrived. I've no idea what their ultimate goal is—if you're reading this, I suppose it's your problem now—but they tend to work for clients, not alone.
Your friends Amy and Rory arrived yesterday, and they were alone. I'm not sure what that means, but it's all right. If you're alive, I'm not afraid, because you'll solve it in the end; you never needed me for that bit. And if you're dead, I'm still not afraid. Being in prison has trained me up on waiting, and I don't expect it to be long.
I've sent Rory and some survivors down to the core. It's a crank-ion burst generator; I'm hoping it will confuse the Gorgorans. Amy and I are trying to get to the TARDIS.
Among the surviving prisoners, the leaders are Tom Marginy and Melina Maakar. Patrick Belkin is the cleverest, and he has a good reputation here, but he is not trustworthy. Be careful with him.
Worse comes to worst, smashing the energy core should buy you some time without causing too much radiation spill on the lower levels.
I'm not sure if any of this will get to you in time to matter. If it doesn't, it's not your fault. There is a raw order to everything. Don't forget.
Love always,
River
###
The Gorgoran ship hunched over Stormcage Prison. It gleamed in the lightning storm and glimmered under searchlights that were now controlled by Gorgorans. Each time the light fell upon it its form seemed to change a little, as if little bits of it were moving and crawling over each other, like a colony of ants. Ultimately it resembled nothing so much as a chitinous parasite, drawing its energy from the stone trap.
At first glance, the Gorgoran army was difficult to distinguish from their ship. They, too seethed and re-formed. One might make out a limb, or a talon, but never a face nor an eye. Even identifying details seemed to be swallowed-up by pale flesh that literally crawled.
There was no dissent in the Gorgoran ranks. Strictly speaking, there were no ranks in the Gorgoran ranks. The Gorgorans made their decisions as one and acted instantly. Dissent was impossible.
But disquiet—that was a different sort of thing.
Six hunched figures stood in a circle in the heart of the ship. One extended a long, lean arm into the middle of the circle. It opened its hand. The tips of its talons encircled a tiny model that seemed to be constructed of metal pins. The model floated above its palm without touching.
It was a box.
Karshtakavaar, one suggested, without speaking.
It was not possible. The model was perfect. Yet it emitted no energy. The nature of the Karshtakavaar Box was energy. Even a model would resonate. This was merely a picture of a wooden box, useless and mystifying as a shell that contained no egg.
Dead, said one.
But still dangerous, another agreed.
We should take it away. Let them deal with it.
Karshtakavaar, one insisted, and the idea shuddered over the small group. If he is here we must kill him.
He is not here. We would know. Even if his dead body were here, we would feel him. Dead box. Puzzle box. Do we doubt it?
The model changed hands. The Gorgorans passed it round the circle, turning without touching, probing it with their sightless eyes and tongueless mouths. When a Gorgoran had passed the model on, it made an exact copy. In moments there were six tiny perfect boxes in six sharp hands. None gave off the right kind of energy
Silence. They did not doubt.
Still, there was certainty and then there was certainty. Four armed clockwork men were dispatched from the ship to surround the box. If there was any stir or sign of life, or any attempt at rescue, they were ordered to destroy the box immediately.
Then there was the other matter. The minor problem of the prisoners who still lived. The ones who had had escaped the first attack. Clever people. But now that the Gorgoran army had arrived, the survivors' options were narrowing. Very soon, they would have no options at all.
The decision to eliminate was also action. From the dust and air and rainwater, the Gorgorans formed spiders. They drew from the energy reserves of their own ship and made the spiders hot and alive and hungry. The creatures—none much larger than a human thumb—balanced on their new glass-tipped claws and skittered toward the vents. They slipped through the slatted covers and fell down, down, down to the safe and hidden places. Even if Karshtakavaar lived, it would not be for long.
There was certainty and there was certainty. The Gorgorans sat together in the dark slick belly of their ship and waited for the end.
Puzzle box, they assured each other. Dead box.
###
Inside the TARDIS, the Doctor slept.
His body was cold and immobile. Barely a breath passed his lips. His fingertips had turned an ashy blue. There were dark purple marks underneath his eyes and charcoal hollows under his pale cheeks. He was an unconscious man in the extremity of exhaustion, and very near death.
Around him the time-ship was still. No bronze glow, no happy hum of circuits. The air was stagnant and dry.
But a person is not like a string of lights. Closing one thing down does not mean everything else turns off. Ears hear, even if there is no one listening; lungs breathe; hearts beat; even the brain shuts down in sections.
A tiny part of the Doctor's mind heard the Gorgorans whispering one of his names.
A tiny part of him felt their anxiety.
When they declared the box dead and harmless, a tiny part of him heard that, too.
And though the Doctor was beyond caring and beyond beyond caring, some things are pure instinct. His mouth twitched, just a millimeter, in an expression that might have been a smile.