The shockwave of another detonation shakes him to the floor. The lights spark out as the room quakes; plaster dust raining from the ceiling.
"Clara," he says, clicking on his radio. "Are you there? Are you okay?"
A burst of static in response. "Yes," her voice crackles. Someone shouting, incomprehensible, in the background. "Yes, I'm here and I'm ok. We're all ok. Did you manage to connect the generator?"
"Yes," he replies. "You should have power any second now..."
He finds his feet in the dark; tries to get his bearings as he waits for her next transmission. "We're online," she says, after what feels like an eternity. "The beacon's sent."
"I'm coming back now," he says. The next bombardment can only be minutes away; he's not sure the surface buildings will stand another pounding. "Don't wait for me. Go down deeper."
"Not a chance," she laughs.
He grinds his teeth, picking his way through debris as fast as he can.
She is standing, arms folded, in the entrance of the emergency staircase. The other staff and patients have already fled, down concrete steps to sub-basement level. He is absolutely furious to find her waiting; opens his mouth-
"Don't even start," she says, brushing some of the powder from his shoulders. "You look like Casper the Ghost."
"Hurry up," he snaps. "I don't know how much time we-"
He is cut off by another explosion; concrete under their feet quivers. He takes hold of her hand and they run. Emergency light casts a greenish glow as they descend.
"Why can't you just tell the TARDIS to rematerialize here?" she asks.
"The ships in orbit will intercept the signal. They'd take her mid-flight."
"They can really do that?"
"When she's on auto-pilot, yes. We're going to have to find her the old fashioned way."
"Oh. Good." They have reached the bottom of the stairs, looking out onto a long corridor cast in yet more concrete. "And what's stopping them from launching a ground assault?"
"Absolutely nothing."
The rest of the group is gathered in the gloom around the next corner. She lowers her voice. "I don't like our odds."
"No," he agrees, "We need a better plan."
"Such as?"
"Still working on it."
She give his hand a reassuring squeeze; a vote of confidence in the dark. "Okay," she says loudly. "Are we all here?"
The young medic previously leading their rag-tag bunch of survivors nods assent. "All accounted for."
"Let's keep moving east, then," Clara instructs. "Our ship is near the imaging wing."
"What makes you think it'll have survived, love?" This from an aged gentleman in a hover-chair, striped pyjamas flapping around his skinny ankles.
"She'll be fine," answers the Doctor, annoyed at the question. "She's well shielded. Our only problem is getting to her."
Light flares suddenly in the mouth of a cross tunnel: the unmistakeable blue flash of a trans-mat. "Maybe not our only problem," says the medic.
"Everybody back!" he orders, tugging Clara out of the line of fire behind him. Her hand finds his as they click off their own torches. He can hear her breathing, short, sharp; controlled.
The click-click of approaching footsteps is audible now. Not a Dalek at least; though it could be one of their fleshy minions. He tightens his grip on his torch, a better weapon than nothing.
Two androids step out into the service corridor; taller than he is; white plate armour shielding their vulnerable motorised parts. Their skulls are clear plastic, enabling him to see the cogs and wires of their positronic brains.
"Stay where you are," he calls. "And tell me: who sent you?"
"They're here with me," drawls a familiar voice, and a third figure steps out from the penumbra of the tunnel.
"Missy," he hisses. She looks much the same; a little thinner in the face perhaps. Tired around the eyes.
"Well, who else were you expecting? We need to have a little chat, Doctor."
Her android minions have moved to flank them. Clara's fingers tighten around his.
"We do?"
"Yes. Not here, though."
She raises her hand device, giving him a calculating sort of look. He opens his mouth to protest but it is already too late. The beam of energy strikes him full in the chest and the Universe goes dark for a time.
"Clara!"
She shouldn't be out of her sick-bed yet, of that he's positive.
"Don't fuss," she warns. "I was too bored to lie there any longer."
"You need rest-"
"I really don't."
"In your condition-"
"If you finish that sentence you'll be the one in need of sick bay. I guarantee."
He opens and closes his mouth a few times, considering his options. "At least sit down?" he suggests.
She does as he asks, but growls with frustration as she curls into his leather armchair. "You can't start treating me as if I'm made of glass."
He dances awkwardly from foot to foot. "How are you feeling?"
She shrugs. "A bit tired. Otherwise… normal."
"That's good." He leans back against the console, confused by her doubtful expression.
"Is it?"
"Why wouldn't it be?"
A deep breath, one that sets his own pulse racing with anxiety. "I dunno. I mean, I'm… pregnant…" With that difficult word negotiated the rest seem to flow more easily. "But I don't feel any different. Shouldn't I have known?"
He is so far out of his depth the fish have lights on their noses. "I don't know." His voice sounds shrill even to his own ears. He coughs, tries again. "I've never carried a child. But don't - your species - sometimes they get caught by… surprise, yes?"
"Sometimes," she says slowly. "And time travel plays merry hob with tracking dates. I just… I suppose… None of this feels real, Doctor. I was dying. That felt real. Now this-"
"Doesn't." He can understand that at least, still half expecting this brave new world to be a cruel dream. He fiddles with a few switches on the console pointlessly.
"I mean, what if it just doesn't work? A human carrying a Time Lord baby?"
The fear is palpable in her voice; he hates himself for remaining frozen at the console rather than moving to comfort her. "It's happened before," he suggests.
"You said. Somewhat sparse on the details, though."
"It wasn't mine," he adds hurriedly. "It was… a human child conceived on a TARDIS while in the Vortex."
"Not the same situation?"
"I suppose not."
Her fingers knot together. "And in terms of… the medical side of things. Monitoring? Delivery?"
He feels slightly sick; all these things he hasn't even begun to think about. "I don't know. She was - the mother I mean - kidnapped and, and…"
Clara nods, her suspicions confirmed. "I don't think I can do this by myself, Doctor."
"I'm… I'm here," he says. "We've got the med-bay and-and the library…" It sounds like grasping at straws, even to him.
"Do you actually have any medical training?"
"Yes," he says, hurt she has forgotten. "Glasgow-"
"Yes, yes," she rolls her eyes, "but that was two centuries ago. From my perspective."
"Human anatomy hasn't changed much since then."
"But medical technology has," she returns.
He licks his lips. "I can perform an ultrasonic scan using the TARDIS that's better than anything twenty-first century Earth technology can achieve."
"And would you know what you were looking at? If it was healthy?"
Has she always been able to lay him so bare? "No."
"That's what I thought." She looks so downcast, he can no longer help himself. He crosses to her at last, holding out his hand. "Come on."
"Where are we going?"
"Somewhere that can help."