oOo
It took longer than the Doctor had expected to make his way to the dome. By the time he got within sight of the structure, he could feel the irritation in his lungs distinctly and he had started to develop an irritating cough, not to mention that he was freezing cold. He was more able to resist the cold than a human would, but even he was starting to feel the effects of being out in this weather, rather inadequately dressed.
He was within twenty meters of the edge of the dome, which at this distance seemed to reach as far as the eye could see, when two men in thick black parkas, bright yellow trousers and earmuffs suddenly appeared to step out of the twilight. Before the Doctor could ponder the mystery of their arrival and decide if he had simply not seen them before or whether they had transported there, they were already aiming their blaster rifles at him.
"Hey, I'm the Doctor! I was looking for someone to…" He didn't get any further before a bolt of energy hit him in the leg, causing him to lose his balance and hit the frozen ground face first. Craning his neck to look up from where he was lying in the dirt, he could see the men approaching, their weapons still pointed at him.
"You wouldn't…mind helping me up," the Doctor managed, the pain from where he'd been shot surprisingly intense and spreading out from the injury. The two men stopped in their tracks. Their lips were moving, but he couldn't hear or understand what they were saying. He tried once again to get up on his own, but his limbs wouldn't obey. The men were still standing there, watching him intently. All he could hope for as his eyes drifted shut was that they weren't going to leave him out here to suffocate or freeze to death. That really wasn't how he wanted to finish this lifetime.
When the Doctor came back to his senses, he quickly found that he still couldn't move or open his eyes. His other senses, however, were still in perfect working order. Wherever he was, it was warm and the air smelled of detergent, but was relatively unpolluted. Despite his current predicament, the Doctor was very relieved that he could breathe freely again. More disconcerting were the voices he could hear. It sounded like they were talking about him and the Doctor didn't like what he was hearing.
"So, he isn't in the database. Is he one of the rejects then?" someone, a man, asked. His voice was firm and demanding, like he was used to having his questions answered promptly. A leader, the Doctor decided.
"All that I can tell you is that the scans confirm that he is definitely an alien and that we haven't come across his species before." The voice was male, the tone slightly irritated.
"In that case, we need to double the patrols. Who knows how many more of his kind are out there? We need to inform Central of this immediately," a third man said, this one sounding worried.
"I'm afraid we won't be able to increase the patrols," the irritated one said.
"Why is that, Dr. Mallory?" At least he knew one of their names now. The Doctor continued to listen closely, as there wasn't much else he could do for the moment.
"We have less than a hundred units of antidote left. I have already treated three cases of exposure this week, not counting him," Dr. Mallory replied.
"In that case, let's just inform Central and let them deal with the decisions. Now, what about him? Should we just toss him back on the street? We can't really afford any disruptions at the moment. Not with the performance reviews coming up at the end of the month."
"No, we keep him. You said the scan had detected some unusual psychic potential, Dr. Mallory?" the leader asked.
"Yes, that is, it would be unusual for you or me, but for his species it might be perfectly…"
"Can you suppress it?" the leader said, cutting him off.
"Probably. But there could be adverse reactions, possibly fatal. There is no telling…" Dr. Mallory again wasn't able to finish his sentence, when he was interrupted by the leader.
"Just make sure that he's ready for work by start of shift tomorrow."
He could hear the sound of footsteps. The Doctor could make out two distinct sets, one heavier, one lighter, both moving away from his position. Moments later, a third set of footsteps started moving in his direction. The Doctor once again tried to open his eyes. To his surprise, he managed to open them a crack this time. It took a lot of effort, but he could see a sliver of the world around him. Before he had a chance to make out any of the blurred outlines, a face moved into his field of vision. It was a kind face, intelligent grey eyes behind wire-framed lenses, head surrounded by a halo of white hair. He, Dr. Mallory, the Doctor assumed, smiled when he saw the Doctor looking at him, but there was only sadness in his eyes.
"I'm really sorry. But as you will soon understand, none of us has a choice." The man turned away, out of his field of vision.
"Always…choices´." the Doctor had to struggle to make his body comply in synch with his mind. He wasn't sure he was pulling it off as his voice sounded slurred and unintelligible to his ears. But apparently, Dr. Mallory had understood him.
At least the Doctor had gotten his attention.
"Not here, there aren't any choices here. There is no free will here."
"Why?" It was frustrating, but he was limited to one word sentences, at least until the paralysing effects of whatever he'd been shot with wore off.
"The NVI--the neural viral implant. They use it to control people, switch off their free will and their personalities. All they are left to care about is the mission." Dr. Mallory sounded bitter and not at all like the Machiavellian villain proudly laying out his evil scheme before trying to kill him. If anything, it sounded like he might be the one on the Doctor's side in all of this, given a little bit of convincing. And the Doctor was good at that, at least when he was able to talk.
"If you are lucky, your physiology won't take to the implant." That probably would be the fatal adverse reactions that had been mentioned earlier. The Doctor wasn't exactly eager to find out, even if the alternative didn't sound the least bit appealing either. But as long as he was alive, there was always a chance he might find his way out, back to Martha and the Doctor. Instead, if that NVI thing messed up his body too badly, he might not even be able to regenerate.
"Let m'go," the Doctor settled for a plea, physically unable to launch into a convincing argument. He didn't think it would do any good, but it wasn't like him to just sit by and watch disaster unfolding, especially not when he was right in the middle of it. But Dr. Mallory only shook his head. "I'm so sorry. The only thing I can do for you is to make it as painless as possible. Not that you will remember, but I have never believed that it is right to let people suffer unnecessarily."
The Doctor wanted to protest, but he'd already felt the faint prick of a needle in the side of his neck. He almost felt the drug making his way through his vascular system. He felt his heart rhythm speed up. He consciously tried to slow his hearts, but the effect of the drug was too powerful. The last thing he knew was his body launching into a seizure before he lost consciousness, knowing he might never wake up. Despite what Dr. Mallory had told him, he didn't want to die.
Martha lazily opened her eyes, feeling like she had just woken from a long, deep sleep. Looking around, she found that much to her surprise, she was neither at home, nor in her room in the TARDIS. Best she could tell, she was in a study of some sort. The warm light of the fireplace in the wall opposite the couch where she'd been resting illuminated a small, windowless room with worn hardwood flooring and a collection of apparently random antique furnishings. There was an ornate wooden desk with a chair behind it, an out of place hat-stand beside it and an armchair in the other corner. Everything looked perfectly peaceful, but still Martha had an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong, she was certain. She got her first clue when she tried to get up and a sharp pain in her back immediately brought her to her knees. Her legs seemed to be made of rubber and it took considerable effort to pull herself back onto the couch. Her brain was slowly coming back on-line, leading her to wonder what exactly had happened. The last she recalled clearly was being in the TARDIS with all hell breaking loose around her after the Doctor had received a shock from that dreadful armband. Examining her own left wrist, Martha could see the faint remnants of a bruise, but the armband was gone. Which meant most likely that the Doctor had found a way to remove it, which in turn meant that he had probably recovered from the shock he had received earlier. Martha was both relieved and surprised at the conclusion, especially since the Doctor was nowhere to be seen. It wasn't like him to just leave her here – wherever here was exactly. More careful this time, she made another attempt to get to her feet. Supporting herself on the edge of the couch and then on the wall, she managed to cross the room and make her way to the desk where she'd spotted an envelope on the otherwise empty surface. It was addressed to her. Grateful to be able to sit down again, Martha sank down on the chair and reached for the envelope. Tearing it open, she pulled out a single sheet of paper, covered in unfamiliar handwriting.
Martha read the letter twice, then checked her watch. She had never been sure if it worked right inside the TARDIS or if it was just her mind playing tricks on her, making it appear that time seemed to stand still while she was inside the TARDIS. She decided to give the Doctor forty-eight hours, and then she'd go looking for him, assuming that by then she'd be able to walk without support. In fact she was surprised she was able to walk at all. The memory was a bit vague, but she did remember thinking that she must have broken her back for sure.
The Doctor took a sip of lukewarm tea, still not used to the fact that he couldn't taste anything. Taste was the worst, but all his senses were dulled. He felt like he was under water and even this level of awareness took considerable effort and constant struggle against the NVI.
To his considerable surprise, he had survived the implantation without regenerating or any serious ill effects, for that matter. Aside from having a piece of circuitry stuck in his brain that was trying to control his thoughts. Under other circumstances, he might have appreciated this incredibly sophisticated piece of micro-engineering, but having to fight for every thought was more than just draining his energy. He'd developed a steadily worsening headache, which he knew was only a first sign of the long-term effects struggling against the NVI would have on his body. He needed to get out as soon as possible.
That was easier said than done. Since his waking up in the infirmary with what he could only compare to a massive hangover, he had been assigned to a sort of think-tank where between dutifully putting in his fourteen hours a day for the past three days, he was also trying to both figure out what was going on inside the dome and trying not to draw attention to himself.
It hadn't taken him long to learn that almost all information was strictly on a need-to-know basis inside the dome, and there was a lot that he wasn't supposed to be concerned with, but that he was rather interested in--such as the nature of the mission Dr. Mallory had mentioned in the infirmary and who or what was behind the term 'Central'.
The bell announcing the end of the recreation period sounded in the large cafeteria, bringing his attention back to the present. The Doctor suppressed a sigh, drained the rest of his tea and prepared to return to work to complete the rest of his shift. As he let the NVI take over for a moment, letting it guide him through the corridors, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the tall blonde woman who had been sitting two chairs over get up seconds later and follow him.
He had yet to learn her name, even though they were working in the same unit. The way she seemed to be glued to him even when they were on break made him suspicious. He was certain that whoever was running the dome was keeping an eye on him. The people in charge, whoever they were, might trust that the NVI worked with the native population, but they clearly weren't as confident when it came to him.
The blonde entered the office-like workroom just a few steps behind him. As the Doctor headed over to his desk, he could see her talking to the supervisor out of the corner of his eye, no doubt reporting back to him. While the Doctor didn't like being the subject of such close observation, he had no concrete reason to be worried. He didn't have anything resembling an escape plan. The plan was to keep his mouth shut and simply listen and that way figure out where he was, what was going on and how he'd get back to Martha and the TARDIS.
He took a seat at his desk, giving a quick nod to Robert, a heavy-set white haired man with whom he shared a desk.
"Had a good break?"
"Sufficient," Robert replied without looking up from the file he was reading. It was delivered in the same monotonous and slightly dismissive tone of voice that marked the replies to all efforts at small talk he'd made.
Normally one for the straightforward approach, the Doctor had to admit that things weren't going to be as easy as just asking someone and hoping to get information in return. All the fast talk wasn't going to help him when dealing with the people controlled by the NVIs. He suspected that they were physically unable of telling him what he wanted to know, if they even knew themselves. The Doctor could feel the tug of the implant every time his thoughts veered off the menial tasks he was assigned to. Finding it easier to give in for the moment, the Doctor turned to the papers on his desk.
The calculations, data from a mining survey, if he wasn't mistaken, were well below his level of ability and while he had been given continuously more challenging tasks over the past three days, he was able to finish the work within minutes. Now he was left with hours to pass, having to appear busy. He flipped open a new page in his note pad, and started to draw a chessboard, but soon abandoned the effort. Playing against himself was pointless really, but it was one way he could focus his mind without attracting undue attention. While he had the impression that he was being followed outside the office, no one seemed to care much about what he did at his desk as long as he completed the work he was assigned within the allotted time period. It had struck him as odd, with technology as advanced as the neural viral implants available, that all their work was done using pen, paper and primitive hand-held calculators. It didn't add up and only fuelled his curiosity.
But now that he was in the process of spending another afternoon keeping a low profile, doodling away on a piece of paper and trying to beat himself at imaginary chess, it was starting to sink in that he wasn't getting anywhere. The fight against the implant was getting harder every day and it wasn't just his chess-playing abilities that were suffering. The headaches worked their way up to near-crippling levels, and he'd noticed that his hands were starting to tremble. It hadn't gotten to the point where anyone besides him was likely to notice looking at him, but it was already starting to show in his handwriting.
Just as the Doctor was considering the possibility of having himself sent to the infirmary, not because he thought Dr. Mallory would be able to help him in his capacity as a physician, but because he really wanted another chat with him, his 'shadow', the blonde woman, appeared in front of his desk.
"The research director wishes to see you in his office," she declared, not a hint of emotion in her voice or on her face. "Please follow me."
The Doctor pushed back his chair and got up to follow her.
The complete lack of colour and emotion that permeated everything under the dome was no less apparent in the boringly functional office of the research supervisor. The Doctor had met the man briefly when he'd been assigned to the think-tank, but hadn't seen him since. Everything operated on a strict hierarchy, and the only people the Doctor had had dealings with so far were the other scientists in his group and the group supervisor. The research director wasn't a particularly imposing man. He looked too young to be this far up the chain of command. For just a brief moment, when he entered the office, the Doctor thought he could detect something akin to fear on the man's pale face, but his expression immediately became neutral again, regarding the Doctor impassively from behind his large desk. He never took his watery-grey eyes off the Doctor as he spoke.
"Your supervisor has reported several instances of unusual behaviour on your part, behaviour that is neither appropriate nor tolerated. It is frankly leading us to question whether the NVI technology is effective in your case and whether this work environment is really the best way for you to contribute to the mission. Although I doubt you would be physically able to work down in the tunnels for long, it is a possibility Central will no doubt be considering." The lack of facial expression and the dull tone of voice made it difficult to tell if it was a threat or a mere observation.
Either way, the Doctor felt uncomfortable standing under the unwavering gaze of the man and for once he wasn't sure what to say. Before he could make up his sluggish mind, the research director already continued in the same monotonous tone of voice. "However, when your…drawings were brought to my attention, I couldn't help but notice that they appear to be very precise maps of the crystal veins underneath the glacier, including some that aren't on any of the maps we've compiled so far. Can you explain to me why that is?"
It took the Doctor a moment to understand what the man was talking about. During the interminable discussion rounds and briefings that filled the long work hours, doodling away on paper was just about the most inconspicuous way of creating something for his mind to focus on. The Doctor wasn't consciously aware that anything he'd drawn actually made sense, but it just went to show how easily his mental control was slipping. Too late to do anything about it now, he thought, but maybe by giving in a little, he'd get some information in return.
"It's simply a matter of refining the calculations that have been previously used to locate the crystal veins and pinpoint possible instabilities. I'd be glad to explain the process to you in greater detail." He hadn't really meant to say the last part, but the NVI was like a voice screaming inside his head. Not only was it generally a very bad idea to interfere in the development of other societies, even if there were no longer any laws that would have prohibited it, but he didn't want to draw attention to himself either.
Luckily, the director didn't seem interested. "I see. I shall pass on your theories to the mining office. They can send a team to verify your theories."
"I would like to have a look at the tunnels myself, if possible. At the moment, these are just predictions. I'd like to refine them as much as possible before any more resources are invested in this line of research." In a way interacting with the people here was like talking to machines, programmed with a single purpose in mind and designed to ignore everything that didn't serve that purpose. It definitely made it easier to trick into trusting him. And there was another advantage as well.
The single-mindedness of everyone around him was, at least for the moment, keeping Martha safe. No one seemed to care where he'd come from before showing up outside the dome. But it had been three days already since he'd left the TARDIS and knowing Martha, and she would only wait for so long until deciding to go after him. In the harsh conditions on the surface, it would be a miracle if Martha made it as far as the dome, before succumbing to cold and pollution.
"I don't think that will be necessary. The tunnels are not a pleasant place to go and they can be quite dangerous. The people down there, they aren't like you or me. They are uncontrollable. They can't be trusted or relied on. There has also been significant melting over the past few weeks. The tunnels could collapse at any moment. I'd hate to lose a man as talented as you, Doctor."
The Doctor fought to keep his voice and facial expression neutral. "That would be counter-productive, I agree. But I think that in going down there myself, I'd be able to further improve my calculations."
The director seemed to be considering his words. "All right. Frankly, no one really understands fully what you are proposing. It will indeed be best if you went down there yourself, if you really think that it is necessary."
"Thank you. I'll get on it now."
"This is as deep as we've dared to go so far." The primitive elevator that had carried the Doctor and his guide, the assistant director of mining operations, from the mining operation's office down into the depth of the glacier came to a shuddering stop. Down here the air was wet and frigid, the cold seeping mercilessly through the Doctor's clothes. By his estimate they had to be several kilometres from the surface, but they still hadn't broken through the planet's crust.
The Doctor and the assistant mining director stepped off the elevator, into a hall carved into the glacier, branching out from where several tunnels lead deeper into the ice.
"Where do these tunnels lead?" the Doctor asked, looking around himself.
"That's where the mining is done, of course. A rich crystal vein runs somewhere down here, but we haven't been able to pinpoint it exactly. For the moment, we are just trying to cover as much ground as possible and hope that one of the tunnels strikes it."
"I guess that's where I come in." The Doctor consulted the map he'd brought with him. After a moment, he pointed to a tunnel leading out northeast from their position. "This should be closest to the vein."
"If you say so. We haven't actually found anything yet, but let's take a look."
The Doctor wasn't normally prone to claustrophobia, but he felt a twinge when they stepped underneath the frail looking support beam into the tunnel. The ceiling hung low, only a few inches above his head, and would he stretch out his arms, he suspected he would be able to touch the wall to both sides. What he saw next was much more disturbing. He'd heard the sounds echoing through the caverns before, but now he realized they came from pickaxes hitting the ice over and over. The tunnels were being carved into the ice by sheer physical force, without any assistance of machines, pure manual labour carried out by three figures dressed in rags. They, a man and two women, one of whom looked barely taller than the pickaxe she was swinging. They stopped in their tracks, their eyes on the Doctor. He had seen people exploited under appalling conditions on more worlds than he cared to remember, but every time he was shocked and saddened at what people did to one another. The miners were dressed in little more than rags. Each one had a chain around the ankle, linked to a bolt driven solidly into the ice. The chain was barely long enough to let them move through the length of the tunnel.
"The vein should be a meter behind this wall." The Doctor broke the silence and pointed at the wall to their left.
"You heard the man, start digging. The man and woman got to work, but the girl struggled to pick up her pickaxe.
"I meant all of you."
"Don't you see that she can't work?" The man turned around, anger on his gaunt face. "She hasn't had anything to eat in two days. She needs food."
"If she hasn't had any food, it's her fault. Work hard, respect the rules, and you won't go hungry."
"Isn't that a joke! The food we get is barely enough to keep us from starving to death. People are dying every day. Soon you won't have anyone left to do your dirty-work."
"Lucky for us, there will never be a shortage of people like you," the assistant mining director spat.
"Oh yes, you call us rejects because your precious NVIs won't work on us! You use that as an excuse to stick us down here, along with everyone else you don't like!" the man retorted.
The Doctor's attention had been on the argument. He was taken completely by surprise when a hard jerk on his arm caused his feet to slip on the ice. He tried to catch himself, but he was already being yanked back to his feet, an arm looping around his neck like a vice, leaving him to struggle for breath.
"I swear I'll break his neck if you don't get my daughter out of here!" the woman threatened.
The director looked taken aback, shocked even. "I…I don't have this kind of power. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't do that. Only Central can make those kinds of decisions."
"Then go and talk to Central, if you want him to live. And even if you don't care about him, maybe you should worry about yourself a little bit more." The man started to take a swing with his pickaxe.
"I don't think so." From seemingly nowhere, the assistant director pulled a gun. The man lunged at him a split second later and they both went down in a heap. The shot went wide, hitting the ceiling of the tunnel. Ice sprayed down on all of them when the beam of energy hit. With a sickening crunch, cracks appeared in the ceiling. The director was still struggling with the worker, trying to get out from underneath when a big chunk of ice came down on both of them. For a moment, neither of the two moved. Then, with a groan, the worker staggered to his feet, blood running down his face.
"Anthony, are you all right?" the woman asked, her voice shaking, but her arm still firmly around the Doctor's throat.
"I will be once we get out of here."
"And how are we going to do that!?" the woman screamed, apparently only now realizing the full scope of their predicament. The Doctor again tried to speak, but her grip was too tight. So he did the only thing he could think of and elbowed her into the stomach. She gasped, letting go of him instantly. The Doctor surged forwards, slipping again on the ice. He caught himself on his hands and knees.
"The keys, take his keys!" he yelled as he tried to get back to his feet. The cracks in the ceiling were spreading rapidly and smaller chunks of ice were falling down from around the fissures. Underneath the Doctor's hand, a crack appeared in the floor. Anthony only looked at him with glassy eyes. The Doctor swore under his breath as he tried to remove the key ring from the man's belt, a task hindered by cold and stiff fingers. He finally managed to free it.
"My daughter first!" the woman pleaded. The Doctor swiftly unlocked the chains around the girl's ankle, before turning to her mother. As soon as she was free, she pulled the girl into a hug.
"Run! This place is coming down any moment now!" Precious seconds elapsed as he fumbled with the lock around Anthony's ankle. Chunks of ice were raining down around them.
"Go on, run!" he urged Anthony, who still seemed to be in some sort of daze, probably owing to a severe concussion. Anthony finally started staggering towards the exit.
The Doctor was tempted to follow him as fast as he could, but he couldn't leave the director, not if he was still alive. He just bent down to feel for a pulse when everything gave--the floor, the ceiling, the walls, everything. The Doctor felt himself falling faster and faster. Everything around him was white as he fell and fell without end until he knew nothing more.
TBC