'Can you give me the stats on the trenches, please?'
Marillion looked up, breaking her steadfast view of the console in front of her.
'Sorry?' she asked, craning her head to look at the man across from her. 'I didn't catch that.'
Faskin laughed for a second, more in disbelief than humour.
'The stats. On the trenches. How are they doing?' he asked again, pointing at the glowing representation of the battlefield on the screen to emphasis his point.
'Oh! Right! Well, the defences are holding for the time being, but they won't for much longer. We need to get the reinforcements over there as soon as possible.'
'That's okay, we can divert the flow through the Cascade. That'll buy them some time.'
The station was almost abandoned, with only two people in the control room, constantly working amongst the towering blocks of computer consoles and panels, a permanent display of information and data being streamed around the tower in a perpetual loop. The War was being fought on countless fronts, in various times and places; wherever the combatants could get their hands on.
This tower was the hub for all information sent from one front to the next, responsible for collecting and distributing information from spies, agents, informants, and other sources in the war. They say a chain is only as strong as its weakest link – the Time Lords had taken great pains to ensure that the Nexus wasn't the aforementioned link.
It stood out from the mountains, a solitary black length of dwarf star alloy. It had no windows, or doors, or air vents. The only way in or out was through a controlled transmat system set up in the centre of the tower. In case of emergency, it would be shut down completely, sealing it off from the outside world and keeping out any intruders.
'We're holding up alright, sir.' gargled the voice over the crackling speakers, broken apart through millions of miles of travel. Fortunately, this was in the same time zone as the Nexus – that was one hurdle removed from the race.
'Okay, Vice-Commander,' Faskin muttered into the microphone, 'Just keep in contact. Any sign of trouble, drop us a bell.'
'Will do, sir.' the Vice-Commander replied, before shutting off the communication.
'How is old Horta doing?' Marillion asked as she entered the control room, the bulkhead sliding shut behind her. 'Been meaning to catch up with him…'
'Good, not too bad.' Faskin replied nonchalantly, returning to his work. 'Of course, the constant flanking of Dalek forces and general warfare is bringing him down a bit…you've still got a lot of catching up to do, haven't you? Ever since you made it back from that wretched planet…'
'There's nothing wretched about Earth!' Marillion shot back, before recoiling from her reaction. Faskin glanced up, finding himself enjoying the new Marillion. The old one had been stuffy even by Gallifreyan standards. But this one was a lot happier, chipper. Amicable.
'Growing keen, are we…?' he asked, a smile breaking out across his face.
'Possibly…' Marillion replied, ending the conversation. A few seconds of maladroitness passed between the two, filled only by the chirping of the two computers.
'You know, I helped design this place.' Faskin started up, with the subtlest tint of arrogance dripping from his voice. 'Upon special commission from the Lord President. Of course, I was a professor in the academy at the time…'
'Well, you know what they say – those that can't do, teach.' Marillion mumbled back, lost in her own world. She glanced upon, and recognised the look of confusion on Faskin's face that she'd so enjoyed in their youth. 'Or is that just an Earth expression?'
Faskin searched his mind for a retort, but couldn't find one. Instead, he glanced across the room – and his eyes grew wide.
'Who the hell is that?!' he asked, even pointing in the direction.
Underneath the bulkhead stood a small man, slight of frame but with a well-crafted face. He was young – very young, probably still in his first regeneration. The perfect crimson of the presidential uniform stood in stark contrast to his pale skin, blanched from the fear.
'E-ensign…Pa-palakit.' he stammered, his lip quivering from the tension. His piercing blue eyes darted across the room, alternating between the two Time Lords stood before him. 'I..I was sent by the council?'
Marillion found herself groaning all of a sudden. The council's presence was not one she was overly eager to feel.
'Well, you better come in, then. You're letting a draught in.' Faskin said, somewhat friendlier than his counterpart. As Ensign Palakit entered the control room, the bulkhead automatically slammed shut, clicking as it locked.
'So, I'm guessing you were assigned to guard us? Faskin asked, walking over to meet the new recruit. 'Not as if there's a war on or anything…'
Marillion scoffed to herself; it's not every day that they get sent built-in entertainment. When there's a war on, you take whatever you can get in terms of joy.
Suddenly, the comm alarm began to bleep, a snap of sound ringing through the air. Marillion flicked the 'answer' switch in a split second, the action now second nature to her.
'Hello?' she asked, looking at Faskin and Palakit the whole time. Only the crackled static of the transmission answered her. 'Hello?!' she tried again, a bit sterner this time. Again, nobody spoke a word.
'Try the test beacon.' Faskin offered. She nodded in reply, pressing the red button just underneath the unit. As she released it, the alarm could be heard over the speakers, loud and clear – the system was working, then.
'Is anybody there?!' she asked one last time. Third time's the charm?
Apparently not. Nobody answered her. Marillion grimaced at Faskin, about to turn off the comm channel. Probably a stupid joke, to alleviate the troops.
And then the screams came.
