Chapter 3: Storm Front
This isn't just bad. It's bad with the matched suitcases of bad on the side. He bites his lower lip as he manoeuvres the TARDIS through the Vortex, aiming them for a point where, hopefully, the ripples of the Rift won't disturb their materialisation.
When the first shudder ripples through his ship, he knows that he's made a terrible misjudgement. Should've realised that, actually. The Rift splits down the centre of Cardiff, extending a few miles in either direction, north and south. Any sort of disturbance there would cause echoes to travel in all directions, spreading across the entire world.
There is no such thing as a spot where the effects of the Rift cannot be felt. If it's open, and judging from the readings on the viewscreen it is, no place is truly safe. Not even in the Vortex.
The TARDIS trembles beneath him, a bit harder this time, and he shoots a concerned glances towards the doorway that leads into the interior. Rose disappeared through that door a few minutes earlier, presumably to get dressed. He can only hope that she doesn't manage to get herself injured should this materialisation prove rougher than he's expecting.
A jolt almost causes him to lose his footing and he amends his earlier thought. It's definitely proving rougher than he expected. Clinging one-handed to the console, he reaches with the other towards a lever in an attempt to stabilise their flight.
Another shudder, far stronger than the others, causes him to lose his grip, sending him crashing to his knees. The shock of impact sends a sharp jab of pain through him and he finds that he has to struggle to return to his feet. The tremors are getting more frequent, the TARDIS beginning to scream around him as she attempts to navigate through the temporal waves.
Something tells him that there's far more to this than just the Rift being open. It shouldn't cause something like this, ripples that shudder through time and space, ripples that affect even the parts of the Vortex that only a TARDIS can travel safely through. He would've expected small shudders, maybe a tremor or two, but not this.
Definitely not this.
He reaches the lever finally, practically throwing himself over the console in an attempt to reach it without losing his balance. Though the strength of the waves lessens, it does nothing to affect the frequency. Even small impacts will, eventually, cause the TARDIS to falter.
Materialisation has become a necessity.
Abandoning caution, he pulls himself around the console grimly, flipping switches and pulling levers as he goes. At this point, he doesn't much care where they end up. Right year would be preferred, of course, but he'll make do with what he's got and deal with as it comes.
The pitch of the time rotor deepens, the ship protesting as it begins its materialisation sequence. There isn't much he can do now but hold on. And, he supposes, pray. As the grinding sounds increase, he clenches his hands around the console, letting his thoughts wander towards Rose.
She hasn't reappeared and he resolves to search for her once the danger is over. He needs to reassure himself that she's okay. In the small space of her room or the hallways between it and the console room, anything might've happened. She could've bounced against a wall, given herself an internal injury of some sort. Could've broken something landing wrong.
He's just lost Martha, well, 'just' on a cosmic time-scale means a few months. For losing Rose that first time, it was years. He's not ready to go through that again. Then again, he never is.
Katarina, Adric, Roz, Jack… but not Jack. Not really. Not if the bloke's still alive. But Rose…she could be hurt. Maybe seriously. Temporal grace will only prevent weaponry from going off, not natural accidents. She could be hurt. And he could work himself into a fit if he doesn't stop fretting over what-ifs.
When the TARDIS shudders to a stop, he practically leaps away from the console as he rushes towards the inner door without bothering to check their location. It can wait. Rose might not be able to.
When he reaches the doorway, he almost collides with her, barely avoiding doing so by channelling his momentum into another outlet. That it involves a skidding manoeuvre that lands him on his bum isn't something he's dwelling on. Instead, he's looking at her with the same desperate gaze that she's giving him.
"All right?" they ask in chorus. Moments later, she's bracing herself against the threshold, laughing, and he has to join in with a chuckle of his own, recognising the absurdity of the moment. Part of him is convinced that it's only thanks to the solid strength of the TARDIS that she isn't on the floor next to him.
"Better than a fun fair?" he asks her once they've both calmed down.
She grins, catching her tongue between her teeth as she offers him her hand. "Better with two," she replies.
He grasps it, using her strength and his to shift himself to his feet. "Meant to do that, you know," he tells her.
"What? The bumpy trip or the classic fall?"
He shakes his head and doesn't deign to answer, though he suspects that the mirth that's inevitably dancing in his eyes belies his lack of response. "Seriously, though. Are you all right?"
Rose nods. "'M fine. Bit jostled, yeah, but fine. Ended up bracing myself between my bed an' the wall, away from the bedside cabinet. You?"
"Same. Well, I wasn't braced between your bed and the wall. Bit hard to do that, really, when I was here and you were there and… Right. Yes. I'm fine. So might as well see where we've landed. Wasn't expecting that much of a fun fair ride, really."
"Doctor," she asks, a thoughtful tone colouring her words, "what caused that? I've been here long enough to know the TARDIS's typical landings an' that wasn't one of them."
Part of him wants to object that typical TARDIS materialisations aren't rough, she's just getting on in age, but he holds his tongue. She's keyed into an aspect of this particular journey that's bothered him. "Best way to explain is by using an analogy."
She makes a face that he ignores. Mostly. "The Rift's treating the Vortex like a woman with PMS," he begins. However, before he can expand on that dazzling analogy, Rose smacks his shoulder with the palm of her hand.
"Oi! What was that for?" he asks her, rubbing his injured shoulder and giving her a hurt look.
"A woman with PMS?" Her arched eyebrows are rather eloquent in adding additional impact to her words.
"Right. Bad analogy," he says somewhat apologetically. "The Rift is affecting the Vortex, sending temporal waves through space and time. We were basically tunnelling through those waves, each impact causing tremors to run through the ship. I managed to get us turned so the strength of the waves lessened, but the frequency of the impacts remained. And that's why the materialisation wasn't as smooth as it should've been."
Rose frowns. "Where'd we land?" she asks him and he shrugs.
"Haven't got to that part yet," he explains and pulls her with him towards the controls. A flip of a switch later, he examines the results. "Ah. Correct time zone and…yes. We're in Cardiff. Well, to be specific, we're in Splott."
He wrinkles his nose as he repeats that word. "Splott. Whoever came up with that name must've had a warped sense of humour."
"Okay. An' where's the Brigadier?"
"She's currently trying to get hold of the Cardiff branch of Torchwood. Seems to think that they might have something to do with the Rift problems," he replies. "But they're not answering."
She frowns, but says nothing else, so he grabs his trench-coat from the coat-rack and leads the way towards the double-doors. He can use the sonic screwdriver to try and trace the Rift's energy.
And, from there, try to find a way to close it again. Before the Earth, and possibly the universe, is torn apart from wild temporal energy.
Time.
It passes in that short space between heartbeats. Between inhales and exhales. Between the steady drip-drip of water impacting upon a tiny pool. Jack can measure it, if he so desires. Count each breath, each beat of his heart, each drip. The problem is that he has lost track of time in its most fundamental aspect.
Day. Night. In the subterranean world that he's found himself locked within, those measures are meaningless. He could've been here for hours, even days, and nothing can truly tell him how much time has passed.
He spends his time struggling against his bindings, hoping against hope that they'll give. However, Bilis has proven far too adept at his craft. He's as stuck now as he was when he first awoke here.
A heavy sigh escapes his lips as he stares at the darkness that cloaks the ceiling. There's got to be something that he can do. Something that can help his people find him, or to help himself escape. His wrist computer's still unavailable and there isn't any slack in his bindings. The true question is what Bilis' purpose is in holding him here.
Bilis calls himself 'the huntsman'. That's a name, a label, that he's never heard before. Bad Wolf, he knows. He's seen it before. In an abandoned building. In a failed nuclear power project, proposed by a Slitheen. Blazoned across the bulkhead of the Game Station, shortly before he died for the first time. Uttered by the Doctor several times, implying that it was chasing him through time.
But the huntsman? Sure, he remembers the basics of the fairy tale. A wolf in grandmother's clothing. A huntsman who saves the grandchild from being eaten. But that casts the huntsman in the hero's role, something that he doesn't feel is best suited to Bilis Manger.
Then what is he, really? Someone who can walk through time like one can turn the pages of a book, yes. Someone whose very touch seems to sap energy…
His brow furrows as he examines that particular thought. Bilis saps energy. That's the key. He knows how he destroyed Abaddon. He can't die. Abaddon absorbed that energy, his energy, and was destroyed. What if Bilis uses it somehow, perhaps to feed?
A shiver courses through his body as he considers that possibility. Bilis seemed to imply that Jack's composed of time. Or some measure of it. A part of the Bad Wolf, whatever that means.
So Bilis consumes time. It's a working theory and one that he supposes is particularly appropriate. Living on the edge of a rift in time, then having captured him, Bilis has an unlimited supply of energy. He can kill him again and again and it wouldn't matter. He'd survive.
What if that's it? What if he's supposed to be Bilis' never-ending food source? Suddenly escape has gained a new urgency. He doesn't know what Bilis intends, but he knows that it can't be good.
For him or for Cardiff.
Last time Bilis wanted something, he caused Jack's own people to betray him and open the Rift. What if this is something similar? What if…?
God, what if all this mucking about with the Rift brings in the Doctor? The real Doctor and not the fruit of his overactive imagination? And what if that's part of Bilis' goal?
No. No, he's practically tilting at windmills now. He can't make assumptions. Anything is possible, at least when it comes to his captor.
He hears a soft popping sound, one that he believes heralds another of Bilis' disappearing, reappearing elsewhere acts. He suspects that the man is keeping tabs on his team, perhaps leading them astray or watching them fumble as they search for him.
Biting his lower lip, he stares into the darkness. Knowing, or suspecting, Bilis' strengths doesn't give him a clear indication of the man's weaknesses. He doesn't think he can prevent Bilis from taking what energy he needs from him.
Or can he?
Maybe he needs to consider what he is. What he can do. He can't die, yes. He doesn't age. It's like time is holding him in a permanent paused state. Is that it? Time itself isn't letting him die because…
I bring life.
The words come to the forefront of his mind and he shivers, recalling those moments when life first returned to him. There was pain and a lingering ache that settled somewhere over his chest. Mentally, though, he was confused. He had died. He remembered dying (as he would remember each time in the years to come). Then there were those words and he was alive again.
What if that's it? Time. The Bad Wolf. What if it's all interrelated? What if, somehow, he could control it? Release whatever it is that's stopping him from dying and, in so doing, stop Bilis?
Manger called himself the huntsman. And Jack's, apparently, a piece of the Bad Wolf. A piece of time.
Bilis isn't the only one with power here, he thinks. He just has to figure out how he can use this knowledge, even if he can. There's no guarantee that he isn't chasing after an impossible dream, a myth that he's hoping is true.
Of course he wants to be free, but what if he's reaching for explanations that aren't true? What if he's deluding himself?
"What are you going to do?" he asks, giving vent once more to the frustration that's plagued him since he awoke in this place.
"Do?" Bilis repeats, surprising him by answering. "I don't have to 'do' anything. It's already been done."
"What is?"
"Oh, I'm afraid that that isn't meant for you to know. The pawns are in place and the board is set. I just await the final result."
"Which is?" he prompts, though he knows Bilis will only answer in another riddle.
"No-one knows how the story ends when it's being written, Captain. That would spoil the game."
There's a hole in the centre of Cardiff.
It's invisible, as much so as a hole of this nature can be, but its presence is felt. Strange occurrences, alien invasions, bizarre behaviour, all can be attributed to the Rift. Generally it's somewhat benign. The odd invasion here or there isn't anything to scoff at, of course, but the human race can handle it. UNIT can handle it.
This, though. This is something different. Its benign nature is an illusion as much as the deceptive calm that rests over the city. Even the animals of Cardiff are strangely hushed, as if they don't dare to break the silence that's clutched the city in its grip.
Bambera had apparently told the Doctor about the last time something like this happened. The Rift was opened and a creature of nightmare had broken free. That creature doesn't exist here and now. Instead energy bleeds freely into the sky, lending the sky a flickering, almost translucent blue-hued glow.
Deep inside her, in parts of her mind that are barely used, she feels something stir in recognition of this sight. She knows it, somehow. Like a fragment of a half-remembered dream, she knows this.
She watches the sky and she feels the Doctor watching her.
"All right?" he asks.
"A storm is coming," she replies, not sure why those particular words have come to the fore of her mind.
Out of the corner of her eye, she can see his eyes widen in shock. Whether it's from her words or something else, she can't say. "Rose, what is it?"
She wants to tell him what she feels, to explain what it is that she senses, but the words won't come. Instead, she shakes her head mutely and meets his gaze, unable to give voice to what's wrong, and threads her fingers through his own, needing that simple contact more than she can say.
The Doctor is worried and she thinks she can see a hint of desperation in his eyes. He doesn't want to lose her again. That's easily read between his breaths, the blink of his eyes. The last time those words were spoken indicated the beginning of the end for them. They heralded the day she first 'died' in this reality.
She doesn't think that the words are a foreshadowing of separation. Instead, she thinks they're the forewarning of something else entirely.
Maybe they are a precursor of a war, or else the end of one. Not the Time War - that was ended as best as it could be. The Daleks are either wiped from time or stuck in the Void. No, it's not the Daleks that she fears.
It's something else entirely.
He doesn't break the silence that stretches between them. Instead, he searches her eyes. She suspects he's trying to read her mind without touching her temples, trying to see what she knows. If he asks, she thinks she'll let him learn. Let him see. Despite how much she knows it'll eventually hurt. However, he doesn't ask and he looks away, returning his attention to his sonic screwdriver and tracing the paths that the Rift's energy has left in its wake.
"It gets stronger in this direction," he tells her and leads her northward, ignoring the strange glances they receive from the passers-by as they walk. A woman being led by a man holding a shiny stick. A smile crosses her face at the imagery. How little they know.
"What do you think we'll find?" she asks quietly. "More Relna-whatever-they-weres?"
"Relnatix," he corrects her and shrugs. "They're attracted to Rift energy, it's true. React badly to temporal fluctuations, really. Might explain why they're always so cranky whenever I come across them. But that's no guarantee that that's what we're going to find.
"Temporally displaced people? Objects that shouldn't exist? Oh, anything's possible when it comes to energy like this. Too many doors are open. It's a game of chance to determine what's going to come through next. Shut one, another opens and another. We just need to shut those doors before something even worse comes through," he says and she doesn't manage to suppress the automatic shiver at his words.
Something worse, she thinks. What if 'something worse' is already here?
As they walk, she begins to notice tiny changes around her. Fewer people, for one, and those that they do pass don't spare them even the briefest of glances, instead hurrying on their way. The atmosphere is different, too. Tiny tingles run up and down her arms, almost as though her arms have fallen asleep or else are encountering the changes in the air before a thunderstorm.
It's enough to set her teeth on edge and she finds herself slowing, reluctantly forcing herself to make each step forward. When he stops, she barely avoids running into his back. "What if we're going about this all wrong?" he asks, spinning on his heel to face her. He seems somewhat taken aback by how close she is to him, but he doesn't step away.
She can't do more than open her mouth to reply when he continues, "Seems simple, really. Go to the source of the greatest amount of Rift activity. Means that's the source, right?"
He pauses and, thinking he's expecting a response, she replies, "Right."
"Wrong!" he corrects her. "The Rift energy and whatever happens because of it is nothing more than the symptom. Oh, yes, why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it before? It's so simple it's…it's…" He lets go of her hand and paces before her, gesturing wildly with one hand and running the other through his hair.
She's seen him like this before. It's useless to try and say anything now. Best to wait for him to spit it out. Whatever it is.
"Don't look for the strongest emissions of Rift energy! Oh, no. Definitely not. Look for the lack thereof. Look for a calm spot. Surrounded by temporal energy, but nothing there. Yes! That's where we need to go, Rose!" He beams at her, his grin strong enough, she supposes, to power a dozen cities.
That's when it dawns on her. What she's feared has come.
"It's already here," she says, swaying slightly with the realisation. "The storm's already come. And we're going into its eye."
To be continued...
