CHAPTER 4 - TIME TO PLAY

There may be pleasures in hell (God shield us from them).

C. S. Lewis.

The puzzle box vibrated in the Brigadier's hands, faintly but eerily, and it seemed to radiate an inner warmth since they had arrived in its home dimension, like a living thing, or a live bomb, which is how it makes me feel. While they had been tempted to leave it at their point of entry, there were too many good reasons to have it on them at all times, not the least of them being that it was their ticket out of this dimension. Also, as Silver had explained, since it was too complex a device to be a mere security key it probably also served many other functions, any of which might prove useful, or even essential to them. Yes, all very good logic, thought the Brigadier, sceptically, but it's not helping me to shake the feeling that we've brought our own worst enemy along with us. Let's hope that really is just a feeling, and not a survival instinct I ought to be obeying religiously.

Their dimensional crossing had gone smoothly enough, although as slowly as Silver had warned them it would. The Cenobites' domain, however, did nothing to keep up their morale: seemingly endless stretches of desolate, crumbling stone corridors, lit only by a sickly blue phosphorescence, its crypt-like atmosphere occasionally enlivened by gusts of chilly, acrid-smelling wind which carried the faint echoes of screams, moans, and insane laughter to their ears. Not to complain, though. Silver's calculations got us in discreetly, at any rate. My new friends have some extraordinary powers, but our best hope is still in getting the drop on these Cenobites. In the interests of keeping that advantage of surprise for as long as possible, Silver was in the front of their party, scanning their route ahead with a small proximity sensor he had cobbled together from the Brigadier's wristwatch and some pocket change. Although they had passed a few metal objects since their arrival – mainly broken and discarded knives, and rusty chain-links – Silver had been adamantly against using them to synthesise more equipment. If, as he suspected from his studies of the box, everything in this labyrinthine world was connected at a fundamental level, any matter they had not brought with them might potentially betray them. Or perhaps he'd just rather not touch any of that stuff, for which one could hardly blame him. They had been exploring for almost two hours without incident, when the glass face of the jury-rigged detector lit up and the watch hands suddenly spun around to new positions.

"Contact … on a bearing of twenty-two degrees," announced Silver, quietly, as they drew to a halt. Steel immediately walked ahead to join him, but from his perplexed, frustrated expression, it was clear that he could derive nothing from their improvised radar.

"How far away?" asked Steel, having given up the attempt.

"Right at the edge of the sensor's range, of course. That's four hundred metres, give or take."

"Human?" asked the Brigadier, hopefully.

"Err, possibly," replied Silver, sounding far less than confident.

"'Possibly?'" repeated Steel, with vexed emphasis. "What's that supposed– ?"

"Well, if you mean is it a normal human or a Cenobite, Steel, then how would I know? Assuming their neurological rhythms to be broadly the same as an unaltered human being's–"

"Neurological rhythms? That's what your sensor detects? Then why didn't you set it to detect specifically human life-signs? Sapphire said that the Cenobites must be dead, at least in the metabolic sense. You ought to have–"

"Oh, so you don't want to be alerted when Cenobites do come into our vicinity, then?" interrupted Silver, incisively. "My apologies, only I thought that might be rather a useful piece of information to have in the interests of not getting ambushed, impaled, flayed, and so forth."

"You're supposed to be our best technician, aren't you? Couldn't you have made the thing multi-functional?"

"I'm a scientist, not an alchemist. I did the best I could with what was available. If I had more or better materials to work with–"

"Then you'll just have to use some of the local materials."

"Not a good idea, Steel, as I already–"

"Why not? Isn't it alarmist to assume– ?"

"Because, Steel, there is a very distinct possibility that this entire realm and everything in it is more akin to a sort of multidimensional mathematical projection than matter and energy in any real sense. A solid projection, I grant you, but still unstable and untrustworthy. The more we interfere with it, the more likely it is we'll catch the attention of whatever it is that's creating said projection, and I'm not at all sure that's something we want to meet."

"If I might suggest something," cut in the Brigadier, quickly and insistently. Refreshing as it is to be reminded that super-intelligent alien life forms can be as quarrelsome as any of us mere mortals, this is not the best timing. "Why don't I scout ahead and find out who or what it is? That is actually something I'm qualified to do," he added, in deference to Steel's less-than-convinced frown. "I may be getting on a bit, but I do still remember my stealth training, and without wishing to sound maudlin I'm probably the most expendable member of this party."

"Nobody's expendable," said Sapphire, firmly, "and I dislike the idea of splitting up."

"A short recce, that's all. You can all keep as close behind me as you think best, if–"

A new sound came echoing down the corridor, somehow more sinister than the others for its sheer incongruity. It was a high, melodic whistling, and although the actual tune was simple and repetitive – a marching song, intended to be morale-boosting – the slowness and hollow resonance of its delivery gave it an almost funereal air. Its odd familiarity was of no great reassurance. 'Pack Up Your Troubles in Your Old Kit-Bag?' What the dickens … ? If the whistling unnerved the Brigadier, however, that was nothing to its effect upon Steel: for a fraction of a second the alien time agent looked almost like a cornered, hunted animal, and although he quickly mastered his anxiety, the look he then turned on Sapphire was positively acerbic.

"And you said the Darkness wasn't involved," he said, sullenly. "So, how would you care to explain that?"

"Strictly speaking, Steel, that was Pearce's tune, not the Darkness'," replied Sapphire, endeavouring to be calm and reasonable, although even her beautiful, impassive eyes looked far more perturbed than usual. "Perhaps Pearce is involved, or just as likely the forces here are playing games with us."

"And how would the Cenobites even know about us and Pearce?"

"Sorry, who is this Pearce?" asked the Brigadier. "Not exactly an old friend of yours, I take it?"

"Not exactly, Brigadier," answered Sapphire. "He was a soldier who died in the Great War. We encountered his after-image, haunting that railway station where your friend was abducted."

"I see." World War One … That's rather too large a coincidence for my money. "Then he has some connection to Captain Spencer, perhaps?"

"Sorry, who?" asked Sapphire, and the Brigadier could tell from Steel's expression that he was no wiser on this topic than she was.

"Captain Elliot Spencer, British Expeditionary Force, Battle of Passchendaele? Haven't you … ? He disappeared in 1921, reportedly having come into possession of the puzzle box," he explained, as his audience's blank faces persisted. "It was all in the Channard Institute files. UNIT has full copies. I'm, err, a little surprised your agency doesn't."

"It may be we place less value on human intel than we ought to," admitted Sapphire, humbly, with a faint smile that was quickly shed as she turned back to her partner with an intense and serious look: "Steel, this could be significant."

"They could have known each other, you mean?" asked Steel. "Pearce, and this other soldier?"

"Fought in the same unit, perhaps? Maybe he even has some relation to Pearce's death."

"Maybe … but we won't learn much standing here speculating. I think I might borrow your idea, Brigadier," announced Steel, with grim resolve. "I'll take a recce … in the direction of that whistling. You all wait for me here."

"I'm really not sure that's such a good idea, Steel," protested Silver, while Sapphire merely looked appalled. "Has it occurred to you this could be a trap?"

"That was my first thought, which is why I'm going alone."

"We could just ignore it," suggested Sapphire, pointedly. "Not let him manipulate and taunt us this time, if it is Pearce."

"If it is, he owes me an explanation," declared Steel, his resolve having now hardened into suppressed anger. "I had to send an innocent man to his death just to free Pearce and the others from the Darkness. In return, he gave us his word to rest in peace, and what happens? Some poor woman gets lured to that damn railway station and dragged out of reality by a bunch of sadomasochistic reanimated corpses … one of whom, apparently, might very well have been war buddies with Pearce. I don't call that very peaceful."

"Agreed, but why let him call the shots?"

"I don't intend to. If he's prepared to negotiate again, then fair enough, but I won't be drawn into any ambush. That whistling seems to be coming from behind us, about two hundred degrees, give or take. Is your sensor picking up anything from there, Silver?"

"No, and in case you were wondering, this doesn't detect ghosts … but just because there are no Cenobites there, that hardly makes it safe," pointed out the technician, sceptically. "Your reports said that this Pearce was capable of some disturbingly convincing illusions."

"Right, illusions, all of which I survived, and which I now know to expect. In the meantime, I don't expect illusions are all that Miss Smith has to worry about," Steel reminded them, his hard tone cut through with a note of genuine concern, which the Brigadier more than empathised with. "We're as good as wandering blind here, anyway. Someone has to investigate this."

"I'll come with–" the Brigadier began to offer, but Steel quickly cut him off, albeit with a more considerate tone than usual:

"Thank you, Brigadier, but best if you don't. I know Pearce, and I'm not sure he'd appreciate the military touch. That might even excite his resentment. I'll keep in contact, Sapphire," he declared, turning back to his partner. "In case of prolonged silence, do feel free to come after me … carefully."

"If you insist," replied Sapphire, resignedly, "but Steel … try not to provoke him this time, please."

"I'll be the model of diplomacy," he promised, with just a hint of sarcasm. "You'll be proud of me," saying which, he walked back down the corridor to the first right-hand turning, in pursuit of the eerie marching tune, turned the corner, and was lost to sight. Brave chap, if a tad prickly. Give him a velvet jacket and a broken dematerialisation circuit, it might be just like old times … He had not been gone long when Silver broke the silence again:

"Another contact," he announced. "Not in Steel's direction, you'll be pleased to know. It's on the same bearing and distance as the first contact, which hasn't moved. It might be a changing of the guard, or maybe it's the build-up to the annual meeting of the Cenobites' Trade Union, assuming they–"

His attempted humour was cruelly curtailed by a distant but clearly audible scream. It was long-drawn and shrill, a scream not of impulsive shock but of sustained agony, and although its pitch was perhaps a little lower than he remembered it, Lethbridge-Stewart knew that he had heard that scream before. Sarah … I'm too late … No. He started forwards, desperately, but was detained by Sapphire's remarkably strong hand on his arm.

"Brigadier, what are you– ?" she began to ask, but he was in no mood for pleasantries.

"That's Sarah's voice. I have to go, now."

"We'll come with–"

"No! Silver was right: this is a trap. They're trying to draw us out, split us up," but they're doing it by torturing a friend of mine, and if falling for said trap is all I can do to stop that, then so be it. "You two should find Steel again. You'd better take this," he added, while handing Sapphire the puzzle box. "I don't know that I'm of much use to them, but that might be. Come for us later, if you can … if you deem it wise."

"We will," said Sapphire, simply and resolutely, as she released his arm. He nodded thanks, and rushed off down the stone passageway in the direction of the persistent screaming, taking turnings where they seemed appropriate, and at one point stopping just long enough to retrieve an old, chipped, bloody, but serviceable dagger from the floor. It was not much longer before he passed through a doorway and into a room of indeterminate size, and the screaming suddenly stopped. He looked around frantically, but the room seemed to have been designed to confuse and torment the eyes. Its walls were lost in deep gloom, and long chains hung thickly from the ceiling like black, hook-tipped vines. Here and there, between the chains, thick wooden monoliths slowly rotated, their rough sides spattered with blood and 'decorated' with barbed wire, more hooks and chains, and occasional detached body-parts. Sarah … Please, no. He advanced into the room, his crude weapon at the ready, looking around to catch a sign of his friend, when suddenly he heard a voice from close behind him, familiar but ineffably wrong, with a hollow, distorted pitch, and a cloying sensuality that it had never possessed before:

"There you are, Brigadier. I'm so glad you came alone." Sighing, and letting the dagger fall from his hands, as if I'd ever use it against her, whatever's happened, he turned to face Sarah. In spite of being prepared for a ghastly sight, he could not help but be taken aback in horror. She was barely recognisable, with her corpse-like pallor; her hair, teeth, and eyes all missing, replaced by sinister black crystals; and her clinging, shimmering black clothing, more like some parasitic alien skin that had grown on her body. His disgusted reaction was not lost on her, as the bland, sharp-toothed smile she had initially worn instantly fell, leaving a confused, almost hurt expression. Suddenly, foolish as it was, he felt unchivalrous. "What's the matter? Aren't you pleased to see me? I'm pleased to see you."

"I'm sorry," he declared, remorsefully. "Sorry I didn't get here sooner."

"I'm not," she declared, her eerie smile suddenly returning. "I think your timing was perfect, Brigadier. You got here just in time to meet my new commander, and I know that he'd love to meet you too," saying which, she raised one of her pale, black-taloned hands and pointed through the forest of chains. Lethbridge-Stewart followed her indication, and a saw a tall, obscure figure advancing through the shadows towards them, slowly acquiring detail the closer he came: long, black robes; an elaborate 'crown' of scars and piercings; and a cold, haughty face that, in spite of its mutilations, was strangely familiar. Of course: the Channard files. I doubt that information's going to be of much help to me now, but one can but try.

"You seem dissatisfied at your reception, Brigadier," the senior Cenobite greeted him, in a calm, superior voice full of veiled threat. "I cannot imagine why. Since you come sneaking into my realm like some thief or assassin, I have been remarkably tolerant … thus far, but do not push me. In spite of your less than honourable conduct, I am minded to be lenient."

"Yes, well … on the subject of honour, Captain Spencer, I'd hardly have expected a decorated veteran of Passchendaele to resort to kidnapping and torturing an innocent woman," he could not keep himself from remarking, although he immediately wished that he had kept a better rein on his indignation: the Cenobite lord's detached expression contorted in fury; he raised a hand in a quick, violent gesture, and suddenly two of the idly swinging chains came to life, coiling like icy-cold serpents around the Brigadier's wrists and hauling him so far up that he could barely touch the ground with his toes, like some condemned inmate in a Japanese POW camp. Another chain then coiled around his neck, not tight enough to strangle him, but just enough to painfully restrict his breathing while making it abundantly clear that things could easily get worse. In spite of the pain, he managed to repress the urge to scream, but he doubted that his eyes maintained perfect composure as his captor approached to within mere centimetres of him, now wearing a warped, sadistic leer.

"Knowledge is power, Brigadier, I do not deny," hissed the Cenobite, "but it is not always wisdom to share it, so here is fair warning: use that name again, or show me any other disrespect, and I shall flay you inch by inch … from the inside. Although the effort it cost to bring you here was not negligible, you are far from indispensable, and there are many others who would serve my purpose as well, so do not presume on my leniency."

"I am sure, my Lord High Priest, that the disrespect was unintentional," pleaded the Sarah-bite, moving the Brigadier and making him feel even more unchivalrous. Conditioned and mutated, but Sarah nonetheless, and loyal to her friends. I should have known as much. "The Brigadier is, above all else, a soldier, and he probably thought that was a mark of respect … rather than a grave slight which I'm sure he will not repeat," she added, quickly meeting Lethbridge-Stewart's eyes with a glance of warning. "Nor does he yet know what an honour and a pleasure it is for me to serve Leviathan, with all my flesh and spirit. When he does … when he too is one of us, I have no doubt that you will find him the most dutiful of servants." On reflection, a little less loyalty to her friends might actually have been preferable, if this is how she interprets it. Impossible though it was for the Brigadier to feel much gratitude at this turn of events, this appeal had its effect: the High Priest's expression softened as much as it was in any danger of ever doing, he reached a hand around to Sarah's exposed back, and he caressed one of her ornately-carved open wounds with his fingertips, causing her to emit a sound that was part moan, part whimper, and part bestial purr. I've no idea what to call it, really, but I do wish he'd stop while I can still hold the contents of my stomach.

"You are a fortunate man, Brigadier," announced the High Priest, his tone again proud and cold, but free of rage, "to have so lovely an advocate to plead your case. For her sake, then." He made another rapid hand gesture, whereupon the chain around Lethbridge-Stewart's neck uncoiled and retracted, the chains around his wrists slackened somewhat, new chains fastened themselves around his ankles, and the floor beneath him rose up to form a long stone bench, leaving him prostrate and manacled, but at least in a lot less pain. Not, I suspect, for very long, though. "As a further mark of regard to you both, instead of giving you to the Engineers, I shall allow your dear friend here to carry out your initiation. She may lack experience, but I daresay you will appreciate the personal touch."

"My Lord … I am honoured, but I'm really not sure I'm qualified," admitted Sarah, meekly. Well, heaven forbid I should be a black mark on her professional CV.

"I have assigned Dreamer to help you. She has … some experience in field Cenobite creation … at least at the theoretical level," replied the High Priest, with a quick and unpleasant aside glance to the Brigadier. As if to emphasise the point, another Cenobite emerged from out of the gloom: another woman, with a horribly gashed neck, flayed forearms, a leather-and-fishnet outfit barely worthy of the name, and a heavy wooden rack that she was wheeling along with her. The contents of this rack, which she parked near the Brigadier's stone bench, included a sinister arsenal of blades and saws, coils of metal wire, dubious-looking garments of black and shiny fabrics, and several bottles, some empty and some filled with a luminous blue chemical. "See? She is here already, eager to give our new acolyte his well-deserved induction. Now, if you will all excuse me, I really should check on our other guests. I fully expected that your elemental friends would not be so easily enticed as you, Brigadier, but perhaps Pearce has had better fortune with them. At any rate, acquiring you was the main priority. We can deal with the others at our leisure."

"Should I feel flattered at that?" asked Lethbridge-Stewart, his tone ironic and repulsed, in spite of the High Priest's threats. A decorated war hero, and one of my best friends, both degraded to this, and me next, if I survive … which seems mercifully unlikely, all told. "Or may I take it that your interest in Miss Smith and myself has more to do with wanting revenge on a friend of ours?" A spark of anger again flashed in the High Priest's eyes, and the Brigadier briefly suspected that he had signed his own death warrant – not without some relief – but the Cenobite lord quickly mastered the emotion and settled for merely looming over the stone slab, glaring daggers at his captive while answering his questions in an icy, bitter tone:

"You should indeed … and I am not so petty as to crave revenge. The Doctor owes me. In 1917, Private Pearce and I were stationed on a section of the Western Front commanded by a certain General Smythe … or so we thought," he explained, while Dreamer sharpened some knives and Sarah took measurements of the Brigadier's manacled limbs with a metal slide rule. Just like a visit to the tailor, in some god-awful penny dreadful. "In actual fact, we and many others had been taken out of our proper time and place, and hypnotised to fight in a mere facsimile of the War – albeit a lethal one – as part of some alien experiment. Did you know any of this?"

"Some," he replied, recalling conversations he had had with the Doctor many years ago, about the circumstances that had led to his exile on Earth. He had to call in the Time Lords to fix the damage, and so they did … after arresting him and forcing him to regenerate, of course. That's curious, though: he told me they'd wiped everyone's memories of that incident. "But weren't you all saved, sent back to your own times?"

"You consider those terms synonymous? Yes, we were sent back … to the true, man-made hell of Ypres in 1917, where Pearce died and I irrevocably lost my mind and, eventually, my humanity. 'Saved' is not the first word I would have chosen."

"I sympathise, but the Doctor had no choice. He was forbidden to change history."

"Except, one gathers, as and when it took his fancy? But no matter. Destiny and your alien friend chose this role for me, and it is my clear duty to fulfil it to the best of my ability. Our Labyrinth, alas, has fallen on hard times. Existing as it does in parallel with your decadent world and age, it is forced to share in their decline, but the Time Lord's knowledge would obviate that problem. We could place Lament Configurations throughout time and space, thus vastly extending our hunting range for worthy disciples and willing victims."

"If you imagine he'll agree to that for the sake of restoring a mere two people to humanity, however close he may be to them–"

"Again, you err. Even were that possible, I would not do you and the young lady such a disservice. She will remain as she is, and you as you are to imminently become, but others will follow in your footsteps, and they will be most welcome. If I cannot have the Time Lord's secrets, I shall settle for his companions instead. Let us at least do him the credit of acknowledging that he chose you all well. Your loyalty to each other will lead more of you to brave this journey, and eventually the Doctor must take note of it, although I am in no hurry. I shall have his knowledge for my Lord and Master, or I shall claim his human friends one by one, and count myself well repaid either way."

"And Pearce? Might I ask what he's getting out of this monstrous arrangement?"

"Pearce was at first under the impression that the Doctor could be persuaded or threatened to undo the circumstances of his untimely death, but you will no doubt be pleased to hear that I have managed to talk him out of it. For all his resentment, he is as naïve a boy as ever, and was unaware that would cause a catastrophic time paradox. Such chaos serves no-one, so I have persuaded him instead to settle for such resurrection as we can offer him here. Monstrous as I am, you see, I am nothing if not a being of order and responsibility. You may tell that to Sapphire and Steel if you ever see them again … and if your beautiful attendants here leave you with the power of speech," he concluded, with a faint but cruel smirk, before straightening up and marching off into the darkness. When his steps had receded almost to silence, Sarah paused in her work and turned to the Brigadier with a definite air of concern in her mutilated expression, slightly reviving his hopes.

"That was close. You really shouldn't provoke him," she urged, his revived hopes diminishing with every sincere, brainwashed word. "If you find his generosity terrifying, just imagine what his wrath can be like. I know you're upset now, afraid. I was … but trust me, Brigadier. Everything will be alright in the end. We can be happy here … or subject to the most extreme pleasures ever devised, at any rate, which is much better."

"Thank you, Sarah. I'll bear that in mind," he replied, morosely, seeing nothing much to gain from trying to break her conditioning. Even if I could, some chance I'll be able to break the other one's, so I'd just put poor Sarah into an even worse situation. Better to just focus on keeping myself from breaking, if I can. Sarah gave him a wan smile then withdrew to the torture rack, where she began checking various horrible-looking pieces of equipment off a list while the other Cenobite came over to the stone bench wielding a curved, serrated dagger. He steeled himself for the worst, but as it transpired she merely used it to start destroying the seams of his tweed jacket.

"Hey, lighten up, soldier boy," she advised him, playfully, only managing to reinforce his pessimism. "Sure, this is going to hurt a bit … a lot … Okay, probably worse than anything you've ever felt before unless your hobby was rubbing scorpions in your eyes, but just look on the bright side: when it's all over, you'll be immortal, stronger, way hotter, and, if you're a very good boy, you can have your wicked way with us both."

"I'm a married man, Miss Dreamer," he answered her, in as deadpan a tone as he could force through his extreme distaste. "I don't believe I have a 'wicked way.'" She actually giggled on hearing that, although it was not a particularly heart-warming sound: low, harsh, and voluptuous.

"'I'm a married man, Miss Dreamer,'" she repeated, in what he thought was a risible imitation of his voice, but which she clearly thought hilarious. "Can you believe this guy? Kind of cute, though, like having Jean-Luc Picard on the slab. I'm going to have fun corrupting you."

"I wish you joy of it."

"You're just too precious, soldier boy," she crooned in his ear, before giving his clothing some respite and turning to Sarah. "I can see why you're so fond of him now, Sparkles."

"'Sparkles?'" he repeated, incredulously. "That's her name now?"

"Err, not as such," admitted Dreamer, a little sheepishly. "We don't really have names in the Order. That's just what I call her. Suits her though, doesn't it? Still … I'd count it a favour if you didn't tell Boss Man. He might not care for it."

"No more, I imagine, than he'd care for being called 'Boss Man' … but I can't see what possible advantage it would gain me," he admitted, having derived what little Schadenfreude he could from Dreamer's moment of unease. "My lips are sealed."

"Are you trying to give me ideas? Only kidding. We wouldn't want to lose that adorable accent, would we? The tash'll have to go, though," she added, while ruffling his moustache with the tip of her dagger. "That's just never going to work. For some reason, I can't shake the feeling that you'd look really badass with an eyepatch. Yeah … we could drill one in right around here," she declared, while lightly tracing a sticky red fingertip around the orbit of his left eye. "We'll just need a nice little swatch of leather and some of those pins Boss M– … the High Priest uses for his head, and we're good to go. I know I put a box of them somewhere on that rack. Having any joy finding them, Sparkles?"

"I can find the leather and the needles alright," replied Sarah, with the casual, faintly uncertain tone of someone checking their grocery list, "but I'm having trouble finding these 'ichor siphon' things. There's nothing here that looks anything like the picture on the manifest. Are you definitely sure that you– ?"

"Son of a bitch! I knew I'd left off something. We can't even get started without those. I'll have to go back to the seminary to fetch them. I just hope I don't bump into the High Priest on the way. Lord knows what he'll have to say … He might never punish me again, worse luck."

"There's no need to. I passed an equipment store on the way down here. It's only a quick walk, and there was no-one about. You can finish off the prep work, I'll go and fetch them, and I'll be back here before you know it."

"You're a gem, Sparkles. Feel free to laugh at my lame gag." Sarah waived that option, but she did give Dreamer the nicest, sincerest smile the Brigadier had yet seen on a Cenobite before traipsing off into the chain-festooned darkness. For a moment it seemed almost like old times, his friend the same bright, considerate person he had always known … then he remembered that the matter at hand was torturing him to death and reanimating his mutilated corpse as an indentured servant of evil. Still, nice to see that she's made friends, even if I can't commend her taste.

"'Ichor siphons' … Dare I ask?" said the Brigadier, with very reluctant curiosity, as Dreamer resumed the demolition of his jacket.

"Oh, they're vital," she answered, seriously. "We try anything major without those, you're dead, plain and simple. You see those bottles on the rack?" she asked, indicating with her dagger. "Before we get stuck into any serious modifications, we need to siphon most of your blood into the empties, and replace it with that blue stuff in the full ones. That stuff's pure liquid energy – Leviathan's 'blood,' if you like – and it'll make you part of Leviathan, just like we all are. That means you'll never die, never get sick, never bleed out … but we have to time it just right, because when there's enough ichor in your bloodstream, we won't even be able to change you any more: anything else we do will just heal up at once. After that, only the big boss himself will be able to alter you. It's a delicate operation, but don't worry. Sure, you're my first real initiate, but I've practised all sorts of mods and techniques on test victims, and you know you can trust Sparkles not to want to make a fuck-up of this. You're in safe hands," she declared, casting aside the remnants of his jacket and setting to work on his Brendon School tie.

"Very reassuring," he replied, listlessly. "I'll try to derive some comfort from that." Dreamer sighed, and drew back from her work to look him full in the face, her black-eyed expression unusually earnest.

"Okay, here's the thing," she explained, matter-of-factly. "Sure, you can be stubborn, resist us with all of your will, probably have your mind broken every which way in the process, your memory and personality buried under a whole heap of trauma. That's happened to more than a few. Even the High Priest, or so they say, before someone jogged his memory. How does that sound?"

"Honestly, Miss Dreamer? Somewhat relieving." God knows, it wouldn't be the first time I had to live in a mental fog to cope with trauma. Small chance the Doctor will rescue me again, but a limbo of blissful ignorance sounds better than a conscious hell. "I'm certainly struggling to see any reason why I should just bow down and accept the situation."

"Then let me remind you of one: how do you think poor Sparkles is going to like seeing you reduced to a zombie? Maybe that'll even make her wish that she was less human too, just another obedient flesh puppet going through the motions," she conjectured, and he had to inwardly concede that it was a horrifying thought. Sarah's holding onto something of herself, but if she finds herself responsible for totally destroying an old friend, that might indeed be the death of her as a person. Could I really do that to her? "Anyway, Brigadier, it's your call, but when all's said and done you've got a good friend here, and that's a lot more than some initiates can say. Maybe you can try being more flexible for her sake, if not your own? Just a notion."

Damn you, thought Lethbridge-Stewart, resignedly, as she set to work on his shirt buttons.

Damn you, thought Steel, as he glared at the blank, solid wall in front of him, that had not been there when he had taken this corridor in the opposite direction.

He had fully expected that Pearce would resort to tricks, so had not been at all surprised when the phantom whistling, which had at first seemed so close and steady, seemed to change both its location and its distance for every corner or the Labyrinth he had taken. However, he had made certain to memorise his route, and when he was quite satisfied that Pearce was merely trying to disorient him and make him lose his bearings, he gave up the pursuit and retraced his footsteps. He had not retraced them far before being confronted with this wall of ancient, weathered, mildewed stone that had not been there two minutes before. What was it Silver was telling us about this place? A 'multidimensional mathematical projection,' unstable … and untrustworthy. Maybe I'll learn to actually listen to the experts in the future. The whistling continued, although with a more leisurely air than before, making it sound to him both taunting and triumphant. He did his best to block it out, and concentrated on trying to make contact with his partner, in the hope that she might be able to help him navigate an alternative route back to the others:

Sapphire? Are you– ?

Steel … her voice came back to him, but strangely weak, and with an undertone of fear. You were right … We've been played … Silver … Stop … and that was all, her voice fading out altogether, in token of either unconsciousness or death. From that point, order and caution were abandoned as Steel ran pell-mell through the corridors, taking turnings almost at random and effortlessly ignoring the whistling in his desperation to find any route that might take him closer to Sapphire. His haste soon brought him into an area of the Labyrinth that momentarily bewildered him. The floor was, as it had been, a narrow walkway of stone slabs, but it now seemed to be open to a sky overcast with blue-tinted, lightning-flecked clouds, and the walls had also changed. The wall to his left seemed to have mutated into a structure of mundane bricks, varied here and there with rotten wooden doors, peeling advertising posters, and rusty gas lamps, while the wall to his right had been replaced by a long, black ditch. Peering over the edge of this, he saw the glint of metal from a short distance below. Metal rails … and wooden ties, he realised, cynically. Sam Pearce, you're as devious a bastard as ever, but if you've hurt Sapphire then I may actually make a point of freezing you out of existence this time.

"You should have left well alone, Steel," said a familiar voice behind him. He turned away from the railway tracks and saw Pearce standing in the middle of the platform, exactly as he remembered him: the same ill-fitting battle-dress; the same Lee Enfield rifle slung over his shoulder; and the same cold, bitter expression on his pale young face. "There weren't no need for you to come here. The captain and I just wanted what's owed us."

"And that includes the woman you abducted?" asked Steel, and drew some little hope in seeing the flicker of pain this wrought on the ghost's expression. Sadly, it soon passed.

"Sarah's happy enough," replied Pearce, and unfortunately he seemed to believe it. "She's got a life, anyway, and friends. More than some of us have had. Anyway, this dimension don't harm no-one except those as use the box, and that's their lookout, ain't it? I didn't reckon as it was your business to save everyone from themselves."

"Perhaps not, but if Sapphire's come to any harm–"

"I'd worry more about yourself, Steel. They ain't at all happy with you," he declared, with a small and joyless smile, while his eyes darted very briefly to the left. Steel followed them, just in time to see a large, black, hook-tipped chain whipping through the air towards his face. He raised his hand to intercept it, which proved acutely painful, but served its purpose: the iron hook snapped on his inhumanly-tough skin, and the chain bounced back to dangle idly over the tracks. As he was flexing his hurt hand and gritting his teeth, a familiar, raspy voice spoke, and he turned to see the gash-throated female Cenobite commander approaching him from the waiting-room door, a blade in each of her hands and an expression of gleeful malice on her gaunt white face.

"Oh, that is interesting," she hissed, with a quick glance at the broken chain. "I don't think that has ever happened before. Are you going to be a challenge for me, alien? I do so enjoy a challenge …"