Chapter 5: Mounting the Rescue

Death.

What a morbid thought. He wasn't certain what the people of Nova Paris would think of a regeneration beyond the typical human reaction of killing anything that they didn't like or understand. Now, that would be an unpleasant experience. Never coming out of regeneration sickness, just being killed over and over again.

Thirteenth life's the charm. Only three lives to go, and then he'd know the answer to Mickey's question.

What was death?

He didn't know. However, he knew dying far too well. Falling, poison, a shot, old age, an explosion, and the Vortex. He'd experienced it all just before he regenerated. Nine times in nine hundred years. It wasn't a good track record. Most Time Lords were only in their second regeneration by the time they reached their nine hundredth year.

He never had been one to follow the normal trend.

The guards should be coming for them at any time now. Mickey had somehow managed to fall asleep, leaning against him. What little heat he could share wasn't enough, but every little bit helped.

He could hear footsteps outside, just faintly, but enough to realise that they were coming in their direction. "Mickey," he said, nudging his companion with his shoulder.

"Hmm? What?" The other man's voice was groggy as he blearily opened his eyes.

"They're coming."

At those simple words, Mickey stiffened, his jaw clenching in reaction. "Right. Best face death standing up, yeah?"

He smiled grimly. The gallows humour did little to lift his spirits. This was it. Last chance to talk their way out of this or else.

Good thing he worked best while under pressure.

Their muscles were stiff from leaning against the cold wall, but they managed to stand just before the door swung open. A blast of even colder air from the exterior hallway flowed into the room and he automatically suppressed a shiver of reaction. Mickey couldn't, but he was already cold. He made certain that he brushed the other man's shoulder with his own as he faced the three people who had entered in the wake of the wind.

Diktar Jacques LeMoreau was back, as was Muscles, and they even brought a little friend. He wasn't certain if he should be flattered or insulted.

"It is time," LeMoreau said without preamble.

"Time?" he repeated incredulously. "Time for what? Breakfast? Tea? Scones? To bat? To run? Or, oh, I know! Time for a pardon! That's it, isn't it? Oh, so kind of you to go through all that trouble. Hope it wasn't too difficult. These types of regimes always have the worst paperwork. And red tape. Humans and their obsession with red. Red alerts, red for danger, red for stop, red correction markers, red, red, red. Don't you know that through most of the universe red's camp? One of these days, you should really spruce it up a little. Throw in a bit of a variation. How about mauve for danger? It's a perfectly lovely colour, would go great with your complexion."

Muscles took a step toward him and he couldn't prevent himself from tensing in anticipation of a blow that never came.

"Serenity will be granted to you both." LeMoreau didn't seem to have even registered his words.

"What if I'm already serene?" Mickey asked, folding his arms before himself. It was almost a defensive posture. "There's no need to grant us something that we already have."

LeMoreau barked out a laugh, but he could see something akin to regret flash across the man's eyes. "Humour is little defence, child."

Mickey bristled at the insult, but wisely remained silent.

"Sometimes it's the only defence that we have. But you have little to laugh about these days, don't you Diktar?" He eyed the short, beady-eyed man. Yes, he'd judged him right. This was a man who lived in a constant state of fear. The only sense of joy that he'd probably ever felt in his life was the relief that he'd managed to avoid 'serenity' for as long as he had.

LeMoreau did not answer his question. Instead, he gestured for Muscles and their friend to move in. "Bring them."

"Don't we get some sort of last request?" Mickey asked as they were escorted not so gently into the corridor.

He gave his companion an approving glance. "A phone call? A pardon? A five-course meal served with real china and silverware? Even a decent cup of tea imported from England? No? This certainly isn't among the top ten jails that I've had the pleasure – and, sometimes, displeasure – of visiting. You'll have to try better for next time."

"For you there is no next time."

He smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that. Next time really can mean so many things. Next time I'm alive – provided you believe in reincarnation. Next time I visit Nova Paris – which won't be for a very long time, actually. Not enough benefits for the occasional tourist. Next time I cross the street, have a meal, see the stars, have tea, have a biscuit, anything, really."

"Serenity is the only certainty there is," LeMoreau retorted, as if by rote.

Ah! An angle.

"When you take away a culture's dreams, what's left?" he asked, turning his head to look at the Diktar. "Anyone? Anyone?"

"Death," Mickey answered.

"Oh, give the man a prize! Exactly. In an uncertain world, only two things are constant. Death and taxes. Or was that tourist traps and overcharging? No, wait, that was far too universal. I can never remember those phrases. So what do you do? You bury that knowledge in bureaucracy. It's so much easier to let someone else do your thinking for you. Inch by inch, freedoms are lost because it's easier to be governed than to live for yourself. And that's what happened here, isn't it?

"Maybe there was a war, or a famine, or a plague. Maybe the citizens started getting weary of loss, of pain, of death. So it started slowly. Freedom just trickled away without anyone realising that it was going until it was almost too late. Maybe they demanded that the government take over. Maybe they asked for it without knowing what might happen, what could happen. Common good for all, no? But that never works. It always turns into this. A dictatorship wherein rights are strictly governed, dreams are forbidden, and no one is allowed to question."

It was sad. So, so sad that these people could've done that to themselves. Oh, it'd happened before. Would probably happen again. Might even be someone who got the brilliant idea that they could be a benevolent dictator.

It always ended in one thing. The one thing that LeMoreau clung to as his only certainty. It always ended in death.

"You are perceptive," LeMoreau allowed, folding his hands in front of him. It was as close to an agreement that he'd probably get.

"It doesn't have to be this way," he said, willing the other man to believe him.

"That's where you're wrong." LeMoreau stepped in front of them and swung open a large door. Beyond its threshold he could see a line of what looked like...

Oh. Oh, no.

"Oh, god," Mickey said, his voice no more than a horrified whisper.

A line of guillotines stretched from wall to wall of the courtyard.

"This is how it has been and will always be, monsieur. Be glad for serenity. Not many are as lucky."


She shivered in the cold air, hugging herself for some measure of warmth as they walked through the quiet streets of Nova Paris. Every so often she'd see glimpses of the gaol in the breaks between the houses and flats that lined the roadway. It was a massive building, its very architecture conveying a hint of the gothic and the macabre.

It was easily recognisable as a place of evil. Of death. Of suffering. The way that it loomed over the city, its very shadow a menace, was enough to send even more chills through her body.

The Doctor was inside that building, condemned to death with the dawn. Mickey was inside the gaol. She bit her lower lip as they approached the gated entrance. What if this didn't work? What if they were too late? What if, the next time she saw them, all she found were their bodies? Well, Mickey's body and the Doctor's regenerated one?

No.

She mustn't think like that. This would work. Had to work. She trusted Dorothée. It was a good plan, the best.

The gates swung silently open and the constable that had been guiding them stepped to the side. "You have fifteen minutes to offer the condemned comfort. At first light, they will have serenity."

She followed the other mourners through the entrance, forcing back her sudden fear of being locked within. The archway that covered the entrance was short, opening into a wide courtyard that was dominated by a long line of...

Oh, god. They couldn't! It was just...just...

Inhuman.

Guillotines. Beside each were a prisoner and a guard. As she watched, one by one the guards stepped behind their prisoners and pulled back their arms, apparently restraining them somehow.

The Doctor! If he were, and she shuddered to use the word, beheaded could he regenerate? Was it even possible? This plan had to work, it just had to. There was no other choice, no other option. She wouldn't let him die.

Not again. Never again.

She shook herself out of her contemplations as she realised that the other women had spread out through the courtyard, each intent upon reaching a prisoner. She had to find the Doctor. Had to find Mickey.

None of the prisoners wore much beyond trousers and socks. She wouldn't be able to find them by looking for a familiar pin-striped suit. Which meant she'd have to...

"Don't you see, Diktar? It doesn't have to be this way! It doesn't have to end like this!"

The words were faint, but she would know that voice anywhere. The Doctor. It was him. Thank god, he was alive! She turned toward the sound and there they were. A little the worse for wear, perhaps. But alive.

And still in terrible danger.

They were being escorted into the courtyard by three men. By her estimation, two were guards and the third was probably the 'Diktar' that the Doctor had been addressing. Usually his prattle could turn even the most stubborn of souls to his cause, but something told her that it would have no effect. Not with this man.

"All things end, monsieur," the man replied.

Everything must come to dust…all things. Everything dies.

She blinked, forcing back the words. No. Not today. Not here, not now. She slowly made her way toward them, intent upon reaching the Doctor. On reaching Mickey. On saving them.

"'S not right," Mickey protested. "This isn't how it's supposed to be. Guillotines were outlawed!"

"Once upon a time, yes, they were. Be grateful, child, for this opportunity."

"Grateful? Grateful!" She was close enough now to see the fury burning in the Doctor's eyes. "You might be grateful for the chance at death, but I'm not. Neither is Mickey. This isn't how it's supposed to go. Your history, your very presence here, is wrong! Nova Paris should be peaceful, benevolent, a lovely place to visit! Should have tourist attractions, good food, and bad tea. But it doesn't. Instead, it has this, this…parody of a utopia. Let us go, Diktar. We can fix this!"

"That has been said before, monsieur. They failed."

The Doctor leaned toward the smaller man, his expression intent. "I'm not them."

In an instant, she could see all the possibilities of the Doctor's actions spread out before her.

I can see everything… All that is.

The man looked at the Doctor, wavering upon a decision.

All that was…

She was an observer, standing behind a man she knew to be Diktar.

A line of men stood before the guillotines, their expressions grim.

She knew the heads that rested upon the blocks were innocent; they were all innocent. However, she also knew that they would die. Had died. This was the past.

It had happened.

Not even she could change that fact.

"For the glory of Nova Paris. For the sake of serenity. For the regime. Kill them," Diktar's voice echoed through the courtyard and the men turned, each pulling the levers that would release the blades.

Diktar turned before the blades touched their victims. In his eyes she could see regret and resignation.

All that ever could be…

Diktar let them go, releasing their bonds and setting them free. However, before they could reach her, an explosion rocked the complex, sending her flying. When she opened her eyes, all she could see was dust and rubble.

And something else.

She could see two hands stretched out as if in a plea for help, buried beneath tons of rock and dirt. One dark-skinned, one light with a faint golden glow. Moment by moment, that glowing hand changed shape, changed form, and then it stopped. In the aftermath, in the stunned silence, she could only stare at them.

Neither hand moved.

I think you need a Doctor.

Oh god. Please no. No, no, no, no.

She opened her eyes – when had she closed them? – and saw the guards ushering the Doctor and Mickey toward the guillotines. It hadn't happened. It didn't happen. It'd been a dream. Nothing more than a dream brought about by her own fearful imagination.

She hurried forward, keeping her eyes on her friends. By now Dorothée would've set the explosives. Time was running out.

"You there! Stop!" One of the guards who was stationed by another guillotine strode toward her.

Damnit! She hadn't come this far to lose them now. She kept her expression carefully neutral as the guard reached her.

"You are new here, yes?"

"Yes." Keep it simple, she told herself. Keep it safe.

"Then go to the prisoners, girl. You have only five minutes to comfort them before serenity. Standing here gawking does neither them nor yourself any good." Without bothering to wait for her response, he turned and walked back to his post.

She felt nearly faint with relief. Right. Enough delays.

She had a rescue to mount.

To be continued...