Chapter 3 – War is Hell
Romana, her uniform creased and stained crawled after him. The Dalek slaves were sapping underneath the star port and the two of them were working their way through the cramped and dirty sewer system to put a stop to it.
He'd been thrilled to have Romana assigned as his second. He knew he could trust her at his back. But, he hadn't realized that he was being sent on all the most dangerous and desperate missions and she was being sent with him. Being his friend was putting her in harm's way. He crushed down the anger that roused in him as well. He could do nothing to change it and his anger was doing him no good at the moment.
"Got a reading," she muttered and he nodded and stopped. He pulled out his sonic screwdriver and scanned the ceiling until he found the explosive charge that the slaves had placed there. Working slowly and carefully, he disarmed it and then handed it back to Romana.
"That's twelve," he told her with a grimace and she grinned at him, her teeth flashing white in the darkness, her face smudged with dirt and worse things.
"Only fifteen more to go!" she encouraged him and he tried to smile back, though he suspected that it was a fairly pathetic attempt. "Any word about Susan?" she asked softly, her eyes shining with compassion and he shook his head.
"Nothing," he answered.
"Maybe that's good news, Doctor," she suggested. "If she's holding out against them, they'd be unlikely to tell you wouldn't they?"
"I don't know how I feel about it either way. If she's holding out, then what kind of hell is she going through? If they've broken her, then what sort of state is she in? The only thing I do know is that she isn't dead, she'd still there in my head," he sighed out. "Either way, she's suffering and I can do nothing."
"You are doing something, you're staying alive," she reproved him. "Wherever she is, she knows you're still alive as well. She must know that you will find a way, somehow, sometime, to get her out of there." Romana's faith in him was comforting. He nodded and tried to hold tight to his faith in the universe.
"I will find a way," he promised and they continued to crawl through the sewers on their deadly mission, trying to find some light in the current darkness surrounding them.
The prying tendrils of thought from the Visionaries who surrounded her kept trying to break through, but she refused them entry. She was tired, she was hungry, she was thirsty, she was scared, but she held the memory of being loved in her mind and wrapped herself in righteous fury.
"He was an animal, a lower life form, not worthy of a Time Lord," they murmured to her mind, it was a sneaking nasty thought and she held her memory of David's kisses up as a shield against it. He was a better person than any of these mad old women with their stringy hair and yellowing teeth, minds shattered apart by too many years of following the pathways of the future. They were tugging at her memories of him, trying to erase them from her mind.
"You'll never take him from me! You can't make me forget him!" Susan screamed back at them, scrabbling at his image and holding it close to her. She'd never let go of the time she'd had with him. "David!" she sobbed, pressing his image into her hearts.
"You are the prophesied one, you are the 'Arkytior', you will unfold the future and give us the Final Vision!" another voice wheedled, trying to lure her with promises of glory and power.
She laughed at this one; it had no power over her. Together, she and David had dug fields to plant food and feed their children. They'd buried the dead, cooked and cleaned, built and restored; they'd helped bring London alive again. That was all the glory and accomplishment she'd ever need. They'd raised so many wonderful children together, held them when they wept, and soothed them when they hurt. They'd taught them to read, to write, to dream, and to think. That was real power, molding a generation and sending them out.
She'd taught herself medicine, crouching over textbooks by the light of a lantern, built a lab for herself from the rubble, and become a doctor for the whole area, saving lives, fighting diseases, beating back death. She didn't need to be more than that.
She was David Campbell's wife, the Doctor's granddaughter, descendant of a long line of Time Lords who were known for brilliance and courage. She didn't care about prophecies, destinies, or fate. She would make her own destiny, build her own fate, with her own will, her own hands, and the love she held in her hearts.
"You're alone here girl, we are many, and you are one, you cannot fight us forever." That whisper was more frightening to her, for she knew there was truth in it. She had to sleep sometimes, brief naps that left her vulnerable, even with the booby traps she'd laid. Eventually, she would have to rest for a longer period, and that would leave her vulnerable.
But, she had a plan for that too.
The Doctor realized that they were trapped. Romana, her hand clutching his, had the same realization in her eyes. The Daleks had rigged the entire structure with bombs and there wasn't enough time to disarm or run. This was it.
"Doctor," Romana whispered and then the explosions started.
The floor collapsed beneath them and the Doctor shoved Romana through the break, diving after her as fire erupted above their heads. They landed hard and the Doctor rolled, Romana scrabbling away from falling mortar and blocks, both of them running with desperate, adrenaline-fueled haste away from the collapsing building.
They staggered towards a sheltering wall and leaned against it, panting and wheezing.
"That was way too close," Romana gasped out, her voice shaky from fear and adrenaline.
"Yeah," he groaned in agreement. The explosion was still ringing in his ears and the fading terror was making him tremble in reaction. A muffled sob alerted him that Romana had slid down the wall and was crying.
He settled himself down beside her and gathered her against his chest. Her shoulders were shaking and her body trembling and did the only thing he could think of to comfort her. He kissed her.
She wrapped her arms around his neck and responded with a fierce aggression that surprised him. He could feel her emotions through the touch of their skin and he knew that she was seeking comfort, needing to feel alive, and he could give her that.
It was something that they both needed, after all.
The Master scrubbed himself in the shower, trying to wash the blood and soot from his hair. He watched the red and grey rivulets running down his body and into the drain and tried not to think about how he'd gotten the gash on his thigh. He hadn't even noticed the injury before and that just told him how bad the fight had been.
War was hell all right. Whatever primitive ape had come up with that line had been quite correct. So much for Rassilon's 'short, victorious war', he snorted. The Daleks had proven themselves to be as cunning and devious as the Master himself was. As for ruthless, well, they exceeded him by a factor of ten.
The Master had wanted to conquer worlds; this required that the worlds still be habitable when he was done. The Daleks only wanted to obliterate other life forms. Their eerie chants of "Exterminate" rang through his dreams now and he shuddered at the sound of it.
He wasn't sure how they could win a war against a foe that didn't care about its losses and didn't need to keep the worlds it conquered. While the Time Lords were stuck protecting and garrisoning worlds, the Daleks just came, destroyed, and moved on, like a plague of malevolent locusts. Just to stay alive, they might be forced to leave their allies to fend for themselves. It wasn't good strategy, but they might have no choice.
He shivered as another time line collapsed around him. The Daleks had gone back in time and stopped the Severna from evolving into allies that the Time Lords could use. With a groan, he prepared himself for the call that would soon come. He'd be sent back soon to repair that and return the Severna from oblivion.
On the plus side, he was suddenly twenty years younger, the gash on his leg was gone and the water now ran clean. He shook his head in disgust and got out of the shower.
The Doctor sat down on the edge of the bed and Romana collapsed beside him and leaned her head against his shoulder, blond hair cascading across his back. He draped an arm about her and let his head rest on hers.
"That could have gone better," he commented and she snorted.
He turned his face towards the huge viewscreen that showed the world lying below them. It was pretty, mottled green, blue and gold, the colors all swirled and muddied by the storms that were raging across its oceans.
"Who knew that Viridian weapons systems were vulnerable to parasitic infections," Romana sighed out. It had been a very unpleasant surprise, but he had managed to switch the systems over and repair the damage before they'd lost more than a third of their forces. He closed his eyes against the remembered sounds, the screams of the dying mingling with the triumphant shrilling of the Daleks. He'd turned it around, and they'd defeated the enemy, but so many had died, so many that shouldn't have.
"I was not cut out to be a soldier," he informed her and she turned her head and pulled him into a hungry kiss. He fell into it, reaching for a moment of softness, of warmth.
They used each other's bodies to drive out their anguish and the horrors of war, but they both knew it was only a temporary reprieve. In a few hours, they had to go lead an attack against a Dalek outpost and it would all begin again.
Andred was sitting in the drop ship, his wife at his side, and fear was uncoiling in his gut, not for himself, but for her. He was a Time Lord, capable of regenerating, of coming back from the dead, if necessary, but his Leela was only human. If she died, that was it; there were no second chances for her.
He'd begged her to stay safe at home on Gallifrey, but she'd just glared at him.
"And who exactly will take care of you?" she asked. "You're a rubbish fighter. You'll lose half a dozen new faces in a month!" His arguments had fallen on deaf ears and now here they were, about to face combat together.
"Leela," he began and she turned and gave him a disgusted look.
"Listen, Andred, let's get through today. If at the end of this one day, you still think you're the one who'll be protecting me, then I will go straight home, alright?" she challenged him and he nodded in reluctant agreement.
At the end of the day, the entire squad sat on Andred until he agreed to let her stay, while Leela sat smugly by the fire pit, cleaning the collection of weapons she'd taken from those she'd killed.
He decided to give in gracefully; it really was his only option.
Susan had held out against them for nearly eight months now, or thirty years, if you counted the collapsed time lines she'd lived through. Her Time Sense was the only thing that kept her centered anymore, there was no day or night in her cell, just the delivery of scraps of food at random intervals. She might be going crazy, but it was hard for her to tell. She hadn't seen anyone but her guards in a very long time and they never spoke to her.
She had started talking to herself just to hear her own voice, just to hear anything but the oppressive silence. She leaned against the wall, her chains clanking as she moved, and felt herself sliding into a doze. She set her traps and bolstered her defenses before she let herself relax, just a bit.
Instantly the attacks began again and she was jolted back into awareness by the mental invasion. She threw up walls and defenses, retreating into her maze, waiting to see what they would send at her next.
The Seekers were breaching Susan's defenses. They had reached the Maze and were blasting their way through it. They were getting too close, she realized and she didn't have enough strength left to protect herself. Her center was threatened, if they took that it was all over, she'd be just another witless Seer. It was time to put her plan into action.
The guard had been careless; he'd never noticed her taking the knife from his boot when he'd been fighting with her. They hadn't seen it hidden in her sleeve when they brought her food. She worked it free now, letting it drop into her hand.
She rolled herself over as far as she could, straining against her chains, and stretched her shackled fingers as far as she could reach. She'd practiced to get the motion just right, to make sure that she could manage it when the time came.
With a grim smile, she impaled her throat on the blade. Blood gushed out and she grabbed at the minds of those who were invading her thoughts, preventing them from escaping. As she triggered her regeneration, she burned them up with her, feeding them her own death. Their screams were deeply satisfying as she died.
The Master returned to Gallifrey with relief. He'd never imagined he'd ever be glad to see the orange skies and white capped mountains of his homeworld, not unless he was returning as a victorious conqueror.
But the things he'd seen in the last six months had beaten even at his withered hearts. The Daleks had burned Harmony to the ground. He had stood there, launching missiles into their fleet, but it hadn't been enough to keep the surface safe from bombardment. The image he'd seen from his TARDIS, of a child screaming and running, his clothing alight, his skin starting to blacken, haunted even him. He could still hear the shrieking in his dreams.
He'd thought himself inured to all suffering, uncaring of the fates of others, especially lower life forms, but he'd been wrong. Even he had his limits and the Daleks had pushed far past them.
He strode into the rooms that the Council had provided him. His father's home was forbidden to him these days. His mouth twisted in unaccustomed regret. His father was a narrow minded fool, who couldn't see his son's greatness, but he wished desperately for the solace of his childhood room. To be away from the Capital, to be somewhere safe and familiar, he wanted that suddenly, even as he despised himself for his weakness.
Instead, he ripped his uniform jacket off and threw it at one of the utilitarian chairs that sat in the living area, looking as lost and uncomfortable as he felt. He made his way to the bathroom, showering and changing into a clean uniform for the first time in weeks. He hated being dirty and this war was nothing but blood, soot, and fire. He never felt clean anymore.
He stared at himself in the mirror. Black hair, black goatee, black eyes, he wondered if it had been some subtle joke on the part of the technicians who'd revived him. His face was hollow with exhaustion; the planes of it sharpened by too many sleepless nights and missed meals. The nose was more patrician than he would have chosen, but the brow was broad and the chin acceptable. He was good-looking, handsome even, but there was something unyielding in his features. It was an arrogant, proud face and he felt it suited him. He still wasn't quite used to it, though. He barely had time to shave now, let alone look in a mirror for any other reason.
Nine months and he hadn't figured out how to deactivate the 'leash' Rassilon had put on him. Scans had shown him that the mechanism was wired into his brain, was welded to his entire neurological system, and ran through his hearts as well. There was no way to remove it without killing him, or at least he hadn't found a way yet. He wasn't sure that that it would survive regeneration, it might be rejected as a foreign object, but then again, it might not.
"You are ordered to report to the High Council," a computer's voice informed him and he snarled in fury. Ordered? No one 'ordered' him to do anything, he was the Master! He clenched his fists on the sink's edge and controlled his rage with a savage ruthlessness. It wouldn't do to lose control now. He had to keep playing along, being 'good', so that when his revenge did come, it would be a complete surprise.
"I am coming," he answered, cold and calm once more.