The Doctor sat patiently, waiting for Cleo to explain herself. It wasn't easy. He had a feeling (more than a feeling, if he was honest) that he wasn't going to like her story.
"It started," she began, "oh, I don't know how many years ago. But you know how our culture was set up."
He nodded. "Yes, I remember. The Gross Verstaendlich, nicknamed the Verstand. Developed back at the Luna, a computer-based system for assessing the capabilities for each member of the populace, determining their potential and the course of training to make the most of it.
"I also," the Doctor added sternly, "remember thinking that such a thing shouldn't really work; not if you wanted to preserve a modicum of free will."
"But it did work," she insisted. "For years, it worked. Our colony thrived; the people were happy and productive. But then one day, there were…" she paused, apprehensively, "rumours. That there were people miscategorised. Or people that the system refused to place at all."
The Doctor eyed her suspiciously. "You were the Governor here. Wouldn't you, of all people, know if they were rumours or…" He let his voice fade off, seeing that Cleo's swift flush spoke more than words.
"I didn't know, for a long time. And when I found out they were true, that the technicians and officials had been hiding the reports…" She shrugged, a tiny gesture of helplessness. "I was old already; and who listens to the warnings from a relic of a bygone age? The officials named me as Governor Emeritus and I was politely asked to step down and retire from society, to tacitly give my blessing to how we have grown and flowered."
"Except…?" The Doctor leaned forward, capturing her hand in his.
"Except it hasn't grown; has it, Doctor? It has stagnated. The rumours are true – and they are getting worse. Once, it was one in a thousand who was uncategorised. When they forced me from office, it was one out of two hundred… and that was ten years ago.
"I sent you a message because I need your help. We have to change things; they can't continue as they are."
He sat still for a moment, her hand in his. Tried to think of what to say, how he could help.
"What about the boy?" he asked suddenly. She shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
"He is," she said softly, "the leader of the rebels. One of the uncategorized who ran away a long time ago, and has since come out of hiding as their figurehead. I didn't mean," she muttered, "for that to happen: the arrest, the crowd. I asked the police commissioner for a favour, to look out for him. He translated that into… what you just saw. Foolish of me to have gotten someone else involved; but my face is too known. If I were to wander into the rebel hideouts to seek him out myself, I would just be leading the danger straight into their lair.
"But you saved him." Cleo looked up at him, her eyes challenging him to disagree. "I saw you and that screwdriver right before the lamps burst into flame."
Useless to stammer or temporize; she'd seen him. Still, the Doctor shrugged, a ready lie on his lips as she shook her head.
"No," she said. "No need to say anything else. Thank you for saving him; it means more to me than you would realise. But I need to know, Doctor. Will you help me with this? Fix this world? Help us all?"
He paused for a moment; a long, long moment while he thought and weighed possibilities and made decisions.
The right thing to do would be to help. To step in, as he always did. Do some jiggery-pokery with the system, enable talks between the rebels and the government, restructure their society…
"No," he said finally. Softly. Cleo stared at him, her eyes wide with surprise.
"No?"
"No." The Doctor let out a small sigh, not looking at her. Not looking, in fact, at anything. Inside his mind his conscience twisted and shrieked, calling him an idiot and a coward; but he ignored it.
"I didn't want to come here, Cleo; I didn't want to be put into this position. And I'm sorry. Because I can't help."
"All of that, what you've just told me," Clara said slowly, "is a lot to take in."
The understatement of the year. She'd time-travelled to a future colony of Earth to find out they had a strange idea about predestination, about being trained for your abilities. She was currently having hot chocolate with the rebels, who wanted to change said ideas.
"The old stories," Maisie said softly, "of how we were back on Earth say that people could make up their own minds. They could be anything they chose… and there was no pressure on them, say if they had an innate ability for art and a head for mathematics that they had to become an architect."
From her bitter tone of voice, Clara presumed that she was speaking from personal experience on that one.
"So you want to lead a rebellion to force the world to be like it was?" she asked. "Isn't that sort of..."
She paused, not knowing quite how to formulate her own thoughts to make them not sound offensive. "I'm not saying I agree with putting people on the Scrap Heap. But the past isn't -wasn't- always so great. I bet there are some people who this really helps…?"
"Where are you from, anyway?" Maisie asked. "I don't remember you saying."
"I didn't," Clara mumbled. "Lancashire."
"Lancashire… in England?"
"Do you know of another one?"
"No. But I wonder about it, Clara. Because, is that what it's like for you? You've someone to tell you: go here, do that? You never think for yourself? You never want to help those who are ignored or lost to be able to have a voice?"
"I do!" Clara bristled. "I think plenty for myself, and do what seems right-"
"But you think we shouldn't?" Matthieu was looking at her curiously, as though he was trying to figure out how her brain worked; and his lips tilted slightly upwards into a sardonic smile. Clara really didn't appreciate that expression.
"I don't think that we have the same idea of a rebellion," Matthieu said. There was a strength in his voice, a quality about him that was almost impossible to ignore. The strong set of his features, the girlishly long dark lashes framing blue eyes that were still sad and yet somehow fervently following the future he had in mind.
"I dream that one day we'll all be allowed to belong. True, the system works for some… but not all. In the last years, Shonslebn has become a race of intolerant sheep herded by hidebound dictators; and that's what I want to fix. Not just for us; though we here have all been affected by the persecution of the Erste, seeing what has happened to either our sons or daughters, friends or sisters or brothers. Not even just for myself… because really," he gave a self-deprecating shrug, "I was one of the lucky ones. I had parents who loved me enough to hide me when I came of age, and a sister dedicated to my survival.
"But what about those who are too scared or don't know there are alternatives? Who should help the helpless?"
She didn't know what to say; and crestfallen, she slumped back in her chair. Examined her fingers, thinking hard about what he'd just said. Matthieu watched her for a moment, waiting for her to speak; but when she didn't, he sighed.
"This isn't even your fight," he said dismissively. "You're not from here, and I couldn't expect you to understand why we feel the need to fight the system, to give people the right to make the choices that suit their lives best."
"No," she murmured. "I understand why. If I lived here, maybe I'd even agree… a little, anyway. But I don't know what you think seven people can do."
"It's not just seven. And I still think," Matthieu said, "that if even one person makes a choice and stands up to say: 'this is wrong, let's talk about how to fix it'… I think that even one person can be a hero and change the world.
"But I suppose that's neither here nor there." He sighed, raking his hand through his hair. "Mais, did you get any response from Langbein yet?"
His sister checked her phone, squinting at the display. "Message just came in, ten minutes ago. He said the prisoner is definitely in the Hall; and if we hurry, he can sneak us in before his shift ends." She turned to Clara. "When you've gotten your friend back…?"
"We're leaving," Clara said decisively. She was ready to see the back of this place, to stop this conversation with the rebels and the faintly irritating but compelling Matthieu.
"Let's hurry then. We can get in there, pick up your Doctor, and you can be on your way from Shonslebn."