The population of Sparta, what was left of it, was hiding in a church basement
The population of Sparta, what was left of it, was hiding in a church basement. If they'd tried to hide like that further down state, the Toclafane would have found them long ago, but this was Cairo, which was largely overlooked, if not ignored.
"We don't have much, Miss Jones," the Pastor said nervously, as he handed her the steaming cup. Martha's fingers curled around its warmth thankfully.
"Are you kidding? This is great," she said, smiling at him. "Do you have you any idea how long it's been since I've had coffee with milk?"
The pastor gave her a tired smile. "A while, I suppose."
They sat together, on a pew that they must have been dragged down from upstairs, and Martha looked around the room as she took an appreciative sip from her cup. There were forty people in the small basement and two thirds of them were children. That didn't seem right. She hadn't paid too much attention to it when she had first arrived but, now that she'd gotten rid of the chill in her bones, her eyes were beginning to pick up small details. "Where are the adults?"
"Dead, mostly," the pastor said. "There are a lot of orphans nowadays."
"Yeah," Martha murmured. "Any injuries or illness? I've got medical training."
He smiled sadly. "Not anymore," he said softly.
A stillness went through the room, and Martha felt the hairs on the back of her neck go up. There was something wrong here, something she couldn't quite put her finger on. She took another sip of her coffee. "You know why I'm here?"
"We've heard the rumours, yes," he said.
Now, the stillness was palpable, and Martha she wondered how long it would take. Had they notified the Toclafane before their scout had led her here, or after?
Martha tried to look the pastor in the eye, but his glance skittered away. It was then that she knew for certain. Her eyelids began to droop; they'd drugged her. Gently, she placed the cup on the worn wood of the pew's seat. "How long do I have?"
"They're already here," he said softly. He turned to look at her again, and Martha could see the tears stand in his eyes. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay, I understand, really I do," she said, but she wasn't sure if he understood, because her words were already beginning to slur. "What did you put in my…put in my…." She heard the sound of booted feet and she tried to get stand, her fingers fumbling for the TARDIS key she'd pocketed.
"Easy there," the pastor said, and she felt him take the key from her grasp. "Do you have family?" he asked softly. "Someone I should tell, if someone asks after you?"
Martha smiled grimly through the haze; she had a funny feeling the Master would make sure her family would be the first to know of her capture, and the only other people that would care – Jack and the Doctor – would know soon after that.
She thought briefly of Derek, but quickly quelled that idea. She shook her head, felt her knees buckle, and slumped back onto the pew.
Running didn't seem to be an option.
Her mouth felt dry and coated when she came to, a sure sign she'd been drugged. The room was shrouded in darkness, and she was tied to what felt like a chair. She felt at her bonds with her fingers. They seemed to be those bag ties her Mum used for putting things into the freezer. They were cutting off her circulation, whatever they were, and Martha knew she'd be paying for that later.
She peered through the darkness, biting her lip as she recognised the noise in the distance. They were screams. She guessed the Toclafane had stayed behind in the basement to have a little fun. They really should have known better than to try and broker a deal with the Master.
Martha sighed; maybe they didn't have a choice. Maybe that's why there weren't more adults in the basement. The thing is, everybody had a reason now.
Eventually, the screams stopped and she wondered if they were going to come for her soon or draw the moment out. Footsteps seemed to answer her question, and Martha squinted against the light as a door was swung open; she heard it slam and bounce off the wall.
"So you're the great Martha Jones. You don't look like much."
Martha looked up at the dark silhouette at the door, even as she tried to take in the other details. It seemed she was in some sort of garage shed with blacked out windows. "So, tell me," she bit out, as the figure didn't move. "Are you posing against the light on purpose, or is it just a happy coincidence?"
The man moved, almost self consciously, and Martha stared at him hard; average, build, average height. There was nothing about him that was unusual, until you looked into the eyes. "Interrogator?" she asked, trying to her keep her voice light.
"Oh come now, Miss Jones, I think we both know who your interrogator is going to be."
Yeah, Martha did. "Why the face-to-face, then?" she asked.
"I suppose I was curious. I've heard so much about you, Martha Jones. Quite frankly, I was expecting someone…."
"Taller?"
The mercenary shrugged. "I'd have gone for smarter," he said. "You didn't even make it out of New England, you know."
"Really," Martha said flatly. "How tragic."
He smiled grimly and called out: "Put her in the truck, in the cage."
Martha glared at the two mercenaries entering the shed, but let them drag her to her feet. They pulled her towards a huge truck, its back doors open, and Martha swallowed down a gulp as she noticed the cage swinging from the roof. "You've got to be kidding me!"
The blonde mercenary at her side shrugged. Was it her imagination, or did he look slightly uncomfortable. "It's what the Colonel likes," he muttered.
"Yeah, I'll just bet he does," Martha muttered. "I'm surprised he hasn't put a pole too."
The Mercenary snorted, but didn't say anything as he prodded her up the ramp while the other soldier pulled at a lever just inside the door. Martha shook her head as the cage slowly descended. "This is like something out of Mad Max," she muttered.
"I wouldn't give him any ideas," the mercenary at her shoulder said softly. "The Master keeps a leash on him, but he slips loose every once in a while."
Martha nodded, a silent acknowledgement of the warning, as the doors of the cage were opened. "How long will I have to be in this thing?" she asked.
"Until we reach Boston."
"What? Not New York?"
The mercenary pulled a face. "Nobody goes to New York," he said, as he nudged her inside. "Not anymore." He went to close the cage doors shut, but Martha shoved her wrists through the opening.
"Couldn't do us a favour, could you?" she asked. "They're cutting off my circulation, and I think my fingertips are beginning to lose sensation…"
"They didn't say we could do that," the other mercenary, by the lever, said.
"I'm not going anywhere," Martha said softly, catching the eye of the guy in front of her. He was young, younger than her, but his eyes already looked weary.
"Wrists up," he said, as he reached for his knife. He cut through them. "Move back," he said gruffly, as the pieces of plastic fell though the cage grid on the floor, and Martha obliged as she massaged her wrists, willing her circulation to move again. She hadn't been kidding when she said her fingers were going numb.
The cage doors slammed shut, and the mercenary on the lever slowly began to pick up the slack on the chain, Martha held onto the bars as the cage lifted from the floor, rocking as it rose.
"Good thing I don't get car sick," Martha muttered.
"It's happened before," the mercenary who'd untied her hands said. His head was now level with her feet, and Martha steadied herself as the chain ground to a halt.
"It's not too late, you know," she called out. "It can still go back to the way it was."
The mercenary who'd untied her looked at her almost pityingly. "There's no going back now, Martha Jones," he said. "Don't you see? Even if you could defeat the Master, none of us could live with the memories."
"Besides," the other chirped up. "How could you do it? Apparently, he can just make himself a new body if you kill him."
A germ of an idea fermented in Martha's mind. "What if I told you there was a weapon?" she asked. "One that could kill him permanently. What would you say then?"
The fair haired mercenary looked up at her, his eyes narrowing. "I'd say good luck, Martha Jones, you're going to need it."
And they shut the door on her, leaving her peering into the darkness once again. Oh well, at least this time her hands were free. She searched her pockets, her heart sinking as she realised they'd already been rifled. She wasn't sure who had her key. Had the pastor kept it, or had he'd passed it onto the Toclafane before he'd been killed?
Suddenly, a thought occurred to her, and she clutched at her ankle, breathing out a sigh of relief as she realised it was still there; Jack's vortex manipulator. The strap had always been a bit too loose to wrap around her wrist, and she'd been too scared to shorten it for fear she'd damage some of its circuitry.
She felt the familiar shape of it under her fingers. She could use it but she couldn't be sure it would leave her in the right century - or even the right planet. It would, however, get her out of this truck.
Away from the Master.
Martha pulled a face, and dragged her trouser leg back down. She wasn't giving up.
Not yet, anyway.
A shudder ran through the truck's suspension, and woke up Martha from her doze. She held onto the cage bars and dragged herself onto her feet. She could feel her fingers again, thank goodness. She tried to figure out how long they'd been travelling. It seemed to be only a few hours, but she had dozed off.
The truck shuddered again, and Martha frowned up at the ceiling. It sounded like somebody was up there, but who would be crazy enough to….
"Reese," Martha snorted, with a half laugh.
And then the top of the truck blew in.
"Martha, Martha, talk to me - Martha?"
The voice sounded like it was travelling through a long tunnel. "Doctor?" she asked.
"You should be so lucky" the voice snorted, and Martha frowned as she tried to open her eyes. For some strange reason, that made her cough. "Easy there, I'll have you out in a moment. What kind of crazy idiot locks their prisoners up in a hanging cage, anyway?"
"One who watches too much TV," Martha suggested. Or, at least, she tried to, but her vocal chords weren't playing along.
"Shit, you don't look so hot, Jones."
Martha squinted an eye open. Even bruised and cut, and bleeding in one side, Reese was a sight for sore eyes. "You don't look all that yourself," she grumped.
"All that?" he echoed. "Who have you been hanging out with?"
"You," she muttered, "Bastard," she added, for good measure, as she propped herself up on elbow. Her whole body ached. "What happened? I mean, other than you, that is."
"Huh? Oh, that was – oh, got it!" The cage door swung open and Martha let him half pull, half drag her out of the cage. She swung her head around and realised that the truck was overturned.
"Reese, did you just run me off the road?" she asked, her voice deceptively quiet.
"Might have," he said. There was teasing quality to his voice, one that she'd never heard before. If she didn't know any better she'd swear he was enjoying the situation.
"Why aren't we dead?" she asked, as he propped her against his shoulder and led her through a hole in the ceiling – which was now the door, apparently.
"There were only two other trucks," he said.
Only two, eh?
Martha noticed one of the other trucks blocking the road in front of them; or part of one, at least. "You blew them up," she said flatly.
"Yes, I did," he said.
"Did you have to do that?"
"Well, I thought of asking them nicely, but something told me they wouldn't go for that…tell you what, next time I'll just offer them some ice cream."
Martha shook her head, but didn't say anything. He had a point. "What about the Toclafane?" she asked quietly.
"They weren't with the convoy," he said. "Guess they don't like babysitting."
Martha thought of the children back in the town, and felt her feet buckle. Oh God, those poor kids….
"Hey, easy there." She felt an awkward pat on her back as he eased her down onto the grass on the side of the road.
"Yeah, sorry," she said. "It's just… that poor man. I knew he didn't want to give me up, but he did it anyway, because he thought he could save the kids and...the key!"
"You mean that key you keep tugging at, around your neck?" he asked softly.
"Yeah…it's important."
He reached for her hand and Martha frowned, puzzled, as he pressed something into it. "Where did you get it?" she asked, as she looked at the key.
"Sparta," he said, his eyes shuttered. "We've gotta keep moving. We need to be away from here before they realise this convoy isn't gonna reach Boston."
She nodded and curled her fingers around the key as he pulled her to her feet. Martha began to laugh as they limped down the road.
"What are you laughing at?"
"You. Me, This," she said, waving her hand at the wrecked vehicles and the smoke.
He looked down at her. "You're one crazy broad," he pronounced.
"Oh, you don't know the half of it," she murmured "How did you find me?" He shrugged silently, and Martha looked up at him suspiciously. "You never left, did you?"
"I left," he muttered, but Martha thought he sounded a touch defensive.
"And," she probed.
"I saw the trucks on the freeway," he admitted. "I figured they weren't trawling for corn farmers, not with that amount of ammunition, so that just left—"
"Me," she finished for him. Oh well, at least he came back for her, she supposed. She didn't know why she felt so disappointed he'd left in the first place. "I've had an idea," she said aloud, as they walked away from the wreckage.
"Got anything to do with triage?"
"Nope," she said. She gave the blood soaking though Reese's shirt a critical eye. "But I should take a look at that."
He shrugged, and Martha noticed the wince as he did so. "It's nothing, just tore some stitches."
"Sometimes that can be even worse," she reminded him.
"What was your idea?"
"God, you're really bad at this, you know?"
"Bad at what?"
"Changing the subject," Martha said.
"I wasn't trying to change the subject."
"Oh no?"
"No, I was genuinely interested."
Suspicious, Martha looked up at his face. "I don't believe you," she declared.
He sighed. "Yeah, yeah, just spill it already, okay?"
"Well, all this talk about guns has got me thinking…"
He raised an eyebrow at that. "You're gonna learn?"
"No - well, yeah – but that isn't what I meant."
He stopped, mid stride, and looked down at her. "And what, exactly, do you mean?"
"Well, you know how you were saying we needed a distraction for the Master,so he'd think he was up against something totally different than what he was, yeah…?"
He gave her a wry look. "That wasn't exactly how I put it," he drawled.
"Well, close enough," she said dismissively. "The point is, I was thinking we could use a weapon."
"A weapon?" Reese repeated slowly.
"Yeah," Martha said. "But like a special one, right? A super scary one that kills Timelords, and we're travelling the world looking for all the elements so we can assemble it, and--"
Reese began to cough, or maybe it was a laugh. "Do you really expect him to fall for that?" he asked, disbelief in his voice.
"You've not met this guy," Martha said. "Trust me, he'll eat it up. He lives for this sort of stuff. We'll say it's this great, big, phallic weapon of doom, and he'll fall for it, hook, line and sinker – and we'll make it shiny."
"Shiny?"
"With all these weird, colourful vials. Timelords really like that kind of stuff; bits of wires and things that glow in the dark - and symbols, lots of symbols scrawled all over it."
"U-huh."
She felt his arm squeeze around her shoulders, in what Martha realised was his version of a hug, and she squeezed back. "You all right?" she asked.
"John would have loved you," Reese said quietly.
"John?" Martha asked.
"My nephew."
Martha felt a tightening in her chest, and she reached for his hand, knowing there was no point asking the question; she already knew the answer. "You'll get him back," she promised.
He looked down at her, his face unreadable; but, just for a moment, his hand squeezed back.
