Title: What a Fool Believes
Author: E.A. Week
E-mail: eaweek at hotmail-dot-com
Summary: River Song summons the Eleventh Doctor to the beautiful planet Vareda to celebrate the excavation of an ancient temple. A gruesome attack on the Doctor leads River to believe that someone on Vareda would do anything to keep her discovery buried forever.
Category: Doctor Who. Eleven/ River; Amy/Rory.
Distribution: Feel free to link to this story from another web page, but please drop me at least a brief e-mail and let me know you've done this.
Feedback: Letters of comment are always welcome! Loved it? Hated it? Send me an email and let me know why!
Disclaimer: Copyrights to all characters in this story belong to their respective creators, production companies, and studios. I'm just borrowing them, honest!
The story title is shamelessly stolen from the Doobie Brothers.
Datclaimer: This story is rated M for sex, language, and mild gore.
Continuity (PLEASE read this): This story occurs at some nebulous point after season five, but somewhat outside the continuity of season six, though I touch on some of the same themes and borrow a couple of general ideas. Think of it as a tiny little "bubble" universe, connected to the "main" universe of the sixth season, or a slightly alternate timeline.
Chapter Three
Movement. A faint mechanical hum. The cool gust of air conditioning. For a moment, Amy was back on Earth, asleep in a train or a hotel room, on a holiday she and Rory had once taken. Then she opened her eyes, and everything came back in a rush.
"It's all right," said a voice nearby.
Amy sat. She'd been lying on one of the tram seats, a pillow beneath her head and a sheet draped over her long body. Outside the windows, the sun still shone. Green scenery flew past; the tram was on its way back to the city.
"Rory? Doctor?"
"The Doctor was teleported to the capital. He'll be there by now. I wouldn't be surprised if he's already in surgery."
The speaker was—of all people—Prince Lambert. The young man sat on the opposite side of the compartment. Apart from a uniformed female attendant, he and Amy were the only occupants of the tram car.
"Hey," said Amy. "Do you know where River is? Professor Song, I mean. And Rory Pond—my husband?"
Prince Lambert knew exactly who she was talking about. "They both went in the tele-tram."
"I hope that's like a helicopter that teleports."
Prince Lambert didn't recognize the word helicopter—Amy wondered how the TARDIS translation circuits would transpose the concept. "What's that?" he asked.
Amy said, "At home we have these things called helicopters that we use for emergencies. Only ours can't teleport."
Prince Lambert beckoned to the attendant, who brought Amy some water. "Come sit here," the prince invited.
Amy stood and stretched, but a moment later she dropped into the seat beside Prince Lambert, grateful to be off her feet again. The water felt and tasted good.
"Are you all right?" asked Prince Lambert.
"Head's a bit muzzy," Amy said. Up close, Prince Lambert was even more beautiful, like a magical being in a fairy story—an elf or a wood sprite, an impression heightened by his warm, friendly eyes and melodious voice. He wasn't Amy's type—too small, too fey—but she nevertheless envied whatever lucky girl would one day become Mrs. Lambert.
Amy asked, "So River and Rory went with the Doctor?"
"Professor Song insisted. She said the Doctor has unusual medical requirements. She won't let anyone touch him without her permission. Everyone's saying he's not human."
"He's not," Amy said.
"She wanted your husband to assist in the surgery—she said he's a nurse."
"He is," Amy said, thrilled and proud, despite her fear, that River trusted Rory so implicitly. Swallowing back nausea, she asked, "What—what happened? I couldn't really see, then I blacked out."
"The stone altar was a Moschatan spring-trap," Prince Lambert explained. "The Moschatans used to set them in pits for hunting. Did you notice the indentations in the sides of the altar?"
"Yes," Amy shuddered.
"Each one probably has a Moschatan hunting knife inside it. The chest has been taken to the museum, but the stone's been left where it is—the area's cordoned off, under Mother's guards. Professor Song wants to look at it later."
"Yeah," said Amy, drinking more water.
"Well, the Doctor must have triggered one of the knives, probably when he brushed against the stone. It—the knife went right through his leg, severed an artery, your husband said."
"Will the Doctor be all right?" asked Amy, her voice rising on a note of anxiety. She remembered only too well the look of those knives in the museum.
"The tram can teleport to the city in seconds and land on top of the hospital," said Prince Lambert. "It's all in the surgeons' hands now. Vareda has the best physicians anywhere. If it makes you feel better, the Sisters of the Palamon will chant healing prayers until the surgery is finished. Mother requested it."
"Give her my thanks," Amy said, touched by the gesture. "And thank you for coming with me."
"You're our guests," Prince Lambert said. "Of course we'll do whatever we can for you." Eyes shining, he added, "They say you're from Earth."
"Yeah," said Amy.
"What's it like? We have so many stories and legends about Earth—I would've loved to see it."
"You wouldn't," Amy said, feeling glum. "It's—it's dirty and overcrowded and people are always killing each other." She didn't feel terribly charitable toward her own species right now.
"Kill each other?" Prince Lambert's brow furrowed. "Over what?"
"Everything," said Amy. "Land, money, gods, anything you can think of. There are criminal gangs who kill rival gang members over the shirts and shoes they wear."
Prince Lambert looked sad and shocked. He said, "My ancestors came from a land called Vienna."
"That's a city," Amy smiled. "It's in a country called Austria."
"What's it like?" he asked. "Did you ever go there?"
"No," said Amy. "I really don't know anything about Austria. Except there was this family, the Von Trapps, who were famous musicians. They went to America when the Nazis…" She trailed off, realizing Prince Lambert's expression had grown blank.
"There was a… a story about them, with songs," Amy said, struggling to think of something Prince Lambert would understand. "People would, um… perform it on stage. It was really popular."
"Sing some of it," Prince Lambert urged.
Amy went red in the face. "I do not sing well," she said. "Seriously. You had to hear Julie Andrews. She was the best."
"Just try," Prince Lambert smiled.
"Don't say I didn't warn you," Amy laughed. She cleared her throat and attempted the chorus of "Climb Ev'ry Mountain."
"That's wonderful!" Prince Lambert exclaimed. "What does it mean, to 'follow every rainbow?'"
"It's just a saying," Amy said. "It means… I guess it just means to follow your dreams. Your heart. People used to think if they could find the end of a rainbow, there'd be some kind of treasure there."
"So, are you?" asked Prince Lambert.
"Am I what?"
"Following your rainbow."
"Maybe," Amy said with a short laugh. "Traveling with the Doctor—yeah, I guess that's following a rainbow." She shivered. "I hope he's okay."
Prince Lambert squeezed her hand. "We're almost there… I'll take you over to the hospital, and maybe we'll find out."
Amy looked out the window and saw a small silver-white blob on the horizon. Within minutes it grew larger and closer, the blob resolving into the distinct shapes of tall buildings and the spires of the royal palace. Somewhere in that city, the Doctor was in surgery, having his leg stitched back together. Amy didn't often pray, but now she prayed blindly to whatever deities would listen that the Doctor somehow survived.
(ii)
Heat. All around him was scorching, stinking, stifling heat. The tunnels were close, claustrophobic, and oppressive, but he hadn't dared use the grav-lift. All the major transit routes of the Citadel were under heavy guard now; leaving him with this disused network of tunnels to navigate. He could only hope he wouldn't reach the far end to find the passageway had been sealed off.
He tried to think of the tunnels only as dirt and rock, inanimate, not as part of a living, breathing entity. He tried not to feel the planet itself, pulsing around him. Gallifrey, mighty and beautiful, now a scorched wasteland, convulsed in the death throes of an unwinnable war. He half-hoped that the planet would be destroyed from without, that he would die before he had time to commit this unspeakable act.
After what felt like days or even months—his normally reliable inner chronometer was badly off-kilter—he felt a gust of hot air on his face, and the tunnel tilted sharply downward, ending in loose gravel. He couldn't get any purchase and fell the rest of the way, landing in a painful heap on some kind of metal grate, wrapping his arms around his head until the rain of small stones stopped clattering. Then he hauled himself inch by inch to his feet, checking to see that the small, heavy canister was still strapped to his back.
Yes. This was where he needed to be. With great care, the Doctor switched on his small, powerful torch; he'd been conserving the battery until now, feeling his way blindly underground so that he would have light when he most needed it.
The catwalk stretched out over a yawning stone chasm. Below him, at the bottom of the cavern, lay the massive conduits that drew energy from the Eye of Harmony, hidden deep below the Panopticon. Normally this place would be guarded, but all able-bodied adults had been summoned to fight on the planet's surface, leaving this vulnerable underbelly unprotected and exposed.
The Doctor tried not to think too deeply about his actions; he just took one step at a time. First—he had to get down from this catwalk. Judging by the condition of the metal—not rusted, but dusty and a bit discolored—this span was seldom used, probably just to inspect the roof of the cavern when needed. Still, there must be a way down.
He traversed the length of the catwalk, looking for ladders or stairs. A terrible thought occurred to him: what if there was no way up or down? The Time Lords could easily have accessed this area by means of a hovering lift. Would he be stuck here, trapped beneath Gallifrey's surface until the bitter end came and death claimed him at last?
Never one to give up, the Doctor kept walking, his footfalls quiet, yet sounding too loud, echoing out across the cavern. He was alone down here, but still he worried…
And then he saw it. At the far end of the cavern, a mechanical ladder had been mounted into the rock wall. Such devices were activated remotely, by a switch below. The Doctor didn't need a switch. He aimed the sonic screwdriver and, with a soft hum, the ladder began to lower from its casing down to the cavern floor below. With the canister still strapped to his back, the Doctor pocketed the torch and began his descent.
He climbed and climbed in total darkness until the muscles in his legs were screaming in protest. And then, when he didn't think he could go any further, his right foot touched solid rock. He fished for the torch and switched it on again, casting the beam of light up. The catwalk soared far overhead, a thin pencil line, charcoal gray against utter black.
He turned his attention to the conduits, which hummed as they bore energy from the Eye out to the planet. All of Gallifrey's power, including the Time Lords' ability to manipulate time, was centered here. And now it would be their destruction.
He wondered what was happening overhead, if the Daleks has reached the Citadel. If so, had they penetrated as far as the Panopticon? The Doctor couldn't let either side win: he couldn't let the Time Lords destroy all of creation in order to perpetuate an existence as disembodied entities. Nor could he allow the Daleks access to the most powerful technology ever devised. Gallifrey had to be destroyed—utterly obliterated, and then locked away so that this point in time and space could never be reached again by anyone.
The Doctor had already time-locked the Time War itself, using the power of the Matrix; now he must act quickly, to destroy the planet before either the Time Lords or the Daleks could undo the lock. The Doctor had used his own molecular structure in creating the lock; anyone who hoped to undo it would need a sample of his DNA. He knew this wouldn't stop the Time Lords indefinitely—or the Daleks, for that matter—but he hoped it would slow them down and give him time. Time to act. Time to commit the ultimate atrocity.
He moved around the conduit with great care, watching his footing. Heat from the planet's core had, here and there, caused cracks and fissures in the rock. He gave a start when he came across the entrance to the grav-lift: in happier times, this had provided easy access to the conduits from the Panopticon. Only the most high-ranking Time Lord technicians, of course, would be allowed down here to maintain the conduits. The controls to the grav-lift were completely dark now, and the Doctor knew that power to the lift must have been cut off from above. Still, it didn't mean he wouldn't be discovered. Sooner or later, one of the Time Lords would realize where he was and what he planned.
The Doctor continued his search, scanning the hulking tubes and pipes of the conduits, all forged from dwarf-star alloy, until he found what he was looking for: an innocuous hatch, scarcely wide enough to look through. Beside it was a security panel. Nobody but the President of Gallifrey could open this hatch.
The Doctor unzipped an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew something he'd been carrying around for days, hidden away, something for which the other Time Lords must be frantically searching: the Seal of the President. Romana had given it to the Doctor as she'd lain dying in his arms, her last act in life. Since the Doctor had kept the Seal from the other Time Lords, it must still work, still keyed to Romana's genetic code.
The Doctor placed the metal disk against the security panel. A moment later, the panel hummed and clicked open. Beneath it was the outline of a hand. From another pocket, the Doctor removed a glove. The material resembled ordinary plastic, but it was in truth synthetic skin, which could be used to create a perfect replica of the surface of a hand. Romana had given this also to the Doctor, in the early days of the war, no doubt anticipating the need, acknowledging the reality that he might have to take this horrible step if she herself was not able.
Shoving aside the grief of his loss, the Doctor drew on the close-fitting glove and placed his hand against the security pad. The neutral blue glow switched to a soft yellow. The handprint had been recognized and accepted. Now the Doctor closed his eyes, focusing on the telepathic password that Romana had devised—long and complicated. She'd forced him to memorize it when she'd given him the glove, a chain of equations, sensory impressions, memories, and poetry—all experiences unique to her, things she'd allowed only the Doctor to share with her.
The yellow glow of the keypad shifted to white. The password had been accepted. The door to the tiny hatch slid open.
Inside lay utter blackness—the Eye of Harmony, the nucleus of a black hole held for millennia in perfect balance against the mass of Gallifrey itself.
Until today.
Shaking, the Doctor shrugged out of the straps that held the canister to his back. Using the sonic screwdriver, he opened the outer shell. Within the device, lights glowed and blinked. The Doctor gasped back a sob. Why? Why did it have to be him? Why did he have to be the one to enact this horrible, final solution?
In his mind, he said farewell to everyone and everything he'd ever known, to friends and foes and lovers, to worlds explored, to places known and unknown. Using the sonic, he activated the loathsome little device. One of these things could rip a planet apart, cause a sun to go supernova. The Doctor regretted with all his soul the day this one had come into his possession.
He pushed the detonation button.
"Forgive me," he gasped, and shoved the device through the hatch, into the Eye of Harmony.
He closed the hatch and stepped back from the conduits, his legs wobbling so badly he didn't think they would support him much longer. Why was he even trying to run? There was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
Beneath his feet, the ground rumbled and shook as seismic forces began to tear apart the planet. The convulsions threw the Doctor to the ground. The torch flew from his hand and shattered, leaving him in darkness. He staggered up to his feet, but a fissure burst open in the rock floor of the cavern, scorching the Doctor with a blast of super-heated gasses. He fell again, screaming, skin singed and blistering. Great boulders began to fall from the ceiling, smashing around him everywhere. Only seconds remained now before he was crushed to death or swallowed up in the quaking bowels of the dying planet.
Right near his head, something landed with a loud whump, and impossibly, a lovely, pale light shone in the darkness. Through bleary eyes, the Doctor looked up to see the homey, beloved shape of the TARDIS, so close to him he could reach out and brush its blue outer surface with his fingertips. With a soft click, the door swung open, casting a beam of light into the hellish black of the underground chasm.
The immense cowardice of his actions tormented the Doctor as he began to drag himself toward the time machine. He had time-locked his planet and his people into a loop of eternal damnation. At the very least, he should be willing to share their wretched fate. But he couldn't do that, not with a means of escape so near at hand.
The violent convulsions continued as he hauled his injured body over the threshold and into safety. An almighty explosion made him cry out in agony and terror, and then everything went silent: the blast had blown out his eardrums. Unable to hear himself gasping and weeping, the Doctor rolled fully into the TARDIS and with one flail of his left arm, he pushed the doors shut.
The next explosion came from deep within the planet's core, blowing Gallifrey apart with titanic power. The TARDIS went ricocheting into space, the force so powerful that it threw the Doctor into the console, breaking his back. His limp body hurtled like a ragdoll across the control room and into a wall with enough force to crush his skull. And then there was blackness and nothingness.
He came to awareness much later, though it didn't seem to him he'd been unconscious for very long. Around him, the TARDIS engines hummed their usual low vibration. With a few wary blinks, he sat. As he did, the charred remnants of his clothes flaked off his pale skin and fluttered down to a grated metal floor. The Doctor looked around. The central console and the time rotor had changed in appearance. Support pillars, coral in color and branching like tree limbs, arched up toward the ceiling.
He'd regenerated, and the TARDIS had rebuilt itself after the cataclysm. The Doctor tried to make sense of it all. He'd escaped. Impossibly—he'd escaped.
He lurched upright, more burnt flakes of fabric falling like black snow to the floor. The Doctor ran hands down his smooth torso. Tall—he was taller now; he could feel it. Up over his neck: big chin, big nose, protuberant ears. His head felt naked and queer, his hair only a slight fuzz beneath his fingertips. His beautiful hair, always his crowning glory, shorn and gone. He harbored absolutely no curiosity about his new appearance, no urge to look in a mirror, no wish to see the outer shell of the vile creature he'd become.
He staggered over to the console on legs thick and clumsy and nerveless, as if they'd lost all sensation. He circled the console until he found the scanner. Holding his breath, he switched on the screen.
After a moment's static, the scanner blinked to life. The Doctor stared at horizontal stripes of color: purple, olive, gold, cherry-red. The surface of a planet, seen from its orbit, so massive that the Doctor couldn't see the entire sphere from this vantage point. He was looking down into its atmosphere; minerals from countless volcanoes, superheated to a gaseous state and belched into the stratosphere, causing those bands of color. He was in the solar system of the star Epsilon Eridani, staring at its largest planet, Epsilon Eridani b. The force of Gallifrey ripping apart had thrown the TARDIS clear across the Pisces-Cetus Supercluster Complex.
The Doctor put a hand on the console—a large, square, strong hand with long fingers. This incredible machine had saved his life—had plucked him from the maw of death and transported him out of the time lock to safety. He realized the TARDIS must have read his genetic code in the lock and unraveled it enough to dematerialize through the barrier. The lock would have snapped shut behind him, leaving the planet in a never-ending circle of destruction.
Leaning down toward the console, the Doctor said, "Thanks, old girl," startled by his new voice. A beautiful voice, the tones full and round, but old and bewildered and so very, very sad.
The guilty knowledge of what he'd done sank down over him like a suffocating cloak of black ash. His home world was destroyed, his people annihilated, and it was all his own doing. He stood hunched over the console, sobbing quietly, as the remnants of his predecessor's clothing continued to flake like diseased skin away from his new body.
(iii)
"How is he?"
River had been so lost in thought that the voice propelled her to her feet like an adrenaline-fueled rocket, mentally cursing her carelessness. Her right hand shot down for her blaster, but she remembered in an instant she was unarmed—civilians on Vareda were prohibited from carrying weapons—and her hands snapped up to her torso, her body shifting into combat stance.
"Professor Song?" Lady Bianca stepped back, her face bewildered and apprehensive.
"Oh, I'm sorry!" River dropped her hands and relaxed her posture. Still, Lady Bianca was wary. She'd never seen this side of River—the trained warrior.
"I just wanted to see if the Doctor was all right—if there's anything I can do."
River sighed. "Thank you," she said. "He's stable—that's all the surgeons could do. The rest is up to his immune system. He does heal quickly, but…"
"But you still worry." Lady Bianca stepped into the room, her curious gaze darting about before settling on the Doctor's prone form. Beneath the tangle of wires, he was almost unrecognizable. A wall of computer monitors tracked his vital signs. Lady Bianca stared at one screen in particular, her eyes growing wider. "Is that his brain?" she breathed.
"You should see it when he's conscious," River said, chuckling despite her worry. "He could reduce that monitor to a hulk of metal components if he wanted to."
"Still, that's remarkable." Lady Bianca stepped closer, watching the flux of the myriad oscillating lines. "So much activity!"
"He's dreaming," River said, smiling with tenderness. She touched the Doctor's forehead, which was dotted with electrodes. "He'll be ever so cross with me tomorrow—we had to give him a liter of morphine to keep him unconscious during the surgery. It makes him have nightmares. That's what you're looking at right now."
They stood in silence for a few moments, watching the firestorm inside the Doctor's mind. Then Lady Bianca said, "I was going to get a light supper—could I get you something while I'm in the canteen?"
"Just some black tea, please," River said. "I need to stay awake."
"No food?"
"No, digestion makes me groggy. Just tea. And thank you so much." For the first time, River wondered why Lady Bianca was in the hospital in the small hours of the morning. Even Amy had returned to the palace to sleep, mostly at Rory's insistence. "What are you doing here?"
Lady Bianca said, "Miranda's gone into her terminal phase. I'm over in the children's ward, with Iris and Hector. Waiting."
Overwhelmed, River embraced the older woman. "I'm so, so sorry," she said. "How's—how is Iris?"
"How would any mother be?" asked Lady Bianca. "She's torn to pieces."
"I'm sorry," River said again, hating the inadequacy of the words. "That poor woman."
Lady Bianca sighed, and in the gusty exhalation, River heard years of worry and sorrow. "We've known this day would come," she said. "As much as we tried to deny it. Tried to hope…" Lady Bianca drew herself up straighter, rather prim, as if worried she'd said too much or breached some kind of protocol, very much the queen's steward again. "I'll get you that tea."
"Thank you," River said.
After Lady Bianca left, River sat staring at the Doctor. At the very worst, he would regenerate, and she would have to contend with a new body and a different personality, but he would be alive, fundamentally the same man. For Miranda, though, there was no hope at all.
(iv)
Iris had fallen asleep despite her best efforts to remain conscious, the years of worry taking their toll, especially the last few agonizing months of hopes raised and then bitterly dashed. She berated herself for the lapse, for letting precious hours of her daughter's life slide away from her.
In truth, this time was irrelevant, as it could no longer be shared with her daughter; Miranda had lapsed into a coma-like state, her body gaunt and twig-like beneath the white sheet. She'd been taken off all life support. A single IV line delivered only fluids to keep her hydrated and medication to ease any pain she might still be capable of feeling. An oxygen mask helped her breathe. She'd been made as comfortable as possible, the toxic drugs discontinued. Within the next few hours, Miranda would slide away from life, never to return. Iris gazed down at the wizened little face, feeling she'd give anything to see her daughter's eyes open even one more time.
In a chair nearby, Hector sat, staring intently at Miranda, as if he could will her back to life with only the force of his gaze. On a table beside him lay a tray that Lady Bianca had brought up earlier from the hospital canteen, the food mostly uneaten; none of them had had any appetite. Now Lady Bianca had vanished again, probably to exercise her legs or find a bathroom. Outside the windows of Miranda's room, night still lay thick and black over the capital city.
Hector and Iris looked up when Lady Bianca entered. She assessed both her daughter and granddaughter with her level gaze, then she drew from her robe a long syringe filled with a dark fluid. Iris gasped.
"Mother—no!"
Voice heavy with grief, Lady Bianca said, "What difference does it make?"
Iris fought back a sob. Still, she had to ask herself the same question. What did a few hours really matter?
Hector stood. "Lady Bianca," he said, "you shouldn't have to…" He held out his hand for the syringe.
Iris got to her feet also, giving both of them her most imperious expression.
"I'm her mother," she said. "I should be the one."
Without another word, Lady Bianca handed the syringe to her daughter. Iris circled Miranda's bed and injected the fluid straight into the IV line. A few moments later, Miranda's chest rose and fell, and she settled back into the pillows. Iris swore the girl's eyelids fluttered. She took Miranda's withered hand in her own and gently stroked the discolored skin.
"Goodbye, baby," she whispered.
(v)
The console room dissolved, the mechanical thrum of the TARDIS engines resolving into the quiet whisper of medical equipment. The Doctor realized he was staring up at a pale ceiling overhead. From nearby came an irregular, wet buzzing noise.
There was something strange and uncomfortable attached to his face, and it took a moment for him to identify the thing as an oxygen mask. The Doctor raised an impatient arm to move it aside, but a stinging pinch in the crease of his left arm warned him of an IV port. He tried the right arm and found clamps attached to his first three fingers. With clumsy effort, the Doctor pushed the triangle-shaped breathing mask aside so that he could better assess his situation. His left leg was encased in some kind of heavy cast and propped up on a foam wedge. Sheets and blankets were draped over his right leg, more over his upper body. Clear fluid dripped down from the IV line into his left arm. He could feel clamps on the toes of his right foot. A jungle of brightly-colored wires attached to a plethora of electrodes on his chest, surrounding both hearts, led to a bank of computers to his left. More electrodes on his forehead and temples led to a computer that monitored his brain activity, the machine now struggling to keep up with the immense workings of his conscious mind. In the greatest affront to his Time Lord dignity, he'd been catheterized. For the moment, the Doctor wasn't going anywhere.
Outside the windows of the hospital room, dawn lightened the sky as Vareda rotated into Stellata's life-giving rays. This was it: Volcano Day, the day the planet's civilization would collapse.
Irritated by the sonorous, wet buzzing, he turned his head to the right, and his fit of pique dissolved when he saw River slumped in a chair, still dressed in her clothes from the previous day, dusty and rumpled and sweat-stained. She must have fallen asleep while she'd been watching over him. He regarded her with tenderness, watching her sleep, head lolling to one side, mouth open as she snored, saliva dribbling down her chin. She'd been trying to keep herself awake all night from the look of things, guarding the Doctor in his vulnerable state.
He forced himself to relax, unwilling to disturb River's slumber after all the effort she'd exerted on his behalf. A wave of fresh sadness swept through him, causing a great spike on the computer screen that monitored his brain. Every time he encountered this maddening, enigmatic woman, he fell a little more in love with her. He'd tried to resist, but how could he not fall for someone so clever and audacious; how could he not be intrigued by the tantalizing glimpse she offered into his own future?
He wondered, too, how frustrating it must be for her to encounter him in this young, naïve state, how careful she had to be around him, lest she reveal too much. He knew that in the future, his future, their situations would be reversed: he would be the one needing to guard secrets, and she would be younger, probably wondering if even one word he told her was the truth. She'd have to take everything on faith. Somewhere in the middle of the complex tangle of their relationship, they would both be on more or less equal footing; the Doctor looked forward to that time, although he knew it would be short-lived. He tried to imagine River as a young woman—it wasn't difficult; she would still be intelligent and curious and full of moxie, the beauty of maturity replaced by the heartbreaking loveliness of youth.
He stared up at the ceiling, wondering if the passion they'd shared the previous night would fundamentally change anything between them. Most likely not. The true nature of her identity—and her crimes—were cards River was still playing close to her vest. She'd offered enough hints, though, that the Doctor could guess; he wasn't stupid, after all. He'd made a few deductions, though he kept those to himself. But all of that still paled beside the one secret the Doctor knew he must keep from her over the entire course of their relationship: he knew the exact time, place, and circumstances of her death, a burden often unbearable to carry.
Of all the puzzles that River presented, finding a way to alter her death was the one that, at times, preoccupied him the most. He knew he shouldn't even allow his mind to contemplate this, but he couldn't help it. The more he knew her, the more he loved her, and the more he wanted to save her. Look how much effort she'd gone through these past hours just to keep him from regenerating—not dying, even, just changing his body—
The memory of his injury came back with ghastly, precise clarity: the excruciating pain, the shock, the hideous weakness as his life's blood had gushed out of him. The computer hissed as the Doctor wrestled the horror into submission, locking it into a room in his mind. He knew the memory was there, he knew what had happened, but at least he wouldn't be tormented by reliving the experience over and over.
If only he could do likewise with the destruction of Gallifrey, but that memory was too big to contain, too shot through with intense trauma: grief, guilt, fear, every emotion searing him with profound force. Even now that he'd made peace—more or less—with his actions in the war, that memory would plague him for the rest of his existence. As well it should, the Doctor told himself sternly. One couldn't "get over" or "move past"—to use human vernacular—destroying one's planet and committing genocide against one's species. He couldn't have allowed the Time Lords to destroy all of creation in order to save themselves; the burden of mass murder was something he'd taken upon himself because the alternative was unthinkable. But it didn't make his actions right or good or commendable, only tragically, bitterly necessary.
The Doctor flexed the muscles of his left leg. Apart from a residual ache deep in the bone, which was already fading, his body's ability to heal rapidly had taken care of the wound. Now, if only he could get out of this confounded bed. He glanced again at River, still hating to wake her up and disturb her rest—
She jumped, snorting loudly into immediate consciousness, right hand snapping to her hip, trying to grab a weapon that wasn't there.
"You can put the gun down," the Doctor said dryly.
River leaped out of the chair, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. "My God, how long was I out for?" she gasped, staring out the window. "Oh, sweetie, I'm so sorry. I must've fallen asleep." She checked the cluster of monitors. "How's your leg?"
"Good as new," the Doctor said. "Now, could you please get me out of this… this contraption? I need to look at that codex."
"You'll do no such thing," River scolded. "You lost over half your blood yesterday; you should at least have some food and test your weight on that leg—"
"River, if I don't get out of this bed right now, I'm going to go stark raving bonkers, and really, you don't want to see me when I get like that."
"I have," she smiled. "It's quite sexy, actually."
He pawed at her hand, banter forgotten. "Did they transfuse me?"
"We used blood you had in the TARDIS med suite," River said. "It was in the fridge—it was old, but it was the only Time Lord blood available."
"The age doesn't matter," the Doctor said. "It still works."
"We used everything you had in storage—I'm sorry."
"It's all right," the Doctor said. "You were here—you were here during the surgery?"
"Yes, I was," River said, stroking his face. "I told the surgeons what to do. Rory was here, too, assisting."
"Aah, Rory the Roman," the Doctor smiled. Voice rising in sudden alarm, he asked, "What about the blood—there was blood everywhere."
"Everything was washed with ammonia, including the altar," River said. "The codex is in the museum. Everything that was used in the surgery was incinerated."
He sagged against the mattress. "Thank you."
River's face crumpled; delayed shock, followed by overwhelming relief. To the Doctor's vast consternation, she began sobbing.
"River, River," he said, trying to take her hand, but the damned clamps on his fingers made it almost impossible. "I'm all right; really, I'm right as rain."
She slumped down beside him, sobbing into his shoulder, soaking the sheet and the fabric of his hospital gown. The Doctor resigned himself to letting her cry it out. "River, oh River," he whispered, stroking her curls.
After a few moments, she regained emotional control and sat up. "I'll get you sorted," she said, striding into the adjoining bathroom to wash her hands. She emerged, all smiles now, pulling on a pair of medical gloves with a practiced snap. "First, let's get these electrodes off your head before you melt the monitor."
(vi)
While the Doctor was in the shower, River buzzed the canteen through the communication system and ordered breakfast. The food was delivered with alacrity, arriving just as the Doctor emerged from the bathroom, toweling dry his hair. The hospital staff had even cleaned and mended his clothing. The Doctor ate while fastening his bow tie, combing his hair, and tying his shoes, ignoring River's pleas for him to at least sit down.
As he gulped the last swallows of warm tea, there was a commotion of voices in the corridor, and into the room burst Amy and Rory, not bothering to announce themselves.
"Oh, my God, you're all right!" Amy fairly threw herself at the Doctor, almost knocking him into the computers.
"Yes, yes, I'm good as new, no harm done," the Doctor said, but he squeezed Amy gently and rubbed her back. "I'm all right, I promise," River heard him whisper.
Rory was staring at the Doctor with a slack jaw. Finally he pointed both index fingers at the Time Lord and said, "If everyone healed as fast as that, I'd be out of a job."
The Doctor held out an arm to include Rory in his embrace, ruffling the young man's hair. "Thanks for looking after me," he said.
"It was my pleasure," Rory said. "You've got some of the most amazing veins and arteries I think I've ever seen."
"Eew, could we please not get all clinical and gross?" Amy protested.
There was a tap on the door, and Professor tarq-Volsica peered into the room. "May I interrupt?" she asked, then she blurted out, "You—you're standing up!"
The Doctor didn't answer her question, getting straight to business. "Where's the codex?" he asked.
"It's in the Royal Museum," Professor tarq-Volsica responded, still looking like a beached fish. "Queen Lavinia would like you to have a look at it."
The Doctor responded, "Tell her we're on our way."
(vii)
It was a small group that gathered in a private room of the Royal Museum: Queen Lavinia, Professor tarq-Volsica, River, the Doctor, Amy, and Rory, the latter two only allowed to view the codex at the Doctor's insistence.
Rory said, "So this is it, then? The Codex of the Final Days?"
They all huddled around the wooden chest, staring into the box, and Professor tarq-Volsica provided, "The codex itself is made from the inner bark of a palamon tree. And that's not ink; it's dried animal blood. Moschatans didn't have written language. We've never seen anything like this codex before. Honestly, in my entire career, this is the most bizarre thing I've ever seen."
Amy murmured, "Doctor, why can't we read this? You said the TARDIS translation circuits could translate anything."
Rory added, "And why is most of it those wavy lines, but that bit right there—" he pointed "—is completely different?"
The Doctor looked grave and troubled. "The wavy lines aren't writing," he said. "It's a thought-print. A Moschatan elder must have received a message telepathically, probably didn't understand it, and drew these lines, because that's what it looked like in his mind."
"Or her mind," Professor tarq-Volsica said. "Some of the clan elders were women."
"What does it say?" River asked the Doctor. "You're the only one here who's telepathic."
"It says, 'The empire of the outlanders will end in the Year of the Palamon, when—'"
"When what?" Amy prompted.
The Doctor was reluctant to answer, so River pointed to the odd characters painted on the bottom left of the tree bark. "That bit right there is a language called Middle Kaledese. It's the formal written language of the planet Skaro." She glanced at the Doctor, who continued to brood over the codex. "The home world of the Daleks."
"Daleks?" Rory snorted. "You mean that stone thing at the museum? Those things had a language?"
The Doctor said, "Daleks are mutated Kaleds. The Kaleds evolved the language; the Daleks just stole it."
"So, what's it say?" asked Amy. All this mystery was making her impatient.
"Ka Faraq Gatri," River provided, grimacing as she spoke, as if she'd uttered some foul obscenity. "Depending how you translate, it means either 'the bringer of darkness' or 'the destroyer of worlds.' It also translates as 'the oncoming storm.'" She glanced again at the Doctor, as if unsure what to say next.
"It's me," the Doctor said, stepping back from the box, clearly agitated by this turn of events. "It says 'The empire of the outlanders will end in the Year of the Palamon, when the Bringer of Darkness comes.'"
"You?" said Rory, not sure whether he believed this or not.
"It's the Daleks' name for the Doctor," River said. "Their most feared enemy."
"So where'd the telepathic message come from?" asked Amy, bewildered. "Daleks?"
"The Ood," the Doctor said. "This is an Ood prophecy."
River murmured, "Ood prophecies can be felt across all of time and space, anywhere, at any time. The clan elder who received this message must have been incredibly…" She trailed off at the Doctor's expression. "What?"
"There might've been a time crack on Vareda," the Doctor said.
Amy said, "Is that why I felt so afraid in the temple? Because I grew up next to a time crack, too, and I knew something was going to happen to you?"
River said, "It's definitely a reference to the Doctor, though, otherwise why the use of Kaledese? The Ood weren't referring to darkness in a metaphorical sense. They were referring specifically to one person—you, Doctor."
Rory said, "So assuming the 'outlanders' are the Mollisians… does this mean Mollisian rule on Vareda will end now that the Doctor's here?"
"It doesn't matter," the Doctor said sharply, "because we're leaving. Now."
Speaking for the first time, Queen Lavinia said, "You will not leave! You will stay on Vareda until we have a rational explanation for all this!"
Professor tarq-Volsica said, "Doctor, someone was willing to murder you to keep you from translating this. At the very least, we should try to learn who it was."
"How'd you figure that?" asked Amy.
River said, "Because the Doctor's the only one who could read the prophecy."
(viii)
Queen Lavinia insisted on retiring to the royal apartments, where she left them in an anteroom. They sat together, not quite prisoners, but not exactly at liberty, either. Professor tarq-Volsica had gone with the queen.
As soon as they were alone, Rory said, "So the altar was a Moschatan pit-trap? They'd dig a pit, put one of those things at the bottom, and anything that fell into it would be skewered?"
River nodded. "Before knives, they used spears. Sometimes the trap would be a bole of wood, in the southern regions, where trees are more common. Up in this region, they'd use stone, because it was found in greater abundance. But typically, the knives would spring out from the trap all at once, not just one knife at a time."
"That's what I'm wondering," Rory said. "The trap in the temple is an ancient, authentic trap, not some kind of modern re-creation?"
"No, it's authentic, all right," River said.
Rory asked, "So how could something created ages ago specifically target the Doctor? River, you and Professor tarq-Volsica both touched the stone and the box… why was the trap only triggered when the Doctor touched it?"
Amy asked, "And why would some Moschatan hundreds or thousands of years ago even know the Doctor would come here now? And open the temple?"
The Doctor was pacing, pausing every few seconds to look out the window at the city. "It doesn't matter," he said. "What matters is we should leave now, before we do any more damage."
Insulted, Amy said, "Oi, we haven't damaged anything, and we're kind of trying to figure out who tried to kill you!"
River said, "Rory has a good question, though. Anyone could've been injured or killed by those knives, but you were the only one who was hurt."
The Doctor ceased his pacing and threw himself into the nearest chair.
Amy said, "Maybe one of the Moschatans sort of… saw the future through one of the cracks and designed the pit-trap to target the Doctor."
"That doesn't make any sense," Rory argued. "You'd think the Moschatans would want the codex to be found and translated, so that everyone would know the Mollisian rule was ending. Or supposed to end. If the Doctor had died, nobody would ever know what it said, and the codex would just gather dust in a museum."
"Good logic," River praised.
Amy said, "If someone attacked the Doctor to keep the codex from being read… well, it would almost have to be a Mollisian, wouldn't it? I think Rory's right—the Moschatans would want the translation to be broadcast everywhere."
The four of them exchanged uneasy glances, and Amy whispered, "D'you think it's her? Queen Lavinia? Or maybe Prince Lambert?"
Also keeping his voice down, Rory said, "They'd have more reason than anyone to want the codex not to be translated."
Amy said, "So why keep us here? Why not just let us go, especially since the Doctor said he'd rather leave?"
Rory said, "Would anyone on Vareda take that codex seriously? I mean, an ancient prophecy? Kind of naff, isn't it?"
"They might," said River. "Most Moschatans would find it interesting, to say the least."
Amy asked, "Has there ever been any kind of… I dunno, a threat of Moschatan rebellion or uprising?"
River said, "No, none. There weren't a lot of Moschatans to begin with, and most of them were pretty well wiped out when the Mollisians colonized the planet. They don't have the numbers for any kind of rebellion, and there's not even a concentrated population of them living anywhere on Vareda. They're scattered all over the planet. The largest number of Moschatans is probably here in the capital, but even then, you're only talking about one percent of the city's population."
"So, who'd benefit from the Doctor not translating the codex?" asked Rory.
River sighed. "As much as I hate to say it, the royal family. As well as every other Mollisian on this planet." She looked at the Doctor. "Sweetie, you've been quiet."
The Doctor hopped up to his feet. "I need to go look at that stone," he said. "You're all assuming that knife was meant for me, but I only arrived on the planet yesterday. If the knife was meant for anyone, River, I'd think it would be either you or Professor tarq-Volsica. You're the ones who've been excavating the temple."
"He has a point," Rory said.
River strode over to the door of the anteroom. To her amazement, there were no guards posted. The Doctor must not be considered an immediate threat. The royal quarters were quiet.
"Come on," she said. "The tram plantform's not far from here."
(ix)
When they reached the platform, River shooed them away from the tram itself. They went through a short corridor Amy hadn't noticed earlier and emerged onto another platform. "This will be much, much faster," River said.
"What's this?" asked Rory, staring at a box-like contraption that resembled a windowless version of the queen's tram.
"Tele-tram," said the Doctor. "It's one of the medical cars. We can be there and back before anyone even realizes we're gone." Once all four of them were inside and the doors closed, the Doctor aimed the sonic screwdriver at the controls. There was a mechanical whirl, and Amy felt a slight pressure in her ears and sinuses.
A moment later, the vibration stopped, and the doors whooshed open. They'd teleported to a transmat module right outside the temple.
"It's faster than the TARDIS," Rory said.
"Quieter, too," Amy added, but she fell silent. The Doctor didn't look like he was in the mood for jokes.
"Medical bay," River provided. "This is the emergency transport module."
The Doctor was rummaging in a nearby cupboard.
"What's that?" Amy asked.
He stuffed something into his trouser pockets. "Process of elimination."
(x)
The first thing Amy noticed was the complete lack of menace when she walked into the temple.
"It's gone," she said, relieved and confused. "I don't have that horrible feeling any more."
"Because the threat is over," the Doctor said, loping at top speed around the Circle of the Stars and into the Lunar Circle. The others raced to keep up with him.
"So, that's what I felt?" asked Amy. "I had some weird premonition you were going to be attacked?"
"Because you grew up next to the time crack," the Doctor said. "Even now that the cracks are closed, you still felt the residual energy of the Ood prophecy—it was powerful enough to make a Moschatan clan elder hundreds of years ago paint a mind-print on tree bark, and it was strong enough to affect your emotional state."
The guard posted outside the Altar of the Sun looked astonished to see them. "You," she sputtered. "You—you're alive—and walking—and—"
"Yes, yes," the Doctor said, taking advantage of her confusion to brush past her. "Just revisiting the scene of the crime—won't be a moment."
He circled the altar. If the sight of the gruesome knife gave him any kind of post-traumatic flashbacks, he didn't show it. Amy wondered how he could examine the altar with such detachment.
"Right," he said. He fished into his pocket and drew out something wrapped in white paper. "Amy, give me a cheek swab."
"A what?" she laughed.
"Just swipe the inside of your cheek."
"Oh-kay," she said. She tore open the paper wrapper, finding a cotton-tipped medical swab inside. Amy ran the tip around the inside of her mouth and handed it to the Doctor. "Now what?"
She watched, baffled, as the Doctor wet the tip of his sonic screwdriver with her saliva. "Stand back," he said, and aimed the device at the altar.
Nothing happened.
"Rory, your turn." The Doctor handed him a new swab, then he cleaned the tip of his sonic with a handkerchief and re-wet the device, this time with Rory's saliva.
He pointed the tool at the altar. They heard the familiar sonic whine, but once again, nothing happened.
"River, you next."
He repeated the process, and this time, they all heard a very faint noise from within the stone.
"And now, the moment of truth." The Doctor used a clean swab and put his own saliva on the sonic. He made everyone leave the inner chamber and stand outside, behind the safety of the stone walls, before he aimed and activated the sonic.
There was a loud screech of metal against stone, and a sickening thunk. Amy gasped and peered into the small chamber. The entire surface of the stone altar now bristled with Moschatan hunting knives.
(xi)
"DNA," said Rory, his mind leaping to the most logical conclusion. "It's—how'd that happen?"
"The trap is keyed to the Doctor's DNA," River said.
"How'd they get his DNA?" Amy asked.
"The fancy dress ball," the Doctor said. "I changed clothes, cleaned my teeth, brushed my hair…"
"So, what, someone nicked your hairbrush or toothbrush?" asked Amy, wrinkling her nose.
"And why'd the trap sort of… click when the Doctor used River's DNA?" Rory asked.
Amy gave his ankle a little kick. "Kind of obvious, Stupid," she muttered.
River flashed a glowing smile at the Doctor, and Rory blushed bright pink. "Oh, yeah, right," he said. "I forgot about… that."
"But nobody has access to the guest quarters," River said, growing serious now. "Except the people that are staying there."
"Servants?" asked Amy.
"Why would some maid or butler want to kill the Doctor?" Rory asked.
"He's right," said River. "It would have to be someone who could get into our rooms."
Amy pointed to the altar, to the multitude of Moschatan hunting knives. "So, how would the Doctor's DNA make that happen?"
"Easy," the Doctor said. "The stone is full of Varedan clear quartz crystal." Amy realized that was what she'd seen the day before—the glass-like stuff glinting in the sunlight.
"And the crystals conduct energy," Rory said.
River said, "It wouldn't take very advanced technology to program the trap to open in response to one person's DNA. Anyone on Vareda could've done this."
"Not anyone," the Doctor said. "Only someone with access to this site."
"And access to the guest rooms," Rory added. "That can't be a very long list." He frowned. "All this, just to keep the Doctor from translating those… those Ood squiggles?"
Amy said, "And how did anyone program the trap if that big slab was on the roof until just yesterday?"
"It wasn't," the Doctor said, glancing at River. "Someone moved it."
River nodded. "When I climbed up yesterday, I could see scrape marks on the stones. Very faint, so someone must've shifted the slab just far enough to get down inside the chamber."
"Who?" asked Amy, hugging herself. "Who'd do something so horrible?" Then she blurted out, "Oh, God… was it Professor tarq-Volsica? She has access to the temple, and she's a Moschatan, right?"
At that moment, the guard, who'd been waiting outside—and probably eavesdropping—appeared in the archway.
"Professor Song, Queen Lavinia's looking for you at the palace."
"We've been missed," River sighed. "Shit."
"Come on," the Doctor said. "We should tell the queen what we've found." They left the temple and sprinted back to the tele-tram.
"So, is it Professor tarq-Volsica?" asked Rory.
"That doesn't make sense," River said. "Jacquetta benefited quite a lot from the reparations under Mollisian rule—if the Moschatans ever rose to power again, she'd be very likely to lose her job and everything she's worked for. But if she was involved with some conspiracy to overthrow the Mollisians, she'd want the codex translated and the prophecy broadcast over the entire planet. I can't see how it would be her—she wouldn't benefit either way."
They piled into the tram and the doors whooshed shut. The Doctor soniced the controls. He said, "It wasn't Jacquetta."
"Then who was it?" asked Amy.
"Only one person had the means, the motive, and the opportunity," the Doctor said.
The transmat module stopped vibrating, and the tram doors opened. On the platform stood Professor tarq-Volsica, her face gray, visibly shaken.
"Jacquetta, what's happened?" asked River in alarm.
"It's Lady Bianca," said Professor tarq-Volsica, handing River a small, folded piece of paper. "She's been taken into custody. She confessed to the attack on the Doctor, barely a quarter of an hour ago."
"Oh, my God!" said Amy. "Lady Bianca?"
The Doctor said, "Means, motive, opportunity. She was the only one with all three."
(xii)
"I don't believe it," River said. "Lady Bianca's—she's—she wouldn't harm anyone—"
"Not unless the Escalus line of stewards was at stake," the Doctor said. "If the royal family falls, Lady Bianca's family falls with them."
"And she has full access to the entire royal palace, including the guest rooms," Amy said. "She was the one who arranged our rooms for us, so she knew where we all were staying."
Rory said, "And she had access to the dig site. Nobody would've questioned the queen's steward."
"What's that note say?" asked Amy.
River unfolded the piece of paper, read the brief message, and looked up, her expression full of dismay. "Miranda died early this morning," she said quietly. "Lady Bianca was waiting until… until it was over to confess. She wanted to be with Iris. At the end."
They all stood staring at each other, stricken. The Doctor didn't look as though he felt vindicated, his expression more troubled than anything else.
"Come with me," said Professor tarq-Volsica. "Queen Lavinia would like to see you now."
(xiii)
To Amy's surprise, Lady Bianca was there in the queen's quarters, seated and flanked by two guards. When the Doctor walked in, Lady Bianca didn't react to him, though she regarded Professor tarq-Volsica with great scorn.
"I believe you have an apology to make, Bianca," Queen Lavinia said. She sounded like a stern, disapproving parent.
"I owe no interloper any kind of apology," Lady Bianca said. The habitual kindness of her face had been replaced by an expression of haughty coldness. To the Doctor she said, "I only wish I'd driven that knife straight into both of your miserable hearts!"
River said, "Why did you do this, Lady Bianca? What could you possibly gain?"
"The knowledge that our beautiful planet won't be re-taken by those spotted savages!"
Professor tarq-Volsica folded her arms as if she didn't believe a single word Lady Bianca had to say. From her expression, Amy guessed she'd been called worse than "spotted savage."
River said, "How did you know what was on that codex?"
Lady Bianca laughed, a cruel, unpleasant sound. "And you, you mercenary academic whore, selling your services to whoever will pay the highest price! It's not surprising a cretin like you wouldn't realize the Altar was opened a fortnight ago."
Professor tarq-Volsica turned to Queen Lavinia. "Is that true, Your Majesty?"
Queen Lavinia looked contrite, resigned to this inevitable disclosure. "It was at my order," she said. "All the temple altars were opened in advance of the official ceremonies—to assure nothing was found that could discredit the royal line of Mollisians."
"Was anything found?" asked River.
"No," Queen Lavinia said with a short, self-deprecating laugh. "We even thought the codex was just meaningless lines painted on tree bark. It didn't look remotely Moschatan. I didn't see any harm in the Altar being opened, so I allowed the ceremony to proceed."
Amy addressed Lady Bianca. "Why'd you attack the Doctor if you didn't even know there was a message in the codex?"
"It was such an unusual thing," Lady Bianca said, not looking directly at Amy, as if any non-Mollisian were beneath her contempt. "I couldn't risk the queen or my family being brought down."
River asked, "Why are you lying?"
Lady Bianca gave her a scornful expression but said nothing.
After a moment, Queen Lavinia said to her guards, "Please take her away. We will question her later, in more detail."
(xiv)
"She's lying," Amy said.
"Of course she's lying," Rory responded. They'd gone back to their suite of rooms and were packing their belongings, at the Doctor's direction. He wanted to leave Vareda immediately. "Covering something up, probably to protect either the queen or Iris."
He vanished into the loo while Amy went through the bedroom, gathering up their clothes, stuffing everything into duffel bags and rucksacks. We need to do some washing, she thought. We're running out of clean clothes. She wondered if the Doctor wouldn't mind a quick nip back to Leadworth.
For a moment, Amy stood staring at the gown she'd worn to the fancy dress ball, hanging inside the wardrobe, along with Rory's breeches and coat. The party now seemed like something that had happened in another lifetime. Her shoes and undergarments lay on a nearby chair. Amy wondered who would come take these to be washed. She ran a longing finger over the silk and debated smuggling the costumes back into the TARDIS. The palace was in such a state of disarray now, surely no-one would notice. Amy began to look around for something in which to conceal the clothes; she couldn't exactly wander about the palace with an armload of red and purple silk.
"Rory," she called, but there was no answer. Surprised, Amy went into the loo. Empty. She checked the anteroom. Likewise unoccupied. Amy hurried out to the little courtyard their suite overlooked. No Rory. "Where is that idiot?" she muttered to herself. With a sigh of frustration, she gathered up all their luggage and staggered like an over-laden camel down to the Grand Foyer.
The Doctor stood outside the TARDIS with River, tapping his foot impatiently.
"I can't find Rory," Amy said, dumping the luggage on the marble floor. "He left me to hump all this gear myself—" Her mobile phone began to bleep.
Amy stopped complaining and fished into her pocket. "Where are you, Stupid?" she said.
"I'm at the hospital," Rory said. He was speaking very quietly, as if he didn't want to be overheard, and Amy could hear what sounded like a lot of kids shouting in the background. "Come here—there's a children's play area on the ground floor. Bring River and the Doctor. But don't make a fuss—be as quiet as you can."
"What's going on?" asked Amy, clutching the phone more tightly.
Still keeping his voice low, Rory said, "You're not going to believe this."
(xv)
"She's lying," River said.
"Of course she's lying," the Doctor responded. He stood watching while River grabbed her bags. She tossed a heavy rucksack to him; he caught it with one hand. "Is that all?" he asked.
"I travel light."
On their way down to the foyer, River said, "She might spend the rest of her life imprisoned for a crime she's not responsible for."
"Yes, obviously," the Doctor said.
"She's trying to protect someone," River said. "Which means Iris, or maybe Hector." Almost to herself, she added, "People don't usually have themselves locked up deliberately unless…" She thought for another moment. "Unless she knows who is responsible and is taking the fall for them. In that case, it can only be Iris."
The Doctor didn't answer.
River said, "Don't you care?"
"No," the Doctor said. "We leave now, Lady Bianca goes to prison, Vareda goes on, same as ever. Volcano Day averted, end of story."
"Someone tried to kill you."
"And didn't succeed," the Doctor said. "Same old me, not even regenerated."
"You don't care if an innocent woman goes to prison?"
He stopped short and turned so quickly that River collided with him, his face close enough to kiss, gray eyes boring right into her. River closed her mind, but sensed the Doctor had caught a swift look in that one unguarded moment.
"Do you?" he asked. "If it means the planet's civilization survives? It seems a small price to pay, especially since Lady Bianca seems willing to pay it herself." He turned and continued his rapid passage through the corridor, River alongside him. She heard him say to himself, "Not another one." She didn't need to ask what he was talking about.
In the Grand Foyer, they found the TARDIS, and River stowed her gear inside.
"Where are those two?" the Doctor muttered, checking his watch.
Amy appeared then, looking very put-upon, carrying four large bags. River hastened to assist the younger woman.
"I can't find Rory," Amy complained. "He left me to hump all this gear myself—" Her mobile phone began to bleep, and she fished into her skirt pocket. "Where are you, Stupid?" she said. After a moment, she clutched the phone more tightly and said, "What's going on?" A few seconds later, she put away the phone, her expression bewildered.
"What is it?" asked River.
"Rory's at the hospital," said Amy. "He said to come over, but quietly—don't make a fuss. It sounds like he's found something."
(xvi)
Getting into the hospital had been easy; finding a laundry room full of white uniforms equally so. Rory located a suit in his size, the tunic longer than the shirt on his Leadworth Hospital scrubs, and he put it on so that the green crescent moon was over his heart.
It took him slightly longer to locate a staff lounge, where he casually nicked one of those little hand-held computers. On Earth, of course, he'd have taken a clipboard. Once he looked reasonably authentic, Rory took the lift up to the children's ward.
He strode down the corridor to the big, bright room he remembered from the arrival on Vareda. The place was empty, but a young girl was there, cleaning, putting away toys.
"Hey," said Rory.
"Hello," she smiled. "Looking for something?"
Heart pounding, Rory said, "I'm kind of new here… this is my first day."
"Oh, I just started last week!" the girl giggled. "Ward assistant, but they said I could move up to—"
Rory interrupted as smoothly as possible, "I'm looking for a patient named—" He pretended to consult the small computer— "Miranda Escalus. Do you know which room is hers?"
"Oh, the kids are all down in the play-yard now," the girl said. "Have you been there? It's on the ground level, just beyond the canteen. Miranda's out there with the rest of them."
"Thanks." Rory slipped away before the girl could ask any more questions.
He and Amy had eaten at the canteen after the Doctor's surgery, and Rory found it again with no difficulty. A helpful sign pointed to the entrance to the children's outdoor play area. This was a wide, green expanse along one of the hospital walls, a shady rectangle enclosed by tall trees and fragrant with the scent of flowers from a nearby garden. At least a dozen children climbed on a jungle gym, flew down slides, pushed each other on swings, and played an energetic game of something that resembled football. This thoroughly jolly scene could have come from almost anywhere on Earth.
A few adults sat on benches around the perimeter, looking after kids who were on crutches or in wheelchairs. A couple of uniformed attendants supervised the children's play. It took Rory a few moments to identify Miranda—he'd been looking at the wheelchairs, expecting her to be in one of them, and he jolted with shock when she ran past him in pursuit of a flying ball.
Rory had previously put Miranda's age at about nine or ten; now he saw she was easily twelve, almost thirteen, on the brink of young womanhood. She was tall—like Iris—with the same auburn hair, growing out into a lustrous cap. Her eyes were the same honey color—wide, fringed with newly re-grown lashes. Her skin glowed with a sheen of good health, and her loud laughter rang out through the play area as she ran, kicking the ball with strong, healthy legs.
On one of the benches sat Iris, watching her daughter, hands clasped together on her knee, her expression one of unsurpassable joy.
Rory took a few casual steps backward until he was inside the hospital building again. With shaking hands, he pulled out his mobile and rang Amy.
(xvii)
The other three arrived with the Doctor in the lead, Amy and River hurrying behind him. When Rory spotted them, he held a shushing finger to his lips.
"Out there," he said quietly. "It's Miranda."
"Miranda's dead!" said Amy.
"Who told us that?" Rory asked. "Lady Bianca, who lied about attacking the Doctor. Miranda's out there right now, running around with the other kids. You should see her."
The Doctor stepped casually into the doorway and watched. Unwilling to wait, River and Amy crowded behind him, looking over his shoulders. Rory sighed and muttered, "So much for the brilliant career in espionage."
Behind Rory, a man's voice said, "So, you know."
River, Amy, and Rory whirled around to see Hector standing behind them. The Doctor didn't turn, however; he continued staring at the kids. He walked slowly into the play area, watching Miranda run and play ball.
Hector pushed his way past Rory, following the Doctor, and they all went and stood in the sun-dappled shade of the wide play-yard. Iris noticed the newcomers and sprang up off her bench, throwing protective arms around Miranda. The girl looked startled and frightened.
"Mummy, what's wrong?" she said.
The Doctor had reached Iris. He stared down at Miranda, and Amy could see his mounting rage from the set of his shoulders.
"Who did this?" he asked, his voice grating and horrible.
Hector had motioned to an attendant, and the adults began to round up the other children, steering them out of the play-yard, casting worried looks back over their shoulders.
Iris said, "She's my daughter. I love her. I couldn't let her die!"
The Doctor turned to Hector, and the look on his face frightened Amy more than anything she'd witnessed in all her space-time travels.
"You gave her my blood," the Doctor said. "You transfused her. That's what the attack was about. It had nothing to do with the codex. You wanted my blood, to cure Miranda."
Hector said, "It was Lady Bianca. She researched the Time Lords; she read about your ability to heal, to regenerate new body tissues. She knew you'd be at the temple opening, so she programmed the pit trap with your DNA. This was her doing, Doctor. We didn't know what she'd done until she came to Miranda's room with a syringe of your blood. We thought it was a drug that would… well, that would end things peacefully for Miranda. But it was your blood. By the time we realized what she'd done, Miranda was already healing. And look at her. Look at her now." Hector's voice shook with emotion. "How can that be wrong?"
River said venomously, "I can think of many reasons why this is wrong!"
The Doctor told Hector, "You have no idea what you've done."
Rory said, "When did Lady Bianca…? We cleaned everything, all the blood; I was there, I made sure—" His voice rose in guilty indignation.
River exploded, "She drugged me! The tea—she put something in my tea—I should have known; I'd never have fallen asleep otherwise! She drugged me, and she drew the Doctor's blood while I was sleeping!"
Iris was holding Miranda so tightly that the girl whimpered in pain. "My mother is willing to spend the rest of her life in prison to save Miranda! While all of you wittered on about morals and fixed points, my daughter was dying!"
"She's still going to die," the Doctor said. "You can't stop that." He glanced at his watch. "She was transfused… twelve hours ago? Eighteen?" There wasn't a trace of pity in his voice or expression when he said, "It's just a matter of moments now."
"No." Iris shook her head violently. "No, she's alive now, she's healthy; she's healed."
"My blood cells would have devoured her cancer," the Doctor said. "And the white cells, the immune cells, would look at Miranda's blood, human blood, as another invasive organism. Every cell in her body is a threat to be destroyed."
"No," Iris whispered.
"Mummy, I feel hot," said Miranda, and indeed her cheeks had begun to grow flushed.
"You might want to let go of her," the Doctor said.
"Stop this," Iris demanded. "Stop this—it's your blood; you can stop it!"
"I'm sorry," the Doctor said. "There's nothing I can do."
"Mummy," Miranda wailed, "Mummy, I'm burning—it hurts!"
"You monster," Iris hissed at the Doctor.
"Everyone, step away," the Doctor said.
"Mummy!" Miranda screamed, her face now as red as a boiled lobster.
"What, what's happening?" Amy babbled, staggering backward, clutching Rory's hand.
River said, "The Doctor's blood is targeting the human tissue in Miranda's body—now it's trying to trigger a regeneration, but Miranda's human—she doesn't have that ability."
"Help her!" Iris screamed. She tried to throw herself on the Doctor, but River tackled the other woman and pushed her aside.
Miranda's wail rose into a long, unbroken banshee-like shriek. Her hands and face were beginning to glow with a sickly yellow-orange light. Suddenly her back arched, her limbs splayed out, and fire burst from the collar and cuffs of her tunic; it was as if she'd become a small human torch.
"NO!" screamed Iris. She tried to lunge for Miranda, but River held her fast.
The fire died away, leaving a grotesque, child-sized skeleton, blackened and charred, hanging in midair for a moment. And then even the bones disintegrated, crumbling onto the smooth lawn like a collapsing tower of black ash.
To be continued…