A/N: I'm leaving tomorrow and I'll be gone for a couple weeks, so I thought I'd give you guys an update before I left c: I won't be able to work on this much the next two weeks, so it might be a while before I get in the next section. Just fyi, this particular adventure is a four-parter.
Also I should warn you there are probably some minor plotholes in this one. I admit I didn't completely think it through when I began writing it... Anyway, enjoy! Please R&R :D
The Spotted Band: Part Three – The Variable
"I don't understand," said Helen, her brow furrowing.
"Neither do I," admitted John.
"You'll get used to that. Helen—what year is it?" asked Sherlock, turning abruptly to her.
Her brow furrowed. "Why are you—"
"Just answer, please."
"Five billion one thousand thirty-three," she said. "Isn't it?"
He didn't answer the question, but rather asked, "Have you noticed anything different about yourself lately? Any changes in agility, strength, flexibility…?"
"A bit, yeah," she replied. "It's probably my instincts in overdrive. Being dropped on a brand new planet and almost killed several times tends to do that, I imagine."
Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully and looked away. After a moment, his eyes became sharp and alert, rising up to look about the forest.
"Sherlock, what is this—" John started, but Sherlock interrupted, shushing him.
"What—?"
"Shh!" He paused. "Do you hear that?"
Both John and Helen listened, their situation momentarily forgotten. It was a distant crashing sound, so faint that John couldn't imagine how Sherlock had detected it, but even as they stood there it drew rapidly closer. As the sound grew louder, it became clearer, and the muddle of drumming diverged into the footsteps of multiple running figures. There had to be twenty—no, thirty, at least.
"Run!" hissed Sherlock, and they took off without another word into the wilderness.
John couldn't say he had completely recovered from their last exertion, and before a few minutes had gone by he was panting heavily. It was muggy and humid on this planet and getting worse seemingly with every minute, making it difficult to breathe. Helen was in worse condition; despite the sound of the footsteps behind them, she collapsed onto the ground after only a minute, her breaths coming in wheezing gasps.
John called back Sherlock who, with the apparent benefit of his two hearts, had continued sprinting without much hindrance. The man jerked to a halt as if yanked back by a leash.
Upon seeing their situation, he instructed, "Get her to a safe place. I'll lead them away." Before John could protest, he was gone again. He heard a few taunting calls from a voice which distinctly belonged to the Time Lord before the ominous pounding of footsteps faded.
Right, thought John, looking around as he stood guard over Helen, whose ragged breathing seemed to be doing its best to derail his thoughts. Where the hell is safe here? The only place he could come up with was the TARDIS, but he had no idea where it was. He doubted Sherlock would have any clue either, even if the man wasn't currently luring God-knows-what off on a wild, possibly deadly chase.
A sudden thought struck John: What if he didn't come back? What if Sherlock was killed out there, leaving John and Helen alone? Even if they managed to shake off the nameless threat which was currently tearing through the trees, how could they possibly get off this planet? He couldn't fly the TARDIS. He had no hope of it. And surely there was no one currently available who could—he doubted Helen would have that kind of experience in her arsenal. Would he be stranded here for whatever span of his life he had left, simply vanished from the world he once belonged to?
He shook his head, attempting to clear it of such thoughts. He couldn't afford to think about that now, not when Helen was depending on him. With a resolute heart and not another doubt for Sherlock's fate, John hoisted the Andrax up, looping her arm over his shoulders and supporting her as he half-carried her away. Her rasping breaths slowed gradually but did not decrease much more than a fraction in volume. She needs water, he realized, only just noticing the burning sensation in his own parched throat.
They walked for several more minutes—John knew not where nor even how far—until, by some miracle, he thought he heard the glittering splash of water around Helen's rhythmic panting. Following the sound, he reached its source: a bright little stream of clear water. He had never seen a more beautiful creek than that one before. Helen immediately sank into it, letting it wash over her legs as she dropped to her hands and knees, lapping up the water like a dog. John couldn't say he was much more reserved; he cupped mouthfuls of water in his hands and brought it up to his face in such quick successions that only half of it actually reached his tongue. The rest spilled over his hands and trickled down his chin, sinking below the collar of his shirt and soaking its front.
For a moment they simply sat there after their thirsts were quenched, the uneven rhythm of their breaths creating a colorless, lopsided song. Then he grinned and chuckled a bit, simply at the ridiculousness of the situation. He was with an alien on a jungle planet five billion years in the future while his Time Lord flatmate lured away a horde of unknown beings. Honestly, he didn't know if he would ever see his newfound friend alive again, and the implications of that possibility were horrifying, but the inexplicable hilarity suddenly swelled up around him until it was too much to resist.
Even Helen, who was still fighting for breath, giggled a bit. It was not until a while later, when they were both lying on their backs with their sides splitting and their mouths cracked open in broad grins that the comical fit subsided and they were both left to bask in the haze of the broken tension. That moment of utter relaxation did not last for long, however; a noise resonating from between the trees roused John from it and brought him into a sitting position, eyes alert and ears pricked. The sound had been no more than the crunch of a few dead twigs snapping underfoot, but was just above the volume level as to be slightly less than innocent.
He heard it again and was able to pinpoint the location of whatever was causing it to somewhere behind him. He whirled, jumping to his feet, while Helen took great gulps of air, trying to silence her gasps as she realized the level of danger they could be in.
A possibility coming to light, John called, "Sherlock?" but there was no answer. Instead, where his eyes were roving back and forth across a grove of trees, his vision seemed to shift. Something green detached itself from its forested scenery, accumulating a humanoid form as it took two steps closer to John. Two eyes blinked at him rather suddenly, for he only just realized that the shape had them.
After this brief exchange, his visual centers regrouped and he realized what he was looking at. It was very similar to Helen in its spiny shoulders and quill-covered head, in its strong jaw and glittering eyes, but there were several differences, as well. For one thing, this one was entirely green—and not a dark color like Helen's, but rather the same lush green as its environment, which was why John had had such difficulty spotting it. It also differed strongly in its facial features, having a much thicker brow and squarer jaw. There was a definite masculinity in its sharp nose and jutting chin.
He remembered what Sherlock had said as they were standing over the dead body of Julia: "The two species—Chandrax and Andrax—are very similar in build and appearance, except that Chandrax are green and poisonous."
John swallowed as he regarded the Chandrax, dressed only in tattered shorts. This was the thing that had killed Julia and would, if Sherlock's theory was correct, try to kill them.
John glanced at Helen out of the corner of his eye before inching closer to his opponent, moving to the side a bit as well in an attempt to draw it away from her. He saw its eyes flicker down to Helen and knew it had seen through his strategy, but it didn't try to go after her. Rather, it turned its full attention to John, its dark eyes following his every move. Evidently, she didn't pose a threat in its eyes.
The Chandrax had been standing utterly still, so the slight jerk of its hands drew John's attention to them. Short, thin, needle-like spines had extended from its palms and the bottoms of its fingers. John didn't know what they were or exactly what they did, but he could imagine how sharp they were. He had a bad feeling about them, however, especially given the fact that Chandraxes were poisonous; he decided to—
Like lightning, the Chandrax suddenly lunged forward, swiping out the flat of its hand in a blow which, had John been any slower, would've caught him across the face and likely given him a nasty scar. As it was, however, he ducked, and the natural weapon whistled over his head.
He couldn't say he was a master in the martial arts—not, at least, compared to some of the people he'd seen—but nevertheless he'd been trained, and he knew quite a bit more about defending himself than the average person. He grabbed the Chandrax's wrist, dodging around behind it and pinning its forearm across its back like a bar. It acquiesced to his commanding grip for a moment before managing to swing its free arm behind it; John had to loosen his grasp to dodge the devilish spines, and the Chandrax wriggled free. It whirled, aiming a flat-palmed smack to his face.
Without thinking, he roughly grabbed the wrist of the incoming arm and turned it away. He'd meant only to cast off the blow, but as chance would have it, the Chandrax's hand landed against its own shoulder.
They stood like that for a moment, their frozen eyes locked, before John staggered back a few steps. The Chandrax looked down at its fingers as it pulled its hand away, revealing needlepoint pricks—which looked remarkably similar to those on the faces of the natives back at the building—peppering the bare skin of its shoulder. John braced himself, ready for another attack, but the Chandrax appeared to be immobilized. It swayed for a moment, slowly lifting its eyes to meet John's. He wasn't sure what he saw in those eyes just then, but it was not, as he expected, any form of hatred or vengeance. There was something remarkably steady in them—acceptance, perhaps, or even relief. Just then, in that singular moment before the Chandrax toppled to the ground, he wondered about the exact effects of—what had Sherlock called it?—Blakk's Disease. Did this creature even want to kill, or was it forced to by its own instincts? Was it something it enjoyed, or simply an unbreakable addiction? If it didn't want to kill, then what kind of life must it have led? No doubt one full of impossible restrictions and a degree of self-hate beyond imagining.
His thoughts were interrupted by Helen's hoarse, cautious voice: "Is it… is it dead?"
John waited for a moment, but when the Chandrax's prone form did not stir again, he stepped up to it, kneeling down by its body and pressing the flat of his hand against its chest, where its heart should be. He didn't know the anatomy of this creature—he didn't even know if it had a heart—but if it did, it certainly wasn't beating. As he stood again, he answered, "I think so, yeah." He turned to her, confusion lining his brow. "Do you have those, too? Those spine-things on your hands?"
She nodded, holding out her hands palm-up. Similar spines—these ones bluish, of course—jumped out of them, stabbing the sky. "They're filled with natural sedative," she explained. "All Andraxes are born with it." That would explain the fate of his and Sherlock's interrogators…
Before he could begin to understand exactly what that meant, a deep, familiar voice said, "That was very clever." John spun around sharply to see Sherlock striding out from between the trees. The man was missing his coat and had a few long, thin scratches lashed across his arms and face, but otherwise seemed unharmed. "How did you know the Chandrax wasn't immune to its own venom?"
"I didn't," answered John honestly. "And what the hell, may I ask, happened to you?" Despite himself, an incredulous smile spread across his features as he asked the question.
"Or, 'thank you for rescuing me,' as some used to say," remarked Sherlock dryly. "I was saving your skins. Very nearly lost my own, I might add." His words were biting, but there was a slight gleam in his eyes that betrayed his relief that they were all together again and safe.
"What happened?" asked John curiously.
"I'll tell you later. We haven't much time," he replied, leading them away from the stream. Helen was still panting, but her rasping breaths had dropped considerably in tempo and volume, and she seemed strong enough to walk, at least.
"Alright," John consented, but he resolved to ask Sherlock about it as soon as they had a good chunk of time. "So, what's the plan, then? You mentioned earlier about getting out a message…?"
"We have to send for help," said Sherlock bluntly. "We're outnumbered, we need back-up."
"Well, obviously, yeah," said John. "But how are we going to do that, exactly?"
"First," he said, halting rather suddenly, his eyes fixing on a point seven feet up the nearest tree trunk, "we need a camera."
John followed his gaze. All he saw was a rather unsightly knot in a tree; then he remembered the text Sherlock sent earlier: I noticed several cameras built into the trees and a few of the flowers. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he could see the reflection of a tiny camera lens glinting in the center of that ugly, gnarly knot.
"Give me a boost, would you?" said Sherlock, stepping up to the foot of the tree. John interlocked his fingers and held them out for Sherlock to stand on. The taller man swung his foot up, and with a nod from John, was hoisted up. He gripped the tree trunk, scrabbling for a moment with his other foot before deciding that a chink in the bark served as a decent enough foothold. Then he set to work on the camera with his sonic device while John strained to hold the man up without trembling. The heel of Sherlock's boot was starting to dig into his palms and he almost asked if they could take a break before Sherlock announced, "Coming down."
A moment later, they were standing around Sherlock, who was holding the smallest camera John had ever seen in his fingers. "Wireless," he murmured as he examined it. "Impressive."
"What good will this do?" asked Helen, who had, for the most part, regained her breath at this point. "Anything you film will go straight to the editors, and they'll just cut it out."
"I'm not sending a message to the editors or the people of this planet," said Sherlock calmly. "If I can amplify the signal, I can broadcast it far enough that it'll reach other solar systems. Someone, I'm hoping, will forward the message to the Shadow Proclamation."
"And… who's the Shadow Proclamation?" asked John.
"Universal police force," answered Sherlock. "Terrible at their jobs, of course, but they've certainly got brawn if you need it."
"What would we need brawn for?"
"Did you not hear the horde of armed men chasing us before?"
"Yes, of course I did," snapped John in reply. "But what were those, exactly?"
"Automated security," answered Sherlock. "Robotic mercenaries with guns. Result of…" he paused, "recent experimentation, I suspect."
"How will you amplify the signal?" Helen asked, switching the subject. "A sonic device can do a lot, but it can't broadcast something over millions of light-years. It's not strong enough." John thought, Christ, does everyone know about this stuff but me?
Sherlock started to answer when his eyes suddenly jumped to something over her shoulder. "Did you see that?" he asked in a sharp, low voice.
John tensed and followed his gaze, searching the trees for anything dangerous, but he saw nothing. His heart, however, skipped a beat when he heard a thud and looked over to find Helen collapsed on the ground, Sherlock standing over her with an indifferent expression.
"Christ—Sherlock, what did you do?" asked John sharply.
He knelt down. "I put her in stand-by mode. She probably doesn't want to be conscious for this."
"Conscious for—? What do you mean, 'stand-by mode'?"
"It's obvious, isn't it? She's a cyborg," replied the man, pulling out his sonic magnifying glass.
For a moment, John was speechless. Then: "What."
He set to work, adjusting the frequencies of the device as he explained, "The automated security mechanisms planted around the building are programmed to fire at any and all unrecognized life-forms, but they only shot at you and I, meaning Helen is either broadcasting some sort of 'don't shoot' signal, like the guards, or she wasn't registering as a life-form. Then there's the fact that she hasn't had a bite to eat in days, and yet hasn't complained of hunger once. She's showing signs of fatigue, but they aren't symptoms of malnutrition—rather, she needs rest, time to re-charge, possibly also to re-fuel. Furthermore," he swiped his index finger across the cut on its arm and showed the smudge of dark fluid on his cuticle to John, "this isn't blood."
"But how can she be a—a cyborg?" John felt as though he wasn't using the term properly; it wasn't really a word he used in everyday language. "I mean, how did it happen?"
"Experimentation," he answered. "The scientist back at the laboratory mentioned giving her 'advantages', remember? This is probably what he meant."
"But she's only been here two days, she said so."
"She also said the year was five billion one thousand thirty-three when, according to the readings from the TARDIS, it's five billion one thousand thirty-five." Sherlock was running his sonic magnifying glass a few inches over the bare skin of her back. John didn't quite understand what this was for until there was a soft, nearly-imperceptible click, and two broad panels over her skin—one on each shoulder blade—swung silently open.
He could only stare in awe at what he saw underneath, Sherlock's answer almost forgotten. Strips of muscle, kept moist by some kind of clear extracellular fluid, covered pale blue bones. The muscles themselves were a dark bluish gray in color—he wasn't sure if they were supposed to be that color, but it would certainly account for the hue of her skin. Thin veins clung to the stringy strips, transparent tubes transporting dark liquid—oil, John guessed. Wires branched out from her spine like a nervous system.
Despite his discomfort at invading her personal space in such a manner, he leaned forward in fascination. What he was looking at was far beyond anything he'd ever seen. He wanted to see more, to examine what made her heart pump and how exactly her nerves connected to her brain and why this dark liquid was necessary as a circulatory fluid. Most of all, however, he wondered—with a sick twist in his stomach—what the conversion process had been like. The hacking away of her internal systems and replacement with new parts could not possibly have been painless.
Remembering the topic of their conversation, John said, "So, she thinks it's still the year thirty-three? How is that—I mean, did they use time-travel?"
"Possibly, though it's more likely they took her in thirty-three, experimented on her, and wiped her memory of the past two years," he replied calmly, picking at her insides like a curious vulture.
"She doesn't know, then?"
"I doubt it. It would probably be better if we kept it that way—for now, at least."
John watched Sherlock work up until the point when the Time Lord plunged almost his entire hand into the poor woman's back, pulling back a segment of a slimy red wire. "What the hell are you doing to her, anyway?" he asked, more exasperated than incredulous as he stared firmly out into the trees.
"I need to amplify the signal from the camera, but to do that, I need something a bit more advanced than a sonic magnifying glass. As it happens, cyborgs tend to be packed full of advanced technology."
"What, so you're just going to use her like you would a—a battery?"
"Precisely."
John stared at the detective, slightly slack-jawed in disbelief. After a moment, he snapped it shut again and returned his gaze to the forest. What had once appeared beautifully enigmatic was now a place of danger, a looming threat on all sides that seemed to be watching them with invisible eyes.
Sherlock's brutal honesty shocked him. He had come to realize that Sherlock saw the truth for what it was and stated it openly as such; more than that, he was starting to realize that nothing would change that habit. John would just have to get used to it, he supposed—he'd just have to get used to a lot of things, he suspected.
After a few minutes went by, John asked, "How does it work?"
"How does what work?"
"Her. Her… systems. If she's a robot, why does she need to breathe? Why did she get tired from running?"
"She's only partly robotic, John. I'd guess it only controls her circulation and digestive system. Something mechanical, probably powered by the movements of her lungs, pumps fluid through her heart, which circulates it through the rest of her body. She gets tired because, in all other aspects, she's still only an Andrax."
"I saw her drink water, though."
"I suspect her digestive system was adapted in order to convert food and water into the chemical fluids necessary for circulation."
Fresh out of questions, John waited in tense silence, staring firmly out into the trees, until he heard Sherlock make a satisfied exclamation. A glance at the Time Lord revealed him holding the camera in his hands, linked to Helen through a few strings of wire. "Got it," he announced triumphantly. He turned it in his hand until it was facing him and messed about a bit more with his sonic device before staring evenly into the tiny lens and saying in as smooth a voice as if he'd recited it, "I interrupt your broadcast with a message of utmost urgency. Please contact the Shadow Proclamation as quickly as possible and tell them these exact words: Mycroft, Code Bad Wolf. I repeat, Code Bad Wolf. Bring the cavalry." He then proceeded to list off a string of numbers which John didn't understand, interspersed with the words "acorn" and "apple."
He used his magnifying glass again—turning the camera off, John suspected—before getting busy disentangling the wires. "What did all that mean?" John asked nonchalantly. He hadn't missed the mention of yet another familiar name from the Sherlock Holmes books.
"The Shadow Proclamation will probably be receiving several hundred calls right about now," answered Sherlock. "Mycroft isn't at the head of it, but he claims a rather significant position, and no doubt the message will reach him swiftly."
He was about to continue, but John had to ask: "Is he your brother?"
"No, but probably the closest thing to it," Sherlock remarked in a dry tone. He continued, "Code Bad Wolf is the term for an entire hostile planet. 'Bring the cavalry' is fairly self-explanatory. The numbers at the end were the coordinates to the planet we're on—according to the TARDIS, at least." A moment of silence wedged itself between them as Sherlock busied himself with returning everything exactly as he'd found it. Then, as he reattached a wire, he said simply, "You've got questions."
It was a statement, but John took it as an invitation: "Yeah. Moriarty, Mycroft, the damn 'spotted band'—what the hell is going on, Sherlock?"
"I don't know," he admitted after a pause. "Not completely, anyway. I have a theory, but I still need to work out the details."
"Explain."
"I can't, not right now," he replied, snapping the panels back into place. "But I will," his eyes met John's for a brief moment, "I promise."
John frowned, but nodded in acceptance. "What are we going to do about her?" he asked in a low voice, indicating Helen, even though he knew she was out cold.
"Help me carry her," said Sherlock once he had tucked his magnifying glass back into his pocket. "Just trust me," he added in a slightly exasperated tone at John's drawn brow.
So, John hooked his hands under her shoulders while Sherlock scooped up her legs, and together they carried her through the trees. John had begun to pant from the effort before Sherlock told him they had gone far enough, and they set the Andrax down on the ground. Sherlock then proceeded to closely examine a patch of skin near the base of her neck. After a pause, he pressed down on a single spot with his index finger.
Helen started awake with a gasp and sat up sharply, looking around in fear. "Where—what just happened?" she asked breathlessly.
"You were hit with one of the tranquilizer darts," answered Sherlock. "We think it was just another automated device, since nobody came after us, but we decided to move you anyway."
"Oh, alright," she said, seeming distracted as she glanced this way and that. "Thanks, I suppose."
"Are you okay?" asked John, offering a hand to help her up. "Can you stand?"
"I think so, yes," she answered, gripping his arm and pulling herself up. She was unsteady at first, but after taking a few steps she appeared to regain her balance. She looked to Sherlock before asking in confusion, "What happened to the camera?"
"I left it behind," answered Sherlock. "We got the message out while you were asleep using one of the blocking towers."
In the books, Sherlock was always described as a master of disguises and a flawless actor. Indeed, John could see it then; the words flowed from his mouth as smoothly as if he'd rehearsed them and as naturally as if they were completely true.
"Come on," said Sherlock, taking a few steps away from the conversation. "We should head back to the TARDIS. We'll be safer there, at least."
"How are you going to find it?" asked John, but even as the words were being said, Sherlock pulled out his sonic magnifying glass and began to fiddle with it.
"Tracking device," he answered simply.
"Won't they have it guarded?" asked Helen, rubbing her eye; she was still recovering from the surprise "stand-by mode," but she seemed to be doing alright other than a bit of grogginess.
"Probably," answered Sherlock, but he seemed unconcerned, so John shrugged at Helen and followed after him.
"Is it far?" asked John. Sherlock glanced down at his sonic tool and shook his head, foraging on through the trees. He was right; it wasn't long before they reached the machine, looking the same as it had when they landed: disguised as a beat-down, abandoned hut. There didn't appear to be anything around it, so Sherlock started eagerly towards it. John followed, a bit more cautiously.
"Wait—I don't think we should—" started Helen, but she was cut off as the area surrounding them suddenly swarmed with activity. Robotic, sentinel-like, humanoid figures suddenly shimmered into existence where they'd previously been invisible. They dropped down from branches, sprung out of bushes, skittered down trunks like cockroaches; and every single one, upon landing, extended their right arms towards the trio. Each and every mechanical arm ended not with a hand but with the gaping hole of what was unmistakably a canon.
Suddenly, as John turned in place and saw that they were surrounded, he and Sherlock and Helen felt very small. The three of them raised their hands, palms-forward, in surrender, but the robotic beings didn't appear to notice. There was a collective hum, rising quickly in pitch, and a sudden flare as each arm-canon pointed at them began to glow with an impending charge.
They were preparing to fire, each and every one, and somehow, John didn't think whatever came out of those canons would be anything so kind as a sedative.