Chapter Seven

He was deteriorating rapidly.

River gazed with concern at the man across from her. Though she usually had to couch her fears for the Doctor in playful or combative tones, tonight she had to do nothing of the kind. He was sitting in a closed coach across from her with his head tilted back, sound asleep. The warehouse the Nestene Duplicate had named as the location for their meeting was south and east of town of Fishkill on the river of the same name. It was a short jaunt, but in his current condition it was doubtful the Time Lord would have made it walking, or even sitting a horse. Her gaze flicked to his cuffs, and then the collar of his shirt. Where it made contact with his flesh, the striped salmon-colored fabric was dotted with telltale traces of blood. A casual observer would have missed it.

She, of course, was far from casual.

Before lapsing into unconsciousness, the Doctor had explained his plan. It was simple and brilliant. Walk in through the front door and reason with the Nestene Consciousness. Explain to them that their idea for replenishing the nutrients they needed through making a pack with the Bluhdouls was brilliant, just that they couldn't do it here on his precious Earth. He would be happy to use the Tardis to transport them elsewhere to another galaxy – say to the living planet of Tregvenamor in the ninety-second galaxy of Alpohcapanimer that was criss-crossed, of all things, by rivers of blood. There the Bluhdouls could eat and excrete to their nano-hearts content, supplying the Nestene with more technologically engineered protein than they could consume in a million million life times. Simple. And doomed to fail. The Doctor had one major character flaw and she had always known that, one day, it would kill him.

He was too good.

The coach bumped to a stop outside of a waterfront inn. The Doctor had directed the driver there. It was about three blocks north of the river. Though he had agreed to her accompanying him, he insisted on meeting with the Nestene alone. Amy Pond's life – as well as Jeremy Larkin's – depended on it, he had reminded her.

'And what does your life depend on?' she had responded sharply.

The frightening thing was, he hadn't had an answer.

The jolting stop wakened him. The Doctor roused slowly, blinking several times before he managed to keep his eyes open and look at her. He shifted and winced, and the shifted again in obvious defiance of the pain he was feeling. The progress of the Bluhdoul infestation would leave his skin extremely sensitive, like someone recovering from hematidosis. Every movement had to be an agony.

"River," he said, acknowledging her presence. He licked his lips before continuing. "What time is it?"

"Ten past ten." The Nestene were expecting him at twelve. "There's time yet to devise a plan."

"Have a plan," he replied, slightly puzzled. "A brilliant plan. Told you, didn't I?"

"Yes."

"So what's wrong with the plan?"

"Other than the fact that it is completely imbecilic and doomed to failure?" she snapped. "Very little."

He frowned. "It's not nice to diss the plan."

River stared at him. No. She simply could not let him do it. "I'll go."

"They didn't ask for you."

"Of course, they didn't. And most likely the Nestene will kill me, but not before I rescue Amy and Jeremy."

He leaned back and crossed his long hands over his bony knees out of habit. "Ouch," he said a second later as he unfolded them. "Remind me not to do that again. Now, River, we can't have you sacrificing yourself – "

"But you can! Doctor," she hesitated, her mind racing with the possible ramifications of saying too much or too little, "I can't tell you why, but you have to live. You can't die!"

"River, I know you are fond of me – "

"This has nothing to do with that, you idiot! Of course, I'm fond of you. Why else would I put up with you!" She stopped and drew a steadying breath. "Doctor, I don't want to live without you, but if you die here – if you die here – a lot more will end than just your existence."

"I know," he said softly.

"What?" The thought took her breath away. "You didn't peek..."

"No. I didn't peek." He shifted forward gingerly and touched her knee with his hand. "But I felt your fear. Whatever it is I have to do in the future – that's the reason you can't come with me."

As usual, his roundabout logic made her head hurt. "What's the reason I can't come with you – or go instead of you?"

"Let's say I go into the warehouse alone and defeat the Nestene Consciousness..."

She smirked. "As if."

"River." His tone was deathly serious. "What happens then?"

"What?"

He pulled his sleeve back to reveal his lower arm. It was a fleshy battlefield, pocked with crimson landmines, and many of them were exploding. "What happens then?"

The sight nearly made her crumple. She fought it, but a tear escaped her eye and traveled the length of her cheek. As he rolled his sleeve back down, masking the carnage, she asked, "What is it I need to do?"

"Do you remember before we left, when I gave you the psychic paper and sent you off to arrange our transport here?"

"Yes. I left you at the inn across from the house where General Lafayette and Henry Abington are."

He grinned. "With your pocket."

Her hands went involuntarily to her side. The embroidered pocket was missing. "You nipped it!"

"Pilfered it for a good cause," he answered and held out his hand. In it was the mediscanner. "I fixed it."

"I didn't know it was broken."

"No. I fixed it to read internal human physiology. I need you to go to Henry Abington. Get a sample of his blood."

"But if he is alive and a carrier, his blood will do you no good," she argued. "It's only when the host is dead that the blood provides a cure. That's what you told me."

He shrugged. "I could be wrong. I'm not usually, but it has been known to happen. We know the virus has mutated. What we don't know is if the end result is the same." The Doctor leaned forward and took her hands in his. "River, that – and you – are my only hope. Otherwise, bye-bye, Doctor."

She felt the cords in her neck knot as her blood pressure rose. River sucked in air and released it with the words, "Have I told you lately how much I hate you?"

He tapped her nose with one finger and then stood to plant a chaste kiss on the top of her head. "Well, hatred is the madness of the heart, as Lord Byron said." He paused as he reached the coach door and turned back to look at her. "Did I ever take you to meet him?"

River couldn't help it. She smiled. "No."

"Well, tell me – or him – to put it on the agenda when you see him – or me again." The Doctor stepped down and out of the carriage and began to move away. "A bit of a bad boy Byron. Lovely way with words. And the ladies... On second thought, I think we'll skip Byron. It's too hot in Messolonghi this time of year anyhow..."

And with that, he disappeared from sight.

River leaned back against the coach wall. For a second she didn't move, and then she roused and ordered the driver to take her back to the inn and offered to pay him four times the going rate if he made it in a quarter hour. As the carriage jolted and then began to pick up speed, River lifted her canary yellow skirts until the length of her leg showed. About her upper thigh there was a blue silk garter. Nestled in a guard attached to it was the small pistol she had used to shoot the male Auton – both times. She removed it, replaced her skirts, and then checked it to see if it was loaded.

She didn't want to do it, but if it meant the Doctor's life –

Henry Abington would have to die.

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Amy Pond's heart was pounding hard. She was crouched in a clump of tall grasses waiting for Jeremy Larkin to return. For a quarter of an hour at least they had been playing a game of hide and seek with the Autons from the warehouse. As the eighteenth century rebel knew the layout of the land better, she had let him take the lead. They had been on the move constantly until just a moment before when he had placed a hand against her arm, whispered something she couldn't make out, and then darted ahead.

She hated being left behind.

It had been some time since they had heard the Nestene duplicates' heavy boots breaking the crust of snow behind them. She had thought that was a good thing until Jeremy disappeared. Now she wondered if the ones pursuing them had not circled around, somehow, and were waiting for them just ahead. The blond man might have even been taken captive. She might be alone. In a strange place. Without the Doctor – or a road map.

"Thanks, raggedy man," she growled.

A bush beside her shivered and let loose a soft fall of new snow. Amy jumped and raised the knife Jeremy had left with her. Only to find she needn't have worried. It was Jeremy himself.

"You bloody well took your time!" she snapped.

He grinned. The rebel leader was winded and there was a slight sheen of perspiration on his exposed flesh in spite of the icy weather. Amy leaned back, liking what she saw. Lafayette was one thing, aristocratic and pale as he was, but this was a first class Yank – brash, raw and unaffected. And handsome to boot.

"Rebel par excellance," she muttered.

Jeremy's smile faded slightly. "I beg your pardon."

"You wouldn't have to beg, rebel boy," she pronounced with a wiggle of her eyebrows. Then, jamming a finger into his chest, she went on, "But you do have to explain. Just what were you thinking leaving me behind?"

"Forgive me, Mistress – Amy." Jeremy shook his hair back from his eyes, sending snow flying. "I needed to be certain where we were, and I saw no need to put you in danger by taking you so close to the road."

She didn't appear to be mollified. "So where are we?"

He glanced back at the woods they had traversed, making certain there was no movement. "Just beyond the port town, on the way back to Fishkill proper. It is at least twenty minutes by coach, and an hour or more on foot. I am afraid your lovely gown will do little to protect you."

"Oi. Did you notice it was lovely?" Amy preened a bit and then looked down at her tattered bodice and soiled skirts. "Was lovely."

He laughed. "I noticed."

"So, do you have a girlfriend, Jeremy Larkin?"

"You want to know that now?" The rebel looked astonished. "Whatever for?"

Amy stared at him, "So I know if I am going to get in trouble for doing this." And with that, she caught him by the shirt collar, pulled him close, and kissed him.

Jeremy sputtered as he pulled away. "What... What? Why did you do that?

"Just doing my part for the Rebel Cause." She straightened her petticoats – what was left of them – and then briskly saluted. "Orders, Rebel Larkin. Sir!"

For a moment, he seemed too stunned to answer. Then, shaking himself, he started to think aloud. "We seem to have escaped. We have been here for several minutes and there has been no pursuit. We are near the edge of the harbor precinct, which puts us on the road to Fishkill." Jeremy's gaze moved to her eyes. "I think it best that we return to the town and recruit assistance before returning to the warehouse."

Amy hesitated. She hated to leave the Tardis back there in the hands of those...plastic things. Still, the Tardis without the Doctor was little good to her. She couldn't fly it. It was just a great bootless blue box, good for nothing.

"I don't know..." Wherever the Tardis was, the Doctor usually showed up. "Maybe I should stay and let you go."

He shook his head adamantly. "I will not allow it. I would not be able to live with myself if I abandoned a woman to fend for herself against such nefarious forces as those we have just escaped, and something happened to her. I must see you to a harbor of safety and then return."

"Oi! Rebel boy. Who was it kicked the door down?" Her orange-red eyebrows peaked.

"I admit, you do seem to be most capable of looking out for yourself, but that doesn't change the fact that you are a woman, and as such need to be taken care of – "

Amy couldn't help it. She wanted to belt him, but Amelia – the seven year old still inside of her – wouldn't let her. In fact, if Amelia wanted to do anything in response to Jeremy Larkin's misplaced gallantry, it was...

This time, he kissed her back.

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A light snow had begun to fall. The Doctor halted just outside the warehouse designated as belonging to Charles Fitch, Fishmonger, and turned his face up into it. He loved snow – real snow, that was. Not the kind of snow that had fallen on London the day he had entered his tenth regeneration. That had been white ash, created by the destruction of the Sycorax ship when then Prime Minister, Harriet Vane, had ordered Torchwood to destroy it. No, the snow he loved was one of nature's finest transformations – water vapors in the clouds condensed into ice crystals that fastened onto a dust speck and then onto one another until a flake was formed. When heavy enough, they fell to the ground in a silent blanket, coating land, bush, tree, and everything manmade. Then, when the sun rose, they disappeared as silently as they had come, transformed back into water vapor.

He wondered if he would go as silently as he had come.

As he stood there in his tweed coat, brown pants and boots, with his legs slightly bowed and his hands shoved deep in his pockets, contemplating the very real possibility that this would be his last hour alive, the bells in a nearby church began to toll. One. Two. Three. All the way up to twelve. As the twelfth tone rolled over the hushed countryside, the door to the warehouse opened and the woman he had seen walking on the street below the window the night before stepped out. There was a quality to the light that pulsed behind her; an unearthly quality that left little doubt what the stained and mildewed boards of the dock building held.

Somewhere within the structure breathed the Nestene Consciousness.

"Hello," he said cheerily, "I've come to inquire about some fish."

The woman cocked her head, as though listening to someone who was not there. "You are the Time Lord."

"The time?" He whirled toward the church, and then turned back. "Just past twelve." After a pause, he added, "Oh, you mean me. Yes, Lord of time and all that. Terribly important. Frightfully powerful. I don't suppose this means you will be so overcome with awe that you and your masters will forget all of your little Machiavellian plans and simply scoot back off to wherever – or whenever – you came from. Eh?"

From behind the Nestene duplicate's emerald skirts a second, smaller form swathed in sapphire cloth appeared. The little girl took two steps forward and her fingers fell away to reveal a laser pistol.

"Thought not. Worth a try though, don't you think?" He glanced from one rigid plastic face to the other. "Oh, well. It might be considered a wee bit trite, but...take me to your leader?"

The Auton in emerald moved aside, leaving the doorway into the warehouse clear. "You are awaited," she intoned.

"Well, now, isn't that nice? Tea and crumpets are waiting, I assume." He rubbed his hands together as he began to move forward. "No doubt laced with cyanide..."

He was doing well, keeping up the pretense of energy and vitality. It just wasn't done to let your enemy know you had already kicked the bucket and were just waiting for the last ounce of liquid to drain from it. As he came alongside the smaller of the two Autons, he noticed she was watching him closely. Every byte of information the plastic duplicates entered into their synthesized brains was being fed to the greater Nestene gestalt. He would have to be careful. Any sign of weakness and... What?

They'd kill him?

He was already dead.

Though come to think of it, if it came to it at the last, perhaps if the Nestene killed him before the Bluhdouls did, he would regenerate.

Death by plastic was not the modus mortis he preferred, but it might be the only chance he had.

As he drew close to the warehouse, the steady thrumming he had sensed through his booted feet the moment he approached grew more insistent; almost as if it sensed his coming and hungered for it. He wondered if this incarnation of the Consciousness was a part of his past, present, or future. Had they met in battle before, or was that yet to come? Sometimes traveling in time was a bit like asking a woman if she wanted to marry you and having her answer, 'Let me think about it.'

A fellow never knew where he stood.

"You know, I am really quite impressed," he said as he passed the emerald Auton and she fell in beside him. "This scheme of coming back to an agrarian America and toting along your own picnic basket chock full of Bluhdouls is brilliant! And by coming in the thick of the war, all the carnage they unloose could easily be explained – though, of course, that means you had better pack up and be ready for a move shortly." He glanced over at the plastic woman. "Things are going to be shifting to the south."

They had reached the center of the warehouse. He stopped, startled, as a random pulse of light revealed a bright blue object tucked in the corner behind some crates – and a ring of about a half dozen male Autons guarding it with their finger pistols pointed at him.

"Now you didn't tell me you'd gone and hijacked the old girl as well," he said, ending with a clucking sound. "Bad form."

"You will open it," the child Auton who had followed them in ordered.

"Not bloody likely," he sniffed.

"If you do not, we will kill the girl, Amelia Pond, and Jeremy Larkin."

The Doctor hesitated. He hadn't seen either of them, but then that didn't mean they weren't here and being held prisoner. "Show them to me and I might."

"Open it, and we will show them to you."

The Doctor sighed. This was getting old. How many times had he stood at the point of 'check' with an alien species? As River said, this was usually the moment when he had a really good idea. The trouble was, he was so tired. The Bluhdoul infestation was draining his resources. It was only a matter of time before he...

"No. No. Sorry. Can't do that. Can't have you visiting other people's picnics and taking your pet ants with you."

"If you will not open it, we will find another who can. We will take the key from you and give it to them."

The Doctor looked from the emerald Auton to the one in sapphire as he lifted a hand and ran it across his brow. A sudden wave of weakness had just washed over him. Was this it? Were the Bluhdouls about to break free and consume him? River had found his carcass on the floor of the Tardis, and there the old girl was in all her blue beauty. Even if no one flew her, if the Autons made their way in they could leave him lying there, dying.

"There is no one else that can fly her, and you lot can't get in since you aren't living!" he declared, wobbling. "You've no plan! And without a plan you might as well pack up all the biscuits and jam and go home!"

"We have a plan, Doctor. And you have just given us the final piece that we need to put it into action."

The female Auton was speaking for the Consciousness. But where was it? The gestalt must be employing some sort of a perception filter. The only thing odd he had noticed was the pulsing light. Maybe he was looking at them and just couldn't see them. If he could see them, he might be able to do something about them.

Or he might just take a lie down on the floor.

Involuntarily, the Doctor dropped to the mildewed boards and sat there, blinking. "What did you do to me?" he demanded. This wasn't the Bluhdouls doing, though they were snacking quite nicely. It was something else. "What did you do?"

"There is one other person who can fly the Tardis," the duplicate in green declared. "Doctor River Song."

"Oh, dear," he said, leaning on one elbow, "I was afraid you were going to say that." So this Nestene was from his future; the one River had talked about, with the Pandorica. "But she won't...do it for...you..."

"No. But she'll do it for me. She's ever so fond of me, don't you know?"

The Doctor stiffened. He knew that voice. Knew it better than... Well, no, he couldn't say that.

It was his own.

The long, lanky Auton duplicate of him stepped out of the shadows cast by the Tardis and walked toward him. Stopping at his side, it dropped easily into a crouch and fished the Tardis key out of his pocket. Placing it in its own, it tapped it once, and then rose to his full height.

"Sorry, mate. Love to stay and chat, but I'm late for a date."

Whatever they had done to him, it was causing him to lose consciousness – almost as if he and his plastic doppleganger could not exist in the same space at the same time.

The duplicate knelt beside him again. To the Doctor's horror, it pulled out the sonic screwdriver and pretended to take a reading of him. "Oh, look, the Time Lord is winding down." Then it leaned down and whispered in his ear even as he lost consciousness. "Night, night. I promise to take good care of Doctor Song...

"In fact, I'll love her to death."

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Henry Abington had just returned to his room from paying a visit to General Lafayette's. He felt terrible. He was uncertain, but it seemed that it must be he who had infected the Frenchman, for their symptoms were the same. He had gone hoping to find Lafayette recovering. Instead he found their military leader and advisor at death's door. For some reason the mortification was more rampant and the fever higher than it had been with him. He had never sunk so low. And his recovery has been nothing short of miraculous. At the moment, Henry felt as if he had never been ill. He just wished there was something he could do.

Some way he could help.

"Good evening, Henry," a husky voice greeted him as he closed the door. "Or should I say 'Good morning' as it is the new day?"

Startled, Henry jumped. It took a moment to regain his composure. When he did, he glanced about the darkened room. "Who is it? Who is there?"

There was a sound; soft fabric rustling as someone stood. By the light of the single candle he carried and that of the moon streaming in the window, he could just discern a woman's shape.

"Madame, this is most immodest of you. I demand to know what you are doing here!"

The woman moved forward, entering a pool of diffused light. He didn't think he knew her, though it was hard to tell as she was of an average build, neither tall nor short, and wore her hair piled high in a nest of curls as did so many women. The intruder wore a silk gown that shimmered as she moved, and she was holding a strange device in her hand. It looked something like a box of polished steel.

But it was blinking.

"Who...who are you?"

For a moment she said nothing, and then, "My name is River. I am a friend of the Doctor."

"That good man!" Henry felt somewhat relieved. "Where is he? I wanted to thank him for – "

"He has the disease," she answered, her voice ragged with emotion. "He's dying."

"No. No! Not the Doctor as well." Henry fell hard into the chair near the bedstead. "It is the same corruption? You are sure?"

"Yes." The woman stepped closer. "He has sent me to examine a sample of your blood in hopes that he can find a cure. While there is still time."

"I am more than willing, Madame. Let me fetch my kit," he replied, rising. "Though I do not know how you will divine what is in the blood without a microscope."

"There's no need. I have everything here." She indicated the curious metal box.

"Is that something new?" Henry asked as he turned back, slightly trepidatious. The box seemed odd. Out of place, or out of time.

"From France," she answered. "Fashioned by one of the king's special smiths. The box can be used to...see through the skin to the bone and blood beneath."

"How is that possible?" he asked.

The strange woman entered a beam of moonlight. "Magic," she answered as she flashed a bewitching smile.

"Madame! There is no such thing as – "

"Hush," she commanded as she took hold of his wrist and held the strange device above it. "The spirits think best when it is quiet."

Henry fell silent, not because she asked it of him, but because he was flabbergasted. Who was she? How had she come into his room? Where was the Doctor, and was he truly dying?

Would he be responsible for his death as well?

The woman touched the device once and then, again. A white light flashed through the room like heat lightning before a storm. She scowled and repeated the exercise. After the second round of pyrotechnics, the scowl deepened. She released his arm then and turned away but continued to touch the device with her finger, making it produce a series of odd beeps and clicks.

"Damn!" she said at last.

"What...what is it?"

When she turned back, the look on her face was pained. "I have the information on the plague that was stored in the central library on Gallifrey. I have run a comparative study on your blood and the samples from which they formulated the cure and there is one element missing." The woman sighed. "I'm sorry, Henry. I had hoped that, due to the mutation of the virus, the elements needed for the cure had somehow altered as well. They haven't. There is one essential thing different about you and the men and women from which the physicians on Gallifrey drew blood..."

He wasn't really following her. But her pronouncement demanded a reply. "And that is?"

The woman lowered the hand holding the device and raised her other one. Clutched tightly in it was a small but lethal pistol.

"You aren't dead."