The One that Got Away
888
He was huddled in an alley, behind two garbage cans. Bolts are aqua-green energy burst into the cinderblocks and brick of the buildings. Men fled, they returned the fire with little energy pistols that did a cute but pointless 'pew-pew' noise when they fired their chirper sparks at the assailants. He watched as many was slammed in the back with the aqua-green bolts, their skeletons would flare slightly under their skin, most simply would tumble, rolling like rag dolls, others though, some may say the privileged few would be flung into the air doing marvelous death-born feats of acrobatics before crashing into an unseemly clump on the ground, all the while the humming continued getting closer.
Soon there was one man left, the leader of the village standing there in the middle of the street. Both hands held a pistol. His face was determined, his jaw set like stone. He was glaring at the threat that had killed both his friends and his compatriots. He was wearing a light plaid patterned work shirt.
"You – are – alone!" droned the voice. "All – com-bat capable tar-gets have been neutralized!"
The humming buzzed passed his position and he ventured to look out, and saw the black tank-like dust bin, the skirt of its covered in black baubles. A stalk came out of the dome and ended in a tight ball. Flashing lights on the top of the dome blinked in time with the syllables. Two small projections came out of the tanks 'chest' one an egg-whisk shaped blaster the other a plunger like manipulator arm.
The voice sent chills down his neck, and made bits of his stomach churn with angry rip currents of rage. He watched as the leader stood his ground. His cowboy books shifted in the dusty street. The legs in his jeans tensed as he pivoted slightly.
"You monsters!" The leader growled. "We weren't a threat, and then you started killin' people. For no reason!"
"In-corr-ect! Da-lek in-tell-i-gence discovered a reb-el plot!" The tank droned. "A sym-bol was necessary to dis-a-vow any - ideas of hos-tility!"
"You killed my wife, in front of everyone, in front of our children! And you expected no response!?" the leader was screaming now. His hands were shaking, the pistols rattled.
"Your weapons are in-ferior. Your numbers are small. Any attempt at u-surp-ation would be futile!" The Dalek replied. "We - did not ant-i-cipate this. How-ever, your ex-term-in-ation, now, has no bearing on our strat-a-gem for this world. Your death is of as much im-port now, than it would have been in the three planetary cycles that it was sched-uled."
"Yeah, I kinda figgered you lot were just gonna murder us all anyways." The leader said. The leader narrowed his eyes. "I'd just hoped…"
"Don't do it…" whispered the man watching things from the garbage cans to himself.
"I'd just hoped we'd take one of you bastards with us!" The leader shouted as he leaned forward and pressed the triggers of his pistols.
The little sparks of energy bounced off of the Dalek's armor. The Dalek's shielding wasn't even on; the Dalek had been toying with them the whole time. The pistols were less than useless. The Dalek's gun stalked shifted slightly and then a bolt flew. The leader was struck in the chest. The last beat of his heart was captured in the X-ray back-lighting as the bolt's energy resonated with the leader's tissues and turned them to mush. The leader twisted carelessly, as the dead are wont to do, staggered backwards unconsciously and then collapsed his face in the ground his feet pointing to the sky.
The Dalek's eyestalk dropped down and surveyed its work and then the creature turned and the hum of the drive units started and it began to glide away. It passed by the alley again and out of view down the street. The man took a breath and leaned back when he heard a door creak open banging against the inside of the building. The man sat forward, and saw a child, a boy maybe 12 or 14 it was hard to tell. He was dressed like the leader, light gray shirt, jeans, and leather boots. The boy ran to the leader's body and picked up one of the pistols.
"THIS IS FOR MY DAD!" the child shouted in the high and then sparking voice of a teenager, pulling the trigger.
Something flashed in the man, and he soon found himself on his feet, running. Everything was largely a blur. He caught the sight of the Dalek turning in the blur, the flash of an energy blast. He snatched the child, throwing the boy to the ground, rolling, and then hoisting the child up, under an arm, and running.
888
Everything felt warm and fuzzy. Tristan shifted slightly. The last thing he remembered was the black Dalek turning towards him and then a weight hitting him at speed. As these memories clicked into place, he suddenly realized he wasn't alone. His head jerked up. Laying in an old beat up chair with horrible, faded, red and gold upholstery was a man.
The man wasn't from the village, because Tristan didn't know him, and there wasn't anyone from the village that he didn't know. He wore gray undershirt, not unlike the ones the other men of the village had worn; save his right shoulder was bandaged, his entire arm was wrapped up. Over the shirt he wore a bluish double-breasted vest. He couldn't tell what else the man was wearing because his legs were covered by a tawny leather jacket, sporting a blackened right shoulder. The man appeared to be asleep.
Tristan surveyed his position, he was on a couch, and they were in a house. Possibly Mrs. Gurken's, he recognized the cat vases. There was something going on outside, but it sounded distant and seemed to be pertaining, he hoped, to something else, at least for the moment.
"Stupid." The man said quietly. Tristan's head snapped around, the man was surveying him with his gray-blue eyes. They were young eyes but tormented, stormy, flashes of something (lightning?) flickered in them as they stared glumly at him. His face was clean shaven, his hair long but thin and scraggly like a bramble bush at the ends. "Going up against a Dalek, with those pea-shooters. Your whole town is mad, never mind the fact there's an entire armada held up in orbit. That one Dalek killed every person in town, save you, and that wasn't due to anything you did. Which brings us to your response to the situation: It was leaving, boy. It was leaving, and you, not satisfied with the evidence you just saw with your own eyes, decided it was a bright idea to what…? Tickle it some more with a small yield phase disruptor? No…stupid isn't a big enough word for it. Imbecilic, imbecilic just about covers it but just barely, I'd go for numb-skullery but you didn't struggle to escape when I saved you."
"I think I passed out…" Tristan admittedly meekly to the man's glare.
"The first sensible thing your town's citizenry has done all day!" The man harrumphed and then winced and put his arm up to his shoulder.
"You're injured."
"Yes, I'm glad you noticed, it's your fault after all. Damn thing grazed me when I grabbed you…whole arm's numb…I've been trying to cause it to heal with a little, localized micro-regeneration, saw a monk do it once, on the high mountains of Solace and Solitude….but the regenerative energy doesn't seem to want to flow." The man said as he poked his right arm with his left index finger. He grumbled quietly. "Save a kid and I start getting lumps of my anatomy dying, that's what being a hero does to you."
"Regenerative energy…" Tristan gulped unsilently. He pressed himself into the sofa he was on. His eyes locked on the man. "That…that…means…"
"Yeah, it does, which means you're especially lucky." The man growled, as he lifted his jacket and slung it over his shoulders. "The Daleks aren't interested in you anymore. Of course it's bad news for me, because they now know I'm here. Don't know where, yet, but they know I'm here, which gives them a handful of options that mostly include blowing the entire planet to kingdom come. So maybe, it's not such good news for you after all." The man stood up, he had brown trousers on and a pair of heavy boots. He looked to Tristan and glared. "It was going to be a small job, download a bunch of malware into the Dalek battle computer, give them fits, maybe plant some bombs in the Dalek control network, but, no, still have a little bit of the old stuff left in me I guess, those old witches couldn't quite finish the job all the way. So I end up seeing a son trying to redeem his fallen father and I think 'I gotta save him'. You see, you remind me of me when I was your age, dashing in where angels fear to tread."
"Thank you, sir…" Tristan said, cautiously.
"Don't think that's a compliment, because I don't like myself that much and it's patently stupid." The man growled as he walked towards the windows of the house and pushed aside Mrs. Gurken's yellow chiffon curtains. He squinted into the dusty sunlight outside. "They probably have the entire village under bio-scan now. Won't do them any good," the man lifted his hand on the ring finger was a ring, as there is wont to be, "Bio-dampener." He shook his head. "They ought to know better but…the Daleks probably realize that they have time on their squishy protuberances. Know I'm injured. Know I'm lugging around a stupid little kid."
"I'm not a little kid!" Tristan jumped up. He was pointing the phase disruptor at the man. The man had left next to him. "I'm fourteen, and now I'm the only man left in my whole family. I know what you are…you brought this to my world, Time Lord. Your war killed by Dad, killed my Mom, brothers and a sister. All my friends are dead or missing because of your stupid war, Time Lord. This 'pea shooter' may not hurt the Daleks but I'm sure it would kill you stone dead! Or at least it'll make you regenerate, and then I can try and kill you as many times as I can with it!"
The man snorted, and looked back out the window. "Go for it kid. We're gonna die anyways, my TARDIS is several miles out of town, and now that the Daleks know I'm here there's not a lot of chances that we'll get more than a couple blocks before getting it between the old shoulder blades."
Tristan glared at the man, his finger sitting heavy on the trigger. The man stared out the window, completely nonplussed as to the weapon pointed at him. Tristan tried, really tried, but he couldn't get the command in his brain to translate to the contraction of muscles in his finger to pull the trigger. He growled loudly and then threw the gun away.
"Not as easy as it looks, is it?" the man said quietly, still looking out the window, his face reflected dingily in the glass. "You think you'll just drink in that rage and wrath, let that festering anger and frustration burn through you. Think that it will transform you into something that can just kill, indiscriminately." The man winced slightly and looked back to Tristan. "It doesn't work that way. Being a killer is more than anger and rage. There's a coldness to it that can only come with time, complacency and competence." He looked back out the window, his furrowed brow reflected in the glass, "and even then, the good man wills out time and again."
"You're a killer?" Tristan asked.
"Yes."
"Of Daleks?"
"Yes…"
"Others, not Daleks…not their agents?"
The man didn't reply right away. He turned his eyes to Tristan. "Yes."
"A lot of people?"
"More than probably should have died." The man said quietly, almost to himself. "Some I couldn't save, some I could've but didn't. Others, others, got in the way and I removed them. Some were intentional, many more were collateral damage." He turned to Tristan. "What difference does it make? Killing is killing, whether it's one or a billion and one. I don't see you asking the Daleks how many they've killed! Yes, I've killed, but in order to stop the Daleks, to stop Rassilon, to end this war. The deaths I cause, the deaths I create, are a down payment on the lives that will be saved!"
"I…well…Preacher Thomas…says it doesn't work that way." Tristan said as walked towards the man. "He says, every sin we commit weighs our souls down. That the worse the sin the heavier the weight. And murder, is…"
"I am aware of the bindings of my soul, boy." The man said darkly, he glared back out the window. "Trust me, the final death in this war, will be my own, at my own hands…I do not intend to survive to see victory. The war will die with me, one way or another."
"You will not be saved by your own suicide." Tristan said quietly. "Just cuz you die at your own hands doesn't clean away the deaths you caused. Justifying it as saving others, doesn't scrub away that blood either…"
"You're a very perceptive young man." The man said quietly.
"Preacher Thomas is a very good teacher." Tristan said, he was now standing close to the man, close enough to reach out and touch him.
"And where is this preacher now?" the man asked.
"After my mother was executed, they took Preacher Thomas…and…" Tristan looked to the floor, the memories of the preacher screaming as the Daleks carved new commandments into his flesh, and then slowly killed him, only for them then to use their technology to bring him back to life, once an hour, every hour, for a week, just to do it to him over again, burned in Tristan's mind's eye. "…he's gone now."
The man's right hand was on Tristan's head. The action was somewhere between a noogey and a caress. Tristan looked up.
"One day, they will wish they had never come here." The man said, his jaw was set tight. He was glaring out the window. He looked down at Tristan. "Today is as good a day as any, I guess."
"Your arm?"
"Amazing what one can do with a little 'peering out the window' time." The man said, lifting his arm and rotating it at the shoulder. "Little stiff, but serviceable. Bit like a tetanus shot…"
"But you said they'd kill you instantly." Tristan said taking a step back. "Said you wouldn't get more than a couple blocks."
"Oh, undoubtedly." The man nodded. "They probably would if this wasn't happening…"
The man lifted his left hand and in it was a small actuator. He depressed his thumb. Tristan could hear it, across town, explosions. Even in the sky he could see small flashes of light.
"But…"
"They are busy now, don't know what's happening, the whole command structure just went…boom." The man smiled a broad, self-pleased smile. "Quickly, now, before they get things back together, if we get out of town we might be able to sneak past them in the scrub and get to my TARDIS. I'll take you to one of the refugee camps, lots of kids there, like you."
"What about you?" Tristan asked looking at the man. "What will you do?"
"This, more of this." The man said, the smile faded. "Mostly more than this…"
"You don't have to do this…" Tristan said quietly. "You don't have to be like them."
"I used to think that." The man said, he took Tristan's hand. The man's hand was rough and calloused. "Things got worse when I thought that." He looked at Tristan. "We haven't time for this now, let's go."
And they bolted. It was true. Tristan could hear the screams of abject terror in the streets. The Daleks were without orders; Daleks were demanding orders and getting none. Daleks were getting fake orders and orders that made no sense, and file attachments that corrupted their drive controls. Sub-commanders were trying to reign in increasingly belligerent grunts. Tristan saw many Daleks simply spinning. He heard some tittering to themselves drunk on a malware infusion directly into their organic cortex. All the while the man led Tristan down the backstreets and alley ways.
Shortly they were in the scrub, away from town. There were the sounds of Dalek weapons being fired, though this was not directed at them. There were explosions in the town as they hit fuel stocks or granaries started on fire. The man would stop periodically and look back to see if they were being watched or monitored. He mentioned something about Varga plants quietly almost to himself before continuing onward into the scrub, ducking behind cacti and small palm hedges.
Finally they reached a small box canyon, that is to say it was a crack in a butte with a little trickle flowing out of it. Tristan and the man slid into the crack, which almost instantly opened up into a rock cathedral. The stones were striped red and orange and pale yellow. In the middle of the gallery a blue box was standing. The man pulled out a key and walked towards it.
Tristan didn't follow the man directly. He watched as the man inserted the key and opened the doors, inwards a whole impossible universe was inside the box. The man turned around and looked at Tristan.
"Well, come along, boy, we're out of town but not out of danger." The man said, standing at the threshold of two dimensions.
"It's just…" Tristan stared at the man. "How can you live like this?"
"Live like what?" the man said, furrowing his eyebrows.
"As a…I mean the Daleks I understand but…you said you killed people…not just the monsters, but real people, innocent people…" Tristan gulped and stared at the man. "How can you live like that? As a killer?"
"Because, boy, every once in a while, there's someone like you." The man said quietly. "One that gets away…one that doesn't get killed, that escapes, because...well, because they smiled, or they made you remember how you used to be, or…because they just happened to get lucky…and with that one, you think to yourself that all the rest of it is worth it. That that one life, makes up for all of the death you've caused. That's how you slaughter millions…" The man stepped out of his box, and towards Tristan. Tristan backed up slightly. The man reached forward and put his hand on Tristan's shoulder. "It's the only lie that seems to trick me anymore."
"I won't let you use me to wash away the blood on your hands." Tristan said, as he mustered a glare at the man, his muscles tensed prepared to fight if he had to. "I'd rather die here than…"
The man's fingers tensed on Tristan's shoulder near his clavicle. The man's movement was like lightning, and Tristan next found that the world was going a funny spinning color. Tristan wasn't sure how long he was out; all he knew when he woke up was that he was lying on the steps in front of a refugee hospital. A cold breeze was washing over him, and he could hear the distant sound of the universe grinding against itself as some machine wheezed out of existence.