Doctor Who: Engines of War (24 page)

She supposed he must have been living rough in here. Cast out into the wilderness of the Death Zone, he’d probably found this place while seeking shelter from the monsters, just as she and the Doctor had, and had taken up residence. Cinder would probably have done the same, she considered, if presented with a choice between a dank, dark cave system and the slavering jaws of a hungry dinosaur.

The smell of the fire grew steadily stronger, leading them on like a beacon. The passage through the caves forked and twisted, and she realised they must have passed deep under the mountain. They didn’t appear to be travelling downward, however, so she assumed they had to be passing
through
, and that perhaps at some point it would become clear that there was another way out on the opposite side. She certainly hoped so – she didn’t fancy their chances retracing all these steps without getting lost. And, of course, there was still the monster to consider.

They trudged on in silence for a short while, until, eventually, the crackling sound of the fire became audible above their echoing footsteps. The half-man rounded a bend, disappearing suddenly from view, and Cinder hesitated, hanging back in the passageway, unsure whether to go on. The Doctor put a hand on her shoulder and silently urged her on.

Around the kink in the tunnel she found a large, irregularly shaped cave. Two further passages ran off into the shadows, and a fire blazed in a shallow pit in the ground. The half-man was standing facing them, as if welcoming them to his home, and two further people sat on boulders by the fire, warming their hands. One was a woman, the other a younger man, and both of them shared the same condition – or affliction – as the first man. Their faces shifted in constant, flickering patterns, cycling disconcertingly through their lost incarnations.

The first man – the one who had led them here – beckoned for them to enter the cave and take a seat by the fire pit.

‘Go on,’ said the Doctor. When she hesitated again, he gently pushed past her, smiling at the two new figures, and circled the fire, searching out another boulder. He sat, stretching his neck and shoulder muscles.

Deciding she had nothing to lose, Cinder joined him, taking a seat beside him, while the half-man busied himself piling more logs onto the fire.

‘Do you see the way the smoke is curling?’ the Doctor said.

She watched for a moment, as the thick, oily smoke swirled from the fire, as if swirled by a breeze. ‘There must be another way out,’ she said, relieved. They’d clearly passed under the mountain and were close to an alternative route out. Closer to the Tower.

‘Precisely,’ said the Doctor. ‘But let’s sit for a while and get our breath back, shall we?’

Cinder eyed the curious, unspeaking Time Lords. She couldn’t tell if they were watching her or not. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Just not for too long.’

The Doctor nodded his understanding.

Cinder glanced around the cave. There was little here to mark it out as a home. A few straw mats and clay pots. No sign of any food. She wondered if these people even needed to eat, trapped as they were in a weird cycle of life and death.

She peered curiously at the wall. There appeared to be streaks of colour on the bare rock, but it was difficult to discern in the dim light. Was it lichen or mould?

‘What’s that?’ she said, nudging the Doctor and pointing at the wall.

The Doctor followed her gaze. ‘Oh… they’re paintings,’ he said, his eyes suddenly lighting up. He got to his feet, started over toward the wall, and then came back, reaching for a stick from the fire. He selected one and yanked it out, hoisting it up before him like a torch. Cinder, getting to her feet, dodged out of the way of its flaming tip as he swung it around. He crossed to the wall, holding the torch aloft. ‘They’re marvellous,’ he said. ‘Utterly marvellous.’

She joined him, conscious of the three half-people, who remained seated impassively around the fire.

The paintings were primitive and clearly rendered by fingers daubed in vibrant pigments. They covered an entire wall of the cave, spilling onto another – a series of small, apparently self-contained scenes, each one representing a different story. They looked to Cinder like pictograms inside an ancient tomb, speaking to her across untold centuries. There was no indication how old they actually were.

She trailed behind the Doctor as he paced back and forth, holding the torch aloft. In the warm, orange glow, the pictures seemed to take on a life of their own, shifting beneath the flickering shadows. She barely knew where to look. There were so many of them. She traced one with her finger, trying to interpret what she was seeing.

In it, a figure that was clearly intended to be the Doctor, with a shock of grey hair and dark leather jacket, was standing beside a blonde woman in rags. A tall, red flower stood between them.

In another, five Daleks formed a loose circle around a sixth, larger Dalek silhouette.

A third showed a massive eye and a blue box which, Cinder realised, was intended to represent the TARDIS in flight around the Tantalus Eye.

There were others, too: a thin figure with long, curly hair; a lanky man in a blue suit; a third with bouffant white hair and a cape being chased by a silver robot; a red-headed woman lying still on the ground beside what appeared to be the TARDIS console.

Cinder swallowed. She didn’t want to even imagine what that one might mean. ‘What are they? Who are these people?’ she said.

‘They’re me,’ replied the Doctor. He looked utterly bewitched by the primitive paintings, tracing them across the wall with his fingertips, moving the torch back and forth in order to see. He leaned closer, studying them intently. ‘At least, I think they are. I don’t recognise them all. Some of these things haven’t happened yet. I might have changed faces.’

Cinder frowned.
Haven’t happened yet
. Then if the woman in the picture
was
supposed to be her, that didn’t bode well. She considered pointing it out to him, but decided against it. There was a risk that if she did, she might somehow make it real. Better to ignore it, she decided. ‘Why are there paintings of you on a cave wall, out here, in the middle of nowhere?’

‘They’re painting what they see,’ said the Doctor. ‘And for some reason, they see me. Past, present and future. This is my story.’

‘Then you shouldn’t read it,’ said Cinder. ‘No one should know their own future.’ She felt a shiver pass unbidden down her spine.

‘No,’ agreed the Doctor. ‘You’re right.’ He didn’t turn away, however, but continued to stand there, studying the pictures.

‘
Doctor?
’

‘Oh, all right,’ he said, reluctantly stepping away from the wall. ‘It’s just so tempting to have a little peek, to see what my future selves might look like.’

‘I’m not sure how much you’re going to glean about that from cave paintings,’ said Cinder, ‘and suppose you saw something you shouldn’t, like how you were going to die? What would you do then?’

He eyed her suspiciously. ‘Nothing’s fixed. No matter what I saw, if it hasn’t happened yet, it can be changed.’

She breathed a sigh of relief. Well, that was good to know, at least. ‘We should go,’ she said. ‘We’ll need to get back from the Tower before it gets dark.’

The Doctor looked a little crestfallen; as if he’d much rather stay here in the cave, studying the paintings. ‘Do you always have to be so sensible?’ he said.

‘I’m afraid so,’ she replied. ‘On Moldox you learn not to sit still. You’ve got to keep moving to stay ahead of the Daleks.’

‘When this is done,’ he said, ‘I’m going to teach you about some of the finer things in life. Books, marshmallows, Earl Grey tea, the view from the banks of the Rhine, the ash oceans of Astragard, the pleasure of Cleopatra’s court.’

‘I’ll hold you to that,’ she said, with a grin. She glanced at the painting of the red-headed woman, and then cleared her throat. ‘All the more reason to get on with finding this Borusa character. Come on!’ She crossed to the passageway on the left, and felt a light breeze against her cheek. ‘This way.’

A glance back over her shoulder told her that the Doctor and the three half-people were following her.

The Tower stood dark and foreboding ahead of them. Cinder felt an involuntary shudder run down her spine at the sight of it. ‘It doesn’t look much like a tomb,’ she said to the Doctor, who was trudging along beside her. ‘More like a fortress.’

‘Mmmm, hmmm,’ mumbled the Doctor, noncommittally.

Close by, the three half-people from the cave trailed behind them. Cinder kicked herself for continuing to think of them like that. Of course, these were
not
half-people. Interstitials? It would do for now.

She wished she knew how to communicate with them, whether they were able to understand her. She wasn’t quite sure how to act around them.

The Doctor saw her looking. ‘They want to help,’ he said. ‘They’ve foreseen all of this. They’re prepared for the storm that’s coming.’

Cinder nodded but said nothing, wondering what else they had foreseen. That was the real root of her discomfort. She didn’t know if the Doctor had seen the painting on the cave wall of the red-haired girl, lying on the ground of what looked like the TARDIS console room. Was it Cinder, or some other flame-haired girl from the Doctor’s future or past? The painting was too primitive to tell, but something about it troubled her. She couldn’t get the image out of her head.

As they approached the Tower, she could see that burning braziers flanked the lofty entrance. She’d half expected the place to look abandoned, or to be in a state or ruin or disrepair, but the braziers showed it was clearly still inhabited.

‘Stay back,’ said the Doctor, waving her towards a nearby copse of trees. She skipped over to them, noting that the Interstitials had come to a stop, but remained where they were on the path in plain view, ignoring the Doctor. She had no idea if this was dumb obstinacy, or simply because they were already aware that there was nobody else inside the Tower.

The Doctor, however, was taking no such chances, and Cinder watched him creep towards the entrance. He hovered there for a moment, evidently listening for any noises from within, and then stepped through, disappearing from view.

A moment later he returned, waving both arms to indicate the all-clear.

Cinder and the Interstitials trotted up to join him.

‘We need to work quickly,’ said the Doctor as he led them into the dimly lit interior of the Tower. ‘Rassilon could return at any moment, and that would make things exceedingly difficult.’

Cinder considered this for a moment. ‘Oh, I don’t know. One of him, two of us…’ she said.

The Doctor shook his head. ‘That gauntlet he wears? It has the same effect as the Dalek’s temporal weapons, amongst other things. It wouldn’t do to get into a tangle with him.’

Cinder frowned. The more she discovered about Rassilon, the more she decided the universe would be better off without him.

She looked around, trying to get a sense of the place. In here it did look more like a mausoleum – a cavernous hall, with tattered banners drooping from the roof, a stone pedestal that looked for all the world like a font, and the tomb itself, resembling a vast four-poster bed devoid of its canopy.

The whole place had an aura of abandonment about it, a depressing air that made her want to get out of there as quickly as she could.

‘He’s over here,’ said the Doctor, leading her to the short flight of stone steps that led up to the tomb. The Interstitials were waiting silently in the doorway.

‘Borusa?’ said the Doctor. ‘Are you there?’

There was a whirring sound, as of gears turning, and the metal platform that rested on top of the tomb began to pivot up on ratcheting spokes. To her horror, Cinder realised there was an emaciated person strapped to the frame. His feet and hands were bound, and cables seemed to pour from his chest cavity and the back of his skull, trailing off down the far side of the tomb.

‘Doctor,’ said the man-thing. Like the Interstitials, his face was in constant flux, flitting between that of a pale, elderly man, to a bronze, olive-skinned youth, to a middle-aged woman and more besides. His eyes, however, were unlike those of the others, and flickered with dancing blue lights, as if an electric current was running through his head and his eyes were tiny windows, allowing her to peek inside. It was the most appalling thing she had ever seen.

‘Borusa, I’m here to help,’ said the Doctor. ‘But first, I need you to help
me
.’

Borusa laughed, and it was a wet, wracking choke.

‘The random factor,’ he said. ‘The knot of possibility. You always were a difficult one to pin down, Doctor. Lord Rassilon will not be amused.’

The Doctor ignored him. ‘Borusa, I’m going to cut you free and take you with me to the Eye. I have a plan to defeat the Daleks.’ He hesitated. ‘Can you see it? Can you see that future unfolding?’

‘I can,’ said Borusa.

‘Then you’ll help me?’

There was a long pause, as Borusa seemed to consider the Doctor’s request. Cinder wondered if he was, in fact, attempting to look ahead, to see what might become of them all if he did.

‘I will help you,’ he said after a moment, ‘but there is a condition.’

‘Name it,’ said the Doctor.

‘That afterwards, when it is done, you will end my suffering. You will set me free.’

The Doctor bowed his head, clearly pained by the notion.

‘The Time Vortex,’ said Borusa. ‘It unravels inside my head. It is beautiful, exquisite. I see the map of all-time, every moment, every delicate decision that is made, and how it alters the course of the future, changes the possibilities. But it hurts, Doctor. It is more than I can bear. No living thing should have this burden.’

Cinder looked at the Doctor. His eyes were downcast.

‘Will
you
help
me
?’ said Borusa. ‘Will you free me of the possibility engine?’

‘I will,’ said the Doctor, his voice cracking.

‘Then we are in agreement,’ said Borusa. ‘Cut me free. Sever my ties to the Matrix. I will join you in your TARDIS for one final trip.’