The Road to ... (Chapter 3, Part 2)
At a magnificent mahogany desk under a tremendous skylight, an important, harried-looking man is staring at a small screen is his hands, stabbing at it frantically with his fingers. Other than his tortured expression, he appears oblivious to the noisy, angry crowds surrounding him. People are shouting, waving papers, banging their fists on the desk.
The Doctor can see instantly that he needs to talk to the man, alone, but he can’t imagine how to get around the crowds. Fortunately, the Master is one step ahead.
“If I could have your attention … thank you, thank you all. If you’d like to proceed downstairs to D-sector, we’ve assembled a team to deal with all of your enquiries.”
There’s something about his tone, and the people calm themselves instantly. They quickly form an orderly line for the lift, which dings as it closes, and disappears. The Doctor can only watch in wonder; he’d always thought it was purely hypnotism, this …persuasiveness of the Master’s. But it’s more than that. He just seems to be able to order - to lead - almost as if it’s a birthright. It’s not hypnotism, it’s just part of his character. Part of who he is.
Side by side, they stride over to the desk, pleased to see the man has finally looked up.
“Who are you? There isn’t any D-sector. There’s no team.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” The Doctor says brightly. “But it got rid of them, didn’t it? Never mind, you can thank us later. Now, what’s that you’re looking at?”
The man drops the screen onto the table in frustration. “Oh, it’s only the cost projection figures for the next launch, but the blasted thing’s broken. Damned radiation, these days. Gets into everything.”
Curiously, the Doctor picks up the screen, flips it over, and pops open a panel. He produces the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and activates it, pointing it into the inner workings of the device. Underneath his hands, the screen lights up. Smiling, he pops the panel back in, and hands the whole thing back to its owner.
“Thank you,” the man says, his surprise evident.
“Not a problem. Now, I wonder if you can help us.” He stands squarely in front of the desk, his hands in his pockets. The Master has stood behind him, a little, his arms folded.
“But … who are you?”
Briefly, the Doctor whips out the psychic paper and flashes it in front of the man’s eyes. “Regional experts. Sent to help. We understand you’re in a bit of a fix.”
“Oh … yes. Yes, we are. Simply put, we don’t have enough fuel for all of the ships. For all of the cargo.”
The Doctor’s tone takes a turn for the darker. “You mean the people?”
The man’s face is drawn and pale. “The people, yes. That’s the worst part. There are other things, too. Relics. Artefacts. Documents. Things that really shouldn’t be lost. But the most awful part is … we don’t see how we can possibly carry all the people.”
“Why?”
“It’s the fuel. We were left a certain amount of fuel, to power the last nine ships. It’s self-replicating fuel, you see, and it can’t be produced here on Earth. But the radiation’s limited it’s replication pattern, so it’s only about forty percent as effective as it should be. With this fuel, and with the cargo we’re supposed to carry, we’d barely make it outside the solar system. No … I’m not even sure we’d do that.”
The Doctor runs his hands through his hair and turns to face the Master, whose face is expressionless. “Well, that is quite the fix.”
It is, too. No fuel on Earth these days is strong enough to power space flight over long distances; he knows this. And its entirely possible the radiation will have affected the efficiency of the fuel. He turns slightly and sits on the desk, running through a million possible scenarios in his mind. Perhaps the Master’s idea of shipping families away in the TARDIS isn’t such a bad one. He can fit a lot of people in there, after all …
“Doctor. A word in private.”
It isn’t a request from the Master - it never is - and he follows without asking. Out of earshot of the man, the Master leans close and whispers, “Presumably this fuel is currently being stored in a magnified conservation vehicle?”
“Of course,” the Doctor nods.
“Well, this radiation must have broken through, obviously. But if we were to magnify the radiation to a high enough level, surely it would destabilise the fuel to a degree where it replicates more efficiently?”
The Doctor’s eyes go wide and he looks at the Master in surprise. “Yes!” He shouts, and then instantly lowers his voice. “Yes - if we can magnify the radiation - increase it by more than forty percent - then it should reverse the effects and cause it to begin replicating again! That’s it! You’re brilliant!”
“I know.” The Master says, matter-of-factly. “Go on, then. Go save the world.”
“I’ll need your help.”
The Master rolls his eyes. “Oh, but of course. Come on, then. Let’s get this over with.”
***
The man behind the desk - they never did learn his name - directs them to the technical department. They board the lift once more, and this time there is no time for games. The Doctor is talking again, nineteen to the dozen, and the Master seems to have been swept up in his enthusiasm.
“How did you come up with that plan?” The Doctor is more animated that he’s been for a while, completely caught up in this new project. Almost nothing energises him like a problem he knows he can solve. The Master knows this, and he watches him. A feeling he’s unfamiliar with is rising in his chest, but he squashes it before it gets to his face and make him smile.
“You’re not asking the right question: why didn’t you come up with that plan? It is, after all, one of the principles of radiation. Different levels have different, sometimes opposite, effects. Why didn’t you think of that?”
The Doctor stops in his tracks. “I … I don’t know. It’s obvious, now I think about it. Yeah … oh, well. I probably would have thought about it in a minute or two.”
“Mmmm …” the Master says, in a long, drawn-out way. “But you have to wonder why I thought of it first …”
The Doctor rolls his eyes, slightly, but grins at the same time. The Master is reminding him of the earliest games they used to play, as children. Before it all got complicated, really. As small children they used to compete constantly over intelligence: who would solve a puzzle, work out the solution to a problem fastest; who could calculate most accurately; who could recognise the most stars. They were the games of children, but they helped define the rules of their relationship. The Doctor remembers that they were fairly well-matched. He was better at some things, the Master was better at others. But the Doctor worked out quickly that the Master hated to lose, so often he just … let him win. Gave him the illusion of victory. Winning just meant less to him. These small triumphs made the Master happy, and he’d always loved to see the Master happy. Sometimes he wondered if the Master knew he was letting him win. He was sure he did. Did the Master simply not care that his victory was false?
He shakes himself out of these memories, into a more urgent and current problem. Why hadn’t he realised that solution himself? It was obvious, easy, staring him in the face. So obvious, in fact, that he started to think that, had the best minds on Earth not left on previous ships, even a human scientist could have found the answer. Why had he been so slow?
The answer, of course, is staring him in the face, but he doesn’t want to see it. When the Master is around, when they are on the same side … the Doctor is different. His mind is not working so quickly, because he knows the Master’s is. The Master will take care of it.
This is an uncomfortable thought.
Once more, the bell of the lift cuts into the moment, and they walk through the doors into a massive an unusual room. It’s like a cross between a sterile laboratory and a launch pad. There are no humans around.
“Right,” the Doctor says briskly, attempting to get back to business. “We need to find the fuel tank - we’ll have to check that fuel before we start irradiating it - and then we’ll have to find the radiation filter.”
“Well,” the Master says, “I’ll venture a guess that that’s the fuel tank.” He gestures to a large, raised, rounded object at the end of a long, straight tunnel that runs between all the lab equipment.
The Doctor turns and grins delightedly at the Master, and then they start running. They are completely in step, all the way down the tunnel.
“Okay …” the Doctor points the sonic screwdriver at a data screen on the side of the container, which lights up with green numbers and symbols. He screws his face up in distaste. “Oh, yeah, look at that! That would barely get them outside the atmosphere in that state, never mind anywhere else. But hold on … if the radiation’s strong enough to do that, why is anyone here still alive?”
The Master shrugs slightly, looks upwards, and guesses, “Perhaps because this fuel doesn’t originate on Earth. If it comes from a planet where solar radiation is practically non-existent, it’ll decay much faster in an irradiated atmosphere.”
Considering this, the Doctor nods. “Yeah … that’s possible. Self-replicating fuel was never really possible on Earth - all their base fuels were too volatile. I don’t know where this came from, mind you … still want to try it?”
The Master replies with cold, hard logic. “What is there to lose? You said it yourself, this fuel’s worthless in its present state.”
“Right, then. Better go and look at the radiation filter.”
“We passed that on the way down here. About halfway back up the tunnel.”
And they’re off, running again, still in step.
The screen of the radiation filter is already lit up. The Doctor bends over the screen and stares at it for a few moments. This should be easy. He can see on the schematic the area of the filter that covers the fuel tank. All he has to do is reduce that - forty percent, they said - and everything should click into place. He presses some buttons quickly, tapping them lightly with his fingers and … nothing happens.
“What?” He stands up quickly, looking back along the tunnel at the fuel tank.
“Ahem,” the Master taps him on the shoulder and points at a small - but bright red and flashing - icon in the corner of the screen. ALL SYSTEMS MAXIMUM SECURITY - MANUAL OPERATION.
“Oh, for …” throwing back his head in frustration, the Doctor turns around and glares at the screen. “Maximum security? In this place? Guarding worthless fuel that wouldn’t power a small car? You really have to wonder, don’t you? What good’s putting everything on manual operation going to achieve at this point?”
The Master remains the very image of calm, watching the Doctor’s little tantrum. Once more he feels that … that odd feeling, and once more he ignores it.
Taking a deep breath, the Doctor gets himself back under control. “Right. What we’ll have to do it … one of us can go down there and manually release the security, and the other can stay here and increase the radiation.”
“No, we can’t.” Again, the Master sounds devastatingly calm and logical; so much so, in fact, that the Doctor wonders once more if it’s possible that the Master is insane.
“What? Why not?”
The Master grins his most “humour the lesser life-form” grin and points at his wrist.
Ah. The Doctor rocks back and forth on his heels for a moment, and then decides there’s nothing else for it. He points the sonic screwdriver at his own wrist for a moment, releasing the link device.
They share a look at this action, and deep down the Doctor feels most uneasy, knowing everything that’s at stake. He breaks the look and turns his attention back to the data screen.
“Well, I’d better go,” the Master says lightly. He takes off, running … to the fuel conservation tank. The Doctor wants so badly to grin, but he blocks it, pushing it away.
“Ready?” The Master shouts from the end of the corridor.
“Counting down,” the Doctor confirms, fingers poised over the keypad. “Three … two … one … now!” The manual security icon stops flashing, and the Doctor begins to lower the shield, increasing the radiation. Ten percent … twenty … thirty … he slows it slightly as it approaches forty, and then stands back at the exact moment, hands now in his pockets. He stares at the screen, watching the numbers flashing, seeing alerts being send all over the place, responding to the high radiation levels. His eyes never leave the screen.
“Did it work?” asks a voice in his ear, and he turns to find the Master behind him. Eyes wide, he turns back to the screen and flicks a few more keys, finding a diagnostic to run on the fuel. A few seconds, and -
“Yes! Oh, yeah - it’s self-replicating again! Up and up and up! Yes! Faster than ever before! You’re brilliant!” He spins around the hugs the Master tightly, just like he would any of his companions, not even realising what he’s doing.
The Master stiffens automatically at the action, and his brain tells him to stop the Doctor and his ridiculously demonstrative display of emotion … but that strange feeling’s back, and it’s cancelling out all the messages his brain is trying to send.
***
“Sorry,” the Doctor mumbles, as he disentangles himself from the Master. It’s strange; he feels awkward now, mere seconds later, but at the time it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“Still,” he says, as he realises he’s knocked the Master’s tie askew, and straightens it. “We still make one hell of a team.”
This time the Master does not smile. The Doctor’s too happy, too high on the success of their endeavour, to notice. They make their way back to the top of the tower, where the crowd has returned. The Doctor wriggles his way to the front of the queue and whispers something in the old man’s ear, then stands back and grins as the good news is announced.
Only then does he realise he never reattached the link device around his wrist. Frantically, he gazes around the room, searching for the Master, and doesn’t see him.
At first. Suddenly his eyes land on him, standing with his back against the wall, away from the crowd. The only calm figure in a room full of chaos. It seems the Master has to be different: the calm one surrounded by disarray, or the image of madness in a place of peace. He makes his way over to stand next to him. Once more, now familiar with the action, the Master reaches inside the Doctor’s jacket and pulls out the sonic screwdriver. He can’t operate it, but he places it in the Doctor’s hand, pointing it at their wrists.
Wordlessly, the Doctor obeys.
The man from the desk rushes over to them, suddenly looking much younger than he did before. “Gentlemen … how can I thank you?” He looks at them, beaming expectantly.
The Doctor beams right back. The Master looks uncomfortable and averts his eyes.
“No thanks necessary. Our pleasure, really.”
“Will you be joining us on the ship?”
“Oh … no. Sorry. We’ve made arrangements to travel on …” he trails off.
“Vector Eight.” The Master fills in instantly. The Doctor looks at him in surprise. The man doesn’t seem to notice, and he is beaming even more widely than before.
“Oh, that’s wonderful. You’re going to the same galaxy as us. Perhaps we’ll see you again?”
“Every chance,” the Doctor grins back, and the man hurries away. As soon as he is gone, the Doctor turns to face the Master. “Vector Eight?”
“The name of a ship,” the Master shrugs. “I saw it on that screen downstairs.”
The Doctor wants to ask how the Master knew “Vector Eight” wasn’t the name of this ship, but he’s interrupted by a shout from the crowd.
“What? Why do we have to do that?”
The Doctor starts to open his mouth to speak, but the Master nudges him in the ribs. “Shh.”
The old man is speaking once more. “We have a duty … an obligation. More than that, we have a legal responsibility!”
“Why do we? If the councillors really cared about that lot, they’d have taken them before now. Let’s just go!”
The Doctor’s face falls. These people - these Citizens - genuinely want to leave the others behind, the people in the slums. Ashra, and her children, and all the others. He turns to look at the Master, fully prepared for a look of smug self-satisfaction - after all, he predicted this - but the look is not there. He looks unsurprised, to be sure, but not particularly pleased.
In the end it is put to a vote, and the Doctor seethes as he watches the fat and well-dressed nobles vote to leave people behind on this doomed rock to starve or burn. But they do not win, although they do not lose by much, and he swallows his rage.
***
An hour later, the tower is empty. Everyone has left, gone to take their place on the ship. Suddenly remembering something, and grabs the Master’s wrist and runs to the lift.
“What?” the Master asks, looking impatient.
“Ashra. I told her we’d go back.”
“What for? You solved her problem. She’ll have a place on the ship now, just. Why go back?”
“Because I promised.”
“What difference does it make?”
“None at all. But I promised I’d go back. So I’m going back.”
The Master doesn’t hide the fact that he’s rolling his eyes. But he says nothing. This way the Doctor chooses to live, this code he lives by … it honestly eludes him.
They arrive at Ashra’s cellar just in time. She and her children are at the top of the stairs, tired and frightened, but smiling, making their way to the ship.
They don’t speak, but the young woman smiles at the Doctor, and he grins back. He has no idea what awaits this fragile family on another world, but at least now they have a chance. He watches them turn and walk away, and then -
The oldest boy breaks free of the group, and hurtles back towards the Doctor and the Master. Brushing straight past the Doctor, he wraps his arms around the Master’s legs in a tight hug. Then, quickly as he arrived, he darts away.
The Doctor laughs out loud at the look of pure, thunderstruck horror on the Master’s face. He doesn’t speak - nothing he could say would help - but he points to a hill just beyond the city. The Master nods, and they walk away.
***
They sit on the hillside, looking down on the city. The streets are empty, and they wait patiently to see the ship depart. The Master sits on the ground, evidently uncomfortable. The Doctor lies back in the grass, his hands behind his head.
“It’s not over, you know.” The Master is the first to speak, after several hours. There is no spite or bitterness in his voice, just that same devastating logic. He sounds … tired, somehow.
“What do you mean?”
“Those people got their place in the new order by the slimmest of votes. Three less people in that room and they’d be left here to burn. That’s not going to change when they reach the colonies. Any time food, or water, or anything else is running out, they’re going to be the ones left behind. And you’re not always going to be there to save them.”
“Yes.” The Doctor says simply. He knows all this. He’s faced it, in various forms, many times before. Then he sits up slightly, resting on his elbows, and looks at the Master. “Don’t you mean we won’t be there to save them?” He grins.
The Master laughs, once, a shallow, humourless laugh.
“How did it feel, though?” he asks the Master gently, and, bracing himself for the answer, he lies back down on the grass.
The Master waits a few moments before answering. In that pause, they see the ship lift off in the distance, and watch for many long moments as it disappears into the sky. The evacuation of Earth.
“I think I understand, now, why you do these things. I never did before. I know why you help. I understand how it must feel, to be able to do that. But … I didn’t feel it. I didn’t really want those people to fail, and suffer. But I don’t really care if they succeed, either. They’re not anything to me. They don’t matter. This way, this life - it’s not for me. This can’t be my life.”
He looks down at the Doctor’s face, knowing he’s hurting him and, for the first time in centuries, he’s not thrilled by that fact. Impulsively, he leans down and kisses the Doctor, and the tenderness of the action shocks him - almost - enough to stop.