Tempt not the silence, for the fates are deep
And ... just a little more, just to prove the previous bit wasn't a fluke ...
Somewhere, deep beneath the Riox station ...
“Is this what you seek?” Illyria’s question was disdainful, her head cocked to one side as she stared at the featureless pillar standing in the corner of the debris strewn chamber. “It is smaller than the last one.”
“Yes, well …” Wesley didn’t want to laugh at her, but it was hard not to, considering the treasure they’d found. “It certainly looks that way …”
“You are humouring me.” Icy blue eyes glared at him with displeasure. “I see no amusement in our situation. We stand in a dead place on a dead world; you have what you came for, and we should leave. Why do you seek to replace the chariot of time that brought us here with one that is far less worthy of my presence?”
He smiled, knowing she’d get the point in a moment or two. “Because you can’t judge a TARDIS by its cover.” He’d have missed this, left it to lie, unnoticed and unclaimed, but for that brief blip on the dying monitor. Even then it had proved elusive to find, uncovered - not through frantic search, but by determined and focused concentration. It hadn’t helped that the shuttle’s presence - a rudimentary mind at best - had masked this sleeping leviathan, hidden beneath the heart of the station in a deep and practically dreamless slumber.
Two hours of scrabbling through rubble, of twisting themselves down through shattered stairways and stumbling through darkened passageways where dim and dying emergency lights painted their outlines in lurid reds and blues, had finally brought them to this - not another shuttle, which he’d feared it might prove to be, or even a standard transport, although a mark 50 or a 55 would have been a welcome find. This - this - was something else. A hand crafted masterpiece, still in the Gallifreyan equivalent of mothballs - a mark 45 … maybe even a 40 … a vessel designed and built for comfort during long distance, exploratory travel. And - for some reason - left unclaimed.
Waiting to be woken.
“Something - dreams.” Illyria’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then widened with surprise. “Something … strange and powerful …”
“A TARDIS is a living thing, woven into life around a singularity and linked to the lifeforce of the universe.” Wesley had stepped forward to study the seemingly featureless surface of the pillar; only the symbols carved around its base betrayed the true nature of what lay within. “The shuttle is a primitive model, with basic, empathic circuitry. This - this - is a masterpiece of time. Models of this type are capable of self awareness. They have telepathic pathways built into their core matrix, and are designed to bond with their pilots … “ He reached out a hand to reverently stroke the smooth surface in front of him. “The Watcher has one like this - inherited from his father, and from his grandmother before that. An old model. This one looks new. Never used …”
They were in what looked like the remains of a workshop. Twisted metalwork lay crushed under a fallen roof beam, and the floor was scattered with broken equipment, some of it seemingly lashed together in ways it had never designed to be. Cables snaked around the base of the sleeping TARDIS - and a bundle of them ran into it, its door propped open by their bulk.
“They were doing something to it,” Wesley realised puzzledly. “Some sort of re-programming … “ He glanced around the shadowed space, trying to make sense of what remained. He was an academic, not an engineer, and the dim, half-light turned the debris into little more than angled shapes that held no familiarity. “Why would ..?”
“This world was at war,” Illyria observed, picking up a length of twisted metal and hefting it to test its weight and balance. “There are only three things needed at such a time. A means to attack. A means to defend. And a means - “
“- to escape,” Wesley completed softly. The surface beneath his hand was thrumming with a faint and silent vibration, evidence of the power that lay within. “Except … no one did.”
“You are a fool.” The length of metal was tossed aside, the clanging impact of its descent echoing through the deserted corridors like a death knell. “The final means is always the last strike - the way to steal victory from a gloating enemy. There is no retreat, no surrender. These words are meaningless. Why seek to escape the inescapable? Had I ruled this world, this - “ Illyria waved at the silent TARDIS with an imperious hand, “ - would have served as my Shian’igirika. The place of my greatest death.”
Wesley glanced at her in disconcertion and then looked back - at the silent pillar and the thick bundle of cables that snaked into its depths. Why would someone drag an unbonded TARDIS from the security of the Gallifreyan construction halls, only to hide it deep beneath the Riox station? What had some unnamed Time Lord been working on here - before the wave of war washed through space and time and shattered history along with the world that had given him birth? Illyria’s words had sent a chill through his soul - and offered him an answer that was almost too terrible to contemplate.
“Oh, Good Lord,” he breathed. “They were building a doomsday machine … “
Somewhere, deep beneath the Riox station ...
“Is this what you seek?” Illyria’s question was disdainful, her head cocked to one side as she stared at the featureless pillar standing in the corner of the debris strewn chamber. “It is smaller than the last one.”
“Yes, well …” Wesley didn’t want to laugh at her, but it was hard not to, considering the treasure they’d found. “It certainly looks that way …”
“You are humouring me.” Icy blue eyes glared at him with displeasure. “I see no amusement in our situation. We stand in a dead place on a dead world; you have what you came for, and we should leave. Why do you seek to replace the chariot of time that brought us here with one that is far less worthy of my presence?”
He smiled, knowing she’d get the point in a moment or two. “Because you can’t judge a TARDIS by its cover.” He’d have missed this, left it to lie, unnoticed and unclaimed, but for that brief blip on the dying monitor. Even then it had proved elusive to find, uncovered - not through frantic search, but by determined and focused concentration. It hadn’t helped that the shuttle’s presence - a rudimentary mind at best - had masked this sleeping leviathan, hidden beneath the heart of the station in a deep and practically dreamless slumber.
Two hours of scrabbling through rubble, of twisting themselves down through shattered stairways and stumbling through darkened passageways where dim and dying emergency lights painted their outlines in lurid reds and blues, had finally brought them to this - not another shuttle, which he’d feared it might prove to be, or even a standard transport, although a mark 50 or a 55 would have been a welcome find. This - this - was something else. A hand crafted masterpiece, still in the Gallifreyan equivalent of mothballs - a mark 45 … maybe even a 40 … a vessel designed and built for comfort during long distance, exploratory travel. And - for some reason - left unclaimed.
Waiting to be woken.
“Something - dreams.” Illyria’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then widened with surprise. “Something … strange and powerful …”
“A TARDIS is a living thing, woven into life around a singularity and linked to the lifeforce of the universe.” Wesley had stepped forward to study the seemingly featureless surface of the pillar; only the symbols carved around its base betrayed the true nature of what lay within. “The shuttle is a primitive model, with basic, empathic circuitry. This - this - is a masterpiece of time. Models of this type are capable of self awareness. They have telepathic pathways built into their core matrix, and are designed to bond with their pilots … “ He reached out a hand to reverently stroke the smooth surface in front of him. “The Watcher has one like this - inherited from his father, and from his grandmother before that. An old model. This one looks new. Never used …”
They were in what looked like the remains of a workshop. Twisted metalwork lay crushed under a fallen roof beam, and the floor was scattered with broken equipment, some of it seemingly lashed together in ways it had never designed to be. Cables snaked around the base of the sleeping TARDIS - and a bundle of them ran into it, its door propped open by their bulk.
“They were doing something to it,” Wesley realised puzzledly. “Some sort of re-programming … “ He glanced around the shadowed space, trying to make sense of what remained. He was an academic, not an engineer, and the dim, half-light turned the debris into little more than angled shapes that held no familiarity. “Why would ..?”
“This world was at war,” Illyria observed, picking up a length of twisted metal and hefting it to test its weight and balance. “There are only three things needed at such a time. A means to attack. A means to defend. And a means - “
“- to escape,” Wesley completed softly. The surface beneath his hand was thrumming with a faint and silent vibration, evidence of the power that lay within. “Except … no one did.”
“You are a fool.” The length of metal was tossed aside, the clanging impact of its descent echoing through the deserted corridors like a death knell. “The final means is always the last strike - the way to steal victory from a gloating enemy. There is no retreat, no surrender. These words are meaningless. Why seek to escape the inescapable? Had I ruled this world, this - “ Illyria waved at the silent TARDIS with an imperious hand, “ - would have served as my Shian’igirika. The place of my greatest death.”
Wesley glanced at her in disconcertion and then looked back - at the silent pillar and the thick bundle of cables that snaked into its depths. Why would someone drag an unbonded TARDIS from the security of the Gallifreyan construction halls, only to hide it deep beneath the Riox station? What had some unnamed Time Lord been working on here - before the wave of war washed through space and time and shattered history along with the world that had given him birth? Illyria’s words had sent a chill through his soul - and offered him an answer that was almost too terrible to contemplate.
“Oh, Good Lord,” he breathed. “They were building a doomsday machine … “