Doctor Who_ The Room With No Doors Part 28

Mr Cwej gave her a puzzled glance. The flying head dodged around the back of him, and he spun, ready to lash out at it. It kept its distance. 'So who do we know around here who performs miracles?'

Who did he mean? The Ros.h.i.+? The Caxtarid? Surely not.

She turned, slowly, to look at the pod.

'If it's got psychokinesis,' said Mr Cwej, 'it might be telepathic as well. And you were the one it reached out to in the first place.'

'When it brought me here,' she said, awed.

'Have you experienced anything else weird? To do with your mind, or anything?'

They turned to look at each other.

'Nightmares,' they said, together.

The drone drone took the opportunity to make its escape. took the opportunity to make its escape.

'You must sleep,' said Penelope. 'You have not slept for days.'

They were sitting on the floor of the empty meditation hall. Mr Cwej had been discussing defences and food with Kame and the Ros.h.i.+ for an hour. Now she had brought him her concern, and a bowl of rice.

He turned his cloudy eyes to her. 'I can't sleep,' he said. 'The Room is waiting for me.'

'I know.' He looked at her in surprise. She touched his arm, lightly. 'But if you would lead us, you must eat, and sleep, or you will be in no fit condition to do so.'

He closed his eyes. 'It's waiting for me,' he said again. 'It's all because of death, you see. The Doctor died because I wasn't there.'

'You cannot blame yourself. You must not! It was a terrible accident.'

'That's only half of it. I couldn't kill Liz when she needed me to.'

Penelope didn't know what to make of that. Mr Cwej opened his eyes. She was sure her face had drained of colour. 'We were poisoned,' he said dully.

'She insisted I take half the antidote, and carry the rest to safety so that more could be made from the sample. Then she asked me to kill her.'

168.

'To spare her the pain of the poison?' He nodded. 'And you could not. Who could face such a horror?'

He shrugged his shoulders. 'But you're right,' he said. 'I have to put it aside, don't I? I have to sleep. Even though it'll be the Room.' He looked at her with his dulled eyes. 'She hated me because I couldn't kill her. And then Imorkal did it anyway.'

Penelope thought for a moment. 'What would you say to her if she had lived? If I were her?'

His eyes held hers. 'Thanks. And sorry.'

'All right,' said Penelope. She got up.

He touched her hand. 'Will you wake me up?' he said desperately. 'After four hours? No matter what?'

'I promise.'

So Chris Cwej put everything aside. He put the pod and the siege aside. He put Roz aside. He put Liz aside. He put the Doctor aside. The living needed him, and he had to be ready to help them.

He ate his rice, and went to sleep. And only slept.

When Penelope came back four hours later, he was curled on a mat in the hall. He looked almost as though he had fallen over, a map still loosely held in one hand. Penelope watched his slow breathing for a few moments, saw the tension gone out of his face, his hands.

It was remarkable that he was bearing up so well under the stress. The resilience of youth, or long years' experience at the Doctor's side? She suppressed an urge to stroke his hair, and instead checked her pocket watch. Five more minutes.

She wished, now, that she and the Doctor had not parted on such disagree-able terms. Even though she had been able to offer him some comfort before his death, and they had been reconciled, it seemed so futile to have wasted their time bickering.

At least she now knew the reason for the Doctor's insistent interest in her nightmares. What was the meaning of their shared dream herself, the Doctor, Mr Cwej? Why this common nightmare of enclosure, like a dream of being trapped in a coffin, buried alive? It was time. She bent to shake the young man awake. Chris's eyes flickered open. He looked up at her. 'I've been conned,' he said.

169.

Falling upwards No luck. I fall back. Too much weight resting on me for me to s.h.i.+ft it. I can't even gasp for breath. Body calling up every last sc.r.a.p of stored oxygen, enough to last me for a few more minutes at least, as long as I keep brain and body running on minimum. As long as I don't make any more desperate lunges to get out.

Now would be a good time to go mad. If only I could figure out quite how to manage it. Just a short hop sideways from reality, they say, but I can't seem to move in that direction either. Brain's running so slowly now.

It would be such a relief if I finally did go insane, because then I'd no longer have to stay on constant guard against going mad. That weight would be off me. I'd be relieved of duty. Wouldn't have to keep trying to keep control, make sure everyone plays the parts they're supposed to in the plans I lay.

But it's that control which the others want to lock safely away, because they're afraid it's another step down that road to megalomania. And it's that same manipulation, that same prodding of people into position, which made me lead Chris into burying me alive.

The irony is killing me.

I'm not sure which is worse. In the Room there's no hope, no exit, no slim chance of a way out. Right now, in this dark, there's just enough hope that it sends you into an absolute panic at the thought of not being able to grasp it.

The last of the stored oxygen's going sour.

What will it be like after it happens? A trial before a jury of my twelve peers? Six consecutive life sentences for crimes against my conscience?

They think I deserve this.

They?

We.

Let's not mince p.r.o.nouns here: they're as much me as I am. I'm all in this together. I stand with all the other facets of me as they pa.s.s judgement on my life. We We decided I'd gone too far. decided I'd gone too far.

We think I deserve this.

We?

171.

I.

It's all too easy to take the metaphors literally. But we're not separate: we're a chain of cause and effect.

I think I deserve this. think I deserve this.

No.

Of course I think I deserve this. To be devoured, sacrificed, punished punished because I couldn't save everyone, or because I let horrible things happen to those who deserved it. Of course I let horrible things happen to me. I thought I deserved it. But I don't. because I couldn't save everyone, or because I let horrible things happen to those who deserved it. Of course I let horrible things happen to me. I thought I deserved it. But I don't.

And I don't have to put myself through this if I I moved.

Just a little, a slight twist of the hand, dirt trickling through my fingers.

Just a tiny bit sc.r.a.ped off the ma.s.s above me. Again. My hand pus.h.i.+ng side to side, pus.h.i.+ng the soil away around it, letting it fall beneath me. Other hand can do it too. Can't push the earth up, but I can let it fall past me. Try moving my whole body the same way. There. It's sc.r.a.ping against me. I can hear the dirt rasping against my ears. Flush it out of the way.

Everything that's holding me down, let it fall away.

I can still feel my body beginning to die all around me. Oxygen-starved cells beginning to stumble and choke. Perhaps it's time time to wipe the slate, forget what I am, stop being paralysed by the fear and guilt.

No. I don't have to die to be free of this. I've already changed so much in this lifetime, I can let go of my past without letting go of who I am. I release myself from the burden of hating myself for things long since done. I free myself from the task of being perfect and handling everything. No more prisoners. No more self-accusation, self-flagellation, self-castigation. I don't deserve it. None of me does.

Not even the person I used to be. No need to lock him away, no need for any of me to blame myself. I keep thinking as though I killed him, but I didn't.

I'm not dead.

Less weight on me now, the soil more loosely packed. Getting close. Lungs like hot coals. Don't rush. Don't push. Pus.h.i.+ng only makes it harder, drains your strength more. Don't try to control. Relax and let the movement move you. Simple unconscious rhythm of your hands and body will free you. Like breathing. Very like breathing.

Muscles sizzling.

The change could start any moment now.

Not sure whether this cat will be alive or dead when the box opens. Don't know if I'll have a new face when I break free.

Don't need to worry about it either. If it happens then it happens, but if it does I won't be trapped: I will go on. I will be the one who's still alive, 172 because I'm not just who I am right now: I'm who I was and who I will be too.

I am the Doctor. I am the Doctor.I.

AM.

. . . touching air.

Fingers free, scrabbling for a grip above. Left hand breaks through too.

Don't breathe, don't breathe, there's still a foot of soil over your face, whole body tightening with a final breathless convulsion, funny how it's so much more agonizing when you're this close close, not sure whether your body is going to give out just before the finish line or rally for that final PULL free.

Weight falling away from my face. I breathe. Head turns. I can move move. I cough, spluttering out the chunks of dirt I've just inhaled, sucking in another lungful of air.

Out. I am. Free. We're all free.

I pull the rest of me loose and start to stand up, getting as far clear of the ground as I can just because I can. Stumbling to my feet, feeling all this precious wind on my face. My gasps sounding like laughter.

Through streaming eyes I somehow see Death, reclining against a tree stump, watching with a smirk.

'There now,' she says, 'that wasn't so bad, was it?'

173.

19.Needlessly Messianic

Joel Andrew Mintz had never killed anyone before.

Te Yene Rana, on the other hand, had stopped counting at one hundred.

She had pulled the small, pale human out from under a corpse, and slapped him around until he'd stopped screaming. When he'd got a good look at her, s.n.a.t.c.hing up his eye magnifiers from the soil and jamming them on to his face, he'd started screaming again.

Now he was sitting at an odd angle on the ridge, surrounded by bodies, his eyes large and blank behind those little circles of gla.s.s. She'd only picked him up because she wanted a look at him.

'You're from the future? Right?' she said, poking him with the barrel of her laser rifle.

'Uh, yes, yeah,' he said. 'I've never killed anybody before. Did I tell you that?'

'I think you mentioned it. Thanks.'

This ridge had been the centre of the battle camp. She could see small groups of fighters moving around nearby, picking up corpses, carrying away the wounded. All very routine.

'Where's the leader?' she demanded.

He looked around, but he wasn't taking anything in. 'I couldn't help it,' he said. 'It couldn't be helped. I don't know. Is he still alive?'

She picked him up by his collar. He struggled a bit. 'Is he one of these cadavers?' she demanded.

'I don't think so,' he managed, at length. 'He must be somewhere else.'

She dropped him. 'Right,' she said. 'He's probably off organizing whatever's left of his troops. Will he come back here?'

'I don't know,' said the human. 'I guess so.'

'Then I'll wait.' She picked up an overturned stool, and sat down on it, crossing her legs. 'Great view from here. Maybe I'll spot him.'

'What do you want?' said the human, dully.

175.

'To change sides, of course. Umemi-sama's head got blown off during the battle, so it's no d.a.m.ned use working for him any more. I've got a bunch of information about what's left of his forces. Not that there's much to tell!

Anyway, I'll bet this daimyo's going to head for the monastery as soon as he's got his act together. And that's where I want to go.'