Making Memories, chapter 12

From NarcWiki

Chapter 12: The Tour

As the Doctor and Clera entered the lift, the Doctor noticed that the Trydian girl gripped his hand rather tightly. With her other hand, she placed her index finger on a blue pad beneath all the buttons, one disguised as some innocuous label or advertisement.

She had not pushed any of the floor buttons, and yet the elevator began its descent. She squeezed his hand tighter, finally prompting him to ask her, "Is something the matter?"

"No," she said quickly, and kept her gaze fixed on the numbered buttons. The elevator stopped, but none of the numbers were alight. "Clera," he asked seriously, "where are we?"

The doors slid open revealing none other than Trinton, dressed elegantly in a suit.

"Welcome to the heart of the tour," Trinton said with a big unnerving smile. He turned and gestured at the room around him. It was huge. It must have spanned a whole floor. The walls were made of thick stone, faced with large reflective metal plates that made it look even larger than it was. It was dim, the lighting utilitarian. In the center stood a large sleek contraption, with a large screen, shaped like an eye, centered at the very top. "I'm sure this is what you wanted to see."

The Doctor scanned the room silently for several moments. Then something caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, barely lit, obscured by darkness. Something blue. The TARDIS.

Trinton waited for a compliment but when none came he turned toward the Doctor immediately noting the focus of his attention. "Oh, I do believe that belongs to you," he said with a decisive nod. "But we'll come to that part of the tour in a bit." He gestured emphatically at the object in the center. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

The Doctor was still silent, assessing the situation.

After several more moments of silence, Trinton dropped his hands and gave a sigh of exasperation. "You don't know what it is, do you?"

"I know exactly what it is," was all the Doctor replied. He eyed the object carefully, walked up to it, put his hands on it. Numbers cascaded down the screen, almost too fast for the eye to make them out. "It's a probability generator."

Suddenly a scream echoed out through out the room. Someone was in pain, excruciating pain. He turned around quickly. It was none of them. Trinton stood with a self satisfied smile on his face. Clera had her hands clamped tightly over her ears, tortured by the sound.

"Someone's being hurt," the Doctor concluded aloud, looking directly in Trinton's eyes, shocked and horrified that he showed no emotion, no compassion whatsoever.

"For a man of learning, I'm surprised you didn't bother to question what we were predicting," was all Trinton replied.

The Doctor immediately turned on his heel to face the string of numbers. He furrowed his brow. "You're trying to predict the future." He quickly hurried around the machine and soon found the source of the probabilities. Behind the machine, hands thrust into a pool of thick translucent goo, was a Psycla. Despite the band across her eyes, it was clear that she was suffering, she was in pain.

"You're using the Psycla," the Doctor said and his expression was one mixed with sympathy for the race and absolute disgust toward Trinton.

Trinton seemed genuinely satisfied. "Very good, Doctor," he said, clapping his hands a few times. "I just knew you were clever enough to figure it out. Though the evidence suggested you would've picked up on it a bit faster than that." He walked up to his machine and stroked it gently with one hand. "The Psycla need but rest their hands in the fluid, and this brilliant generator sends electricity coursing right through their veins. It forces it's way through their minds, recording the data, retrieving it, and bringing it right into the eye." He gazed up at the eye as the numbers continued their never ending cascade. "The Psycla are the means by which we can ascertain all possible outcomes. This machine takes that data and sorts it." He walked over to the Doctor, and gazed at the Psycla as one might gaze at a work of art hanging on the wall. "We can see the probability of each outcome, which course of action we might take to ensure ultimate success."

The Doctor whipped his head around to face him. "The ultimate success for what? What success could justify doing this to them? By what thickheaded standards is this deemed okay?"

"Temper, temper, Doctor. They do it to themselves. She is not bound. There are no chains, no restraints. I assure you, they want this just as much as we do."

"But for what? And why?" He turned to the Psycla, "Why are you letting them do this to you?"

Trinton laughed, a laugh that chilled the Doctor, though he remained fixed on the Psycla. "She can't hear you," he asserted. "All she can hear is the roar of time and space, coursing through her mind." His tone was one of awe mixed with smug satisfaction. The Doctor spun around abruptly to face the arrogant Trydian. "All she hears is electricity, coursing through her mind, expanding pathways, all of them, all at once." He was furious.

"Their minds aren't meant to work like that! They're not meant to see it all at once! It's too much, it's killing them! They're just children!"

Trinton furrowed his brow at this final assertion. The Psycla had survived on their own for generations, they were anything but children. "You seem to care an awful lot about them," Trinton prodded.

The Doctor's gaze has returned to the Psycla. He stared at them, his expression pained, pitying.

"Funny," Trinton continued. "A race of time lords, such a magnificent race, such power, such potential, all wiped out. And yet, who survives? Who survived the greatest threat in all of time?" He gave a small laugh. "The cattle."

The Doctor spun around on his heel. "They are not cattle!" he said dangerously. "They are sentient beings and they don't deserve this! You said they chose this. Why? How could they possibly benefit from this?"

Trinton seemed unfazed. He took several moments before answering the Doctor's question, asserting that he was the one in control of the situation. He smoothed out some non-existent wrinkles in his suit before returning his gaze to the Doctor. "You really don't get it, do you?"

The Doctor furrowed his brow and thought for several moment. "Publicity? This is all about publicity? Since I exposed them for what they were?"

Trinton laughed condescendingly. "Oh, don't be so naive. Dig deeper, much deeper. Into the past." Trinton stared the Doctor right in his eyes searchingly as if trying to see if comprehension had yet dawned but the Doctor still seemed confused. "They want to be like you."

The Doctor stood there in silence for several moments, as if stunned by this conclusion.

"They aspire to be just like you," Trinton continued. "The time lords. They revered your kind, and you denied them. You worked so hard to convince them they were nothing like you. You see, Doctor, you did so much more than destroy their economy -- you destroyed their souls."

The Doctor was still in shock, and, as such, Trinton continued further. "And that's where we came in, Doctor. We offered it to them, their souls. We gave them the chance to redeem themselves. To evolve. To see the universe, to influence it. We gave it to them, and they gave themselves to us."

"They're not time lords," the Doctor said in frustration. "They were never meant to hold all that information. You're killing them! You can't turn them into something they aren't!"

To the Doctor's surprise, Trinton nodded. "You are right about that, Doctor." He then smiled an unnerving smile. "And now I don't have to. I have a real genuine time lord. The Psycla are simply brilliant, they allowed us to initiate step one, but you -- you are far more valuable."

"Step one?" the Doctor asked.

"Yes, Doctor. They Psycla provided us with an interesting opportunity. Unfortunately they can't really predict the future, but you were already well aware of that, I'm sure. They did, however, allow for us to begin a complex set of psychological experiments."

The Doctor's eyes widened. "Experiments?" Then it dawned on him. "The memory lapses."

"Very good, Doctor," Trinton said with an air of condescension.

"But people forgetting large portions of their lives, how could that possibly be beneficial to you? What possible purpose could that serve?" the Doctor questioned.

"Doctor, I have been a student of Psychology for a long time, now. The sentient mind, it is the key to everything. Here we are as a species, so very similar and yet so different, and why is that? Because of the mind. Our minds, our memories dictate who we are. The being is merely a vessel. And now, through my experiments, we have the power to mold that vessel."

Suddenly the Doctor understood. "You're not just erasing memories, you're implanting new ones!" The conclusion sickened him.

"You see, Doctor, I can mold their personalities. I can create memories of suffering, of abuse, of neglect and abandonment. I can strip them of all hope, of all light, of all morals. The anger, the emotion, the fire, I can harness it. I can use it."

The Doctor just listened in horror. "For what?"

Trinton took a deep breath and aimed his gaze up at the ceiling in quiet reflection for a moment. "I worked for the Lyrian army. Such a beautiful army. Ruthless, menacing, heartless, absolutely beautiful. They would follow any order, destroy any who stood in their path without a second thought. No tears, no guilt, no remorse. The ultimate fighting force. And me, I got the chance to study them. I got the chance to open them up, see how their minds worked, see what made them such a formidable force. And do you know what I found, Doctor? They were all tormented souls, burned and scorned in this life. They retained that fire. They held it deep and side. They learned to use it. And, oh, they were a force to be reckoned with. So, you see, Doctor, torment the mind, ravage it, scorch it, and what do you get? The perfect soldier."

The Doctor was disgusted. "And what do you need soldiers for? You've got an army. The Tryptic. And I doubt they're going to approve of your little experiments."

"The Tryptic?" Trinton asked with a laugh. "The Tryptic is absolutely useless. It is a disgrace, an absolute disgrace to Tryad to be associated with it. We are the strongest of the three planets. The most successful. And we deserve to take our rightful place in the universe. Soon Rylontria and Horfontra will bow before our strength, or they will perish."

The Doctor eyed Trinton directly in the eyes. "Well now, you see, you've put me in quite a predicament, because now I'm going to have to stop you."

Trinton smiled an eerie, plastic smile, "No, Doctor, on the contrary, you are going to help us." He snapped his fingers and two guards emerged from the darkness holding a struggling Martha, a hand still clamped tightly over her mouth.

"Martha!" the Doctor called and he made to run towards her before more guards emerged from the darkness and held him in place. He struggled with all his might but they were too big and too strong.

"We thought you might need a little coercion," Trinton said, his smile never wavering.

"What do you want from me?" the Doctor said in exasperation.

"Your help," Trinton replied, as if it were the simplest concept in all the world.

"And just what do you think I can do?" the Doctor asked eyeing Trinton directly in his eyes his expression dark and menacing now.

"You can tell us the future," Trinton said, unable to hide his awe and excitement behind his smile. It was clear in his eyes. "The real future."

"I'm not a fortune teller," the Doctor said pointedly.

"But you see it, all of it. You can see it." He moved closer to the Doctor, put his face right up to the Doctor's face. He looked into his eyes as if, if he only looked hard enough, he might see it, time and space, the whole of the universe, right there in the Doctor's eyes. "Can you see us? Our empire? My empire? You see it, don't you?"

The Doctor stared right back at him, unflinching, unwavering. "I see nothing. I see fixed events, fixed points in the timeline, I see what is meant to happen, where things go awry, but you, so small, so unimportant, just another egomaniac, one in a billion, one in a trillion, and like them all, you leave no mark upon time. You fade in and you fade out, so infinitesimal that you don't even register."

Trinton stood there, shocked, still staring into the Doctor's eyes, hurt, clearly hurt, and angry, there was fire, fire and pain and remorse.

"I told you,"the Doctor said slowly, pointedly, that Trinton might finally comprehend, "I am not a fortune teller."

Trinton's emotions welled up inside him and he backhanded the Doctor. "Liar!" he hissed. "You see it! You lie! We have your box! We can see for ourselves! We can see your lies!" He turned toward the Tardis and snapped his fingers. More guards issued from the darkness.

The Doctor just shook his head, "The assembled hordes of Genghis Kahn couldn't get through that door," he said definitively.

Guards upon guards emerged, all trying to get into the blue box. They pounded, they pulled and they tore at it, but Trinton kept his gaze fixed upon the Doctor. There was not even a trace of worry in his face, not the slightest hint of fear. The box must really be impenetrable.

Trinton clenched his teeth and motioned for his guards to stop trying to get into the Tardis. He looked at the Doctor carefully. "Well then Doctor, it seems we need you to lead the party." His words were slow, deliberate, the wheels in his mind were turning, and the Doctor could see it.

"And what on Earth makes you think I'm going to do that?" he asked.

Trinton's expression was cold. It was no longer filled with glee as it had been before. He reached methodically into his coat and pulled from it a gun.

The Doctor's eyes, widened, he made to protest, to plead, to beg, bit Trinton had already pulled the trigger.

Martha screamed, and though her mouth was still covered the scream made it through and echoed off the wall. She had been shot in the thigh, and it had already begun to bleed.

"Martha!" The Doctor cried out. He struggled violently against his captors that he might run to his companion but they held him tightly.

Clera, Trinton's daughter, had screamed when the gun had gone off. She quickly ran to Martha's side.

"Clera!" Trinton called harshly.

"You promised you wouldn't hurt them!" Clera cried out. She tore at the overly large pink headband on her head and worked to wrap around Martha's leg and stop the bleeding.

The Doctor turned his head back toward Trinton. His features were racked with anger and venom. "You've just made a big mistake. A mondorific mistake. A huge mondorific mistake," the Doctor said darkly. "Why? Because you don't know who I am. You don't know what I'm capable of. And now you've made me mad."

Trinton smiled a broad unnerving smile. "Oh, but I think I do know you, Doctor. Quite well, in fact." He replaced the gun in his coat pocket and from a different pocket pulled out the Doctor's sonic screwdriver. He held it in his hand for a moment as if admiring it and then used it to gesture towards Martha, who was wincing in pain. "I came across this while your lady friend was asleep." He turned his attention back to the Doctor. "You know, you can tell a lot about a man by the weapon he carries." He gazed back at the screwdriver for a moment and then to the Doctor. "Like, for starters, how this isn't even really a weapon." He stroked the screwdriver with his fingers. "No, not a weapon." He looked at the Doctor. "It can only send out a small charge of electricity, perhaps enough to disable something mechanical, or give someone a nasty burn, but otherwise completely useless, indicating that you're not a violent person. Do correct me if I'm wrong, Doctor."

The Doctor said nothing so Trinton continued. "It is in fact, merely a tool." He turned the screwdriver over several times in his fingers. "Quite a remarkable little tool. Made to get into places, places not meant to get into. This points to the conclusion you are quite a curios man. Deductive in all aspects. You like to get a clear picture of what's going on, to get to the truth. This curiosity is what kept you here, what brought you to me." He turned his gaze toward Martha, who was clearly suffering. His smile broadened much to the Doctor's disgust. "And then, perhaps the most important thing. You gave it to her, indicating her importance to you." He turned to the Doctor. "You care about her, don't you? Enough to give her such a tool when you clearly could've needed it yourself. So selfless, so caring, so easily manipulated."

He replaced the screwdriver in his pocket and walked over to where Martha was being held. He then retrieved the gun, and pointed it, directly at Martha's head. Much to his surprise, Clera thrust her arms around his torso underneath his coat that she might hug him. It lasted several moments before she finally said, meekly, quietly, "Please don't do this."

Trinton looked down at her, "The events of today have been too much for you, I think we should escort you back to the suite."

But Clera shook her head. She took a deep breath and stood up straight, releasing him. "I can handle it. One day, this will all be mine. It is time I learned."

The Doctor felt sick.

Trinton beamed with pride.

Clera then turned toward the Doctor. She walked toward him. "It's a shame it has to be like this though." She shook her head sadly. "I had high hopes for you." She then reached out and thrust her hands around him, much to his surprise. She looked up into his eyes. "You had such pretty eyes, too."

Trinton put a hand over his face in embarrassment. "Clera, let him go. He's nearly twice your age."

Clera slowly pulled away and suddenly the Doctor felt her hand slip into his coat pocket. She let something fall into it, her hand only there for a second before she had finally released him and moved back to stand with Martha and her father.

Trinton's gun was poised at Martha's temple. "Your choice, Doctor. Either you take my men, that they might see our destiny for themselves, or she dies."

The Doctor was silent for several moments, the choice clearly pained him.

"No one has to die, Doctor." Trinton said.

The Doctor hung his head, defeated. Four more guards flanked him, making a total of six, as they led him toward the TARDIS.

The two guards released him, now that he was sufficiently surrounded if he were to try to run. The Doctor opened the door to the TARDIS, and watched as the guards tried to disguise their awe and wonder at the fact that it was bigger on the inside. Before he entered, Trinton called back to him.

"Oh, and Doctor, one more thing."

The Doctor turned, barely able to see him due to the guards.

"My men are rigged with a time sensitive device that the Psycla helped us design. Any sort of treachery, any at all, and all they have to do is press the button and we will be notified. And then you know what happens then," he pushed the gun into Martha's temple.

The Doctor eyed Trinton warily. "You make it sound like you were preparing for this all along."

Trinton looked wistfully toward the giant golden eye. "There was a 90% chance we'd have to commandeer the TARDIS."

The Doctor turned from him and stepped into the TARDIS, flanked by six guards. He set the TARDIS for 200 years in the future. It was time to see what the future held.

END PART 1