Making Memories, chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Accident
When the Doctor reached the master suite of the Psyc hotel, where he and Martha were staying, he was almost reluctant to open the door, afraid to find she might not be there, afraid that if she was not there, that she must certainly be in danger. But, he told himself, time was of the essence if that were the case, and he thrust the door open startling Martha, who sat, clad in a large, white fluffy robe, and who had been reading the brochure plate which had now been dropped onto the bed.

"Where's the fire?" she asked, clearly confused, especially when he ran over to embrace her.

"You're alive," he asserted, a statement which caught her off guard.

"Of course I am?" she asked, now somewhat unsure herself of the statement. "Should I not be?"

"I'm just so happy you are," he said, still hugging her.

At this she smiled, and finally the confusion faded away, and she sank into the hug, which lasted only a few more seconds before he pulled away, leaving her to long after him.

"So what was all that about?" she asked, unsure of what else to say.

"The Psycla are up to something," the Doctor said while staring pensively out through the window, the cogs in his brain turning at full speed.

"They seemed perfectly nice to me," Martha said, leaning back against the headboard and getting into a comfortable position.

"They're hiding something," he asserted.

"But how are you so sure?"

He turned to look at her and leaned against the wall. "There's at least one secret room, behind the tapestries. At the bottom of a staircase there was a door, sealed tight, and they're doing something behind it. There were screams."

"Screams?" Martha asked, shifting uneasily, concern now welling up within her. "Well, I can certainly see why you were concerned. But how do you know it was the Psycla? Isn't this a Trydian resort?"

"There's a strict color delineation," he explained. "The Trydians are known for their gold décor, but the Psycla prefer purple drapery. They believe purple helps connect them to the psychic link by opening pathways in their conscious mind." He then paused abruptly and wrinkled his brow in confusion. "But the Trydians must be involved. They wouldn't let a foreign race have secret rooms unless they had some stake in it."

"Well, that certainly wouldn't surprise me," Martha said, looking at her nails and wrinkling her own nose. She then turned to face him. "Did you know that they wiped out an entire race so that they could take over this planet?"

The Doctor didn't seem to have his usual remorse and instead just nodded as if it were an everyday occurrence. "The Yurians," he added, "or at least that's what the Clydonians called them. It roughly translates to primitive cave dweller."

She looked at him with shock in her eyes. "And that doesn't concern you in the slightest?"

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Well, if that isn't the pot calling the kettle black."

She seemed taken aback by the accusation. "Excuse me?"

"You seem to be forgetting that your race seems to make a rather decent living at exterminating the species of your planet -- all the creatures that went extinct so that yours could thrive. You destroyed their homes, drove them out, and took over their land."

Martha pouted. "Well, you don't have to put it like that."

"It's merely the irrefutable truth. There isn't a species that exists throughout all of time and space that hasn't completely destroyed another species for their own gains. You can't possibly save them all." He looked out the window, distantly thinking for a moment. "Believe me, I've tried," he added, quieter than before, barely audible, more to himself than to her.

For several moments after, an awkward silence hung in the air, before he returned to his original thought, a confused look once again on his face. "The question is, why would the Trydians be involved? I mean, they'd have to be, they wouldn't let the Psycla get away with working their own private operations unless the were gaining from it -- and the only real gain for a Trydian is money."

"But you heard screams, you said," Martha added. "Anything that would hurt guests would certainly drive them away."

"That's what doesn't make sense," the Doctor said. "I mean, unless there's some ulterior gain. If they were any other species, I might suggest a religious motive, or a military one, but the Trydians have never really been religious, not to the point of hurting people."

"But you said, back at the elevator, that they omitted a floor for fear of the Devil," Martha interjected.

"Yes, the Trydians are superstitious, but not religious. Religion tends to get in the way of business, bogging it down with morals."

"And they're not militarily inclined, either?" she asked, picking up the brochure plate again.

"The Trydians don't have their own army. They don't need one. The Human race sent out exploration team Delta 6 to this region to colonize, and inhabit as they saw fit. They didn't dare send them alone. They sent with them a portion of the military later nicknamed the Tryptic, since the colonizers spread themselves over three planets -- Rylontria, Tryad, and Horfontra. The army resides on Horfontra, with members from all three planets, ready to defend any of them if they were to be attacked."

"And they couldn't possibly be -- I don't know -- conducting experiments... on Tryad?" Martha prodded, staring down at the brochure.

"Nah," the Doctor said, waving a dismissive hand. "The Trydians wouldn't let the Tryptic set foot on Tryad. Not only would they consider it a poor business move, but they secretly disapprove of the army for being composed of members of all three planets. They feel that they are the purest of the colonies, and that the others are inferior because rather than exterminating the inhabitants of their planets, they merged with the aborigines and chose to peacefully coexist."

Martha looked up from her plate. "That's horrible!"

The Doctor nodded. "The Trydians feel they don't need an army if they can control the majority of the money going in and out of the other planets."

"Ah-ha!" Martha said, and the Doctor arched an eyebrow in confusion. "Trinton," Martha continued, "the owner of the Psych. Here it is. This is what I was trying to find earlier, before you got here. Trinton owns this resort, and there's a whole biography on him in the brochure. He is affiliated with the military."

The Doctor furrowed his brow but was silent so that she could continue and enlighten him.

"It says here he started out as a Psychologist, but then joined the Lyrian Confederate Army for fifteen years. It goes on to list various medals and awards he won for his services, or, at least, what I think are awards and medals."

The Doctor seemed even more perplexed after she read than he had been before. "The Lyrian Confederate Army?" he began, almost more to himself than to her. "That's not quite something to brag about. The Lyrian Army," he said, now directly to her, "is infamous. They're despised in at least six star systems, possibly quite a few more, for their use of unrestrained torture."

Martha frowned at this.

The Doctor was silent for several moments, the cogs in his brain turning even faster than before. "So he loaned himself out to the Lyrians."

"So he was a mercenary then. A hired gun," Martha clarified.

The Doctor nodded. "That explains why he can offer Lyrian baths so cheap."

"And how he could afford to build this resort," Martha added, noting that the brochure stated that he had done so right after his stint in the military.

The Doctor's face then turned grave. "Someone was being tortured, that's what the screaming was from," he asserted, his voice distant. Then he furrowed his brow again. "But what do the Psycla have to do with that? And who was being tortured? Guests? If that leaked out, they'd lose all their business. Why would a Trydian risk that? They're taught as children that money is the bottom line."

"Are you so sure the Psycla are involved?" Martha asked, breaking him from his tangent. "Maybe they're the ones being tortured. Maybe Trinton's trying to scare them. Maybe that's why they work so cheaply and don't dare leave. The Psycla here are the only ones with accurate predictions."

The Doctor turned his attention to her. "The only ones?" the Doctor questioned seriously.

Martha nodded. "The only ones," she asserted.

"That's interesting," he said, as if unsure of what it might mean in the scheme of things. "But what makes the Psycla here so special?"

"Aside from being able to predict things?"

The Doctor shook his head. "The question is, how can they predict things? There's no viable way for them to just evolve foresight, not in so short a period of time. They didn't have the genes for it. They can't possibly be able to really predict the future. But then why would the Trydians need them?"

Martha furrowed her own brow and eyed the Doctor searchingly. "You know so much about them, the Psycla, about their genes and everything. Such familiarity..."

"Time Lord," he asserted. "I know a great many things about many races."

"No," Martha said, shaking her head slowly while still keeping him in her sight. "There's something else. Behind your eyes. Something that makes them special to you, more so than any other alien races we've encountered... Something, something that makes you, the Lord of curiosity, the king of possibility, unable to even accept the possibility that they might be able to see the future. They are a lot like you, you know."

"We are nothing alike," the Doctor asserted, eying her darkly, clearly stung by the comparison.

He'd never looked at her like that, his tone had never been so harsh, and it sent chills up her spine. She turned from him, back to the brochure in her hands and pouted. "Well if that's not just a bit..." she muttered just loud enough for him to hear, "pompous," she concluded, remembering Wrun's earlier assessment of the man.

"Are you calling me pompous? Me? Pompous?" the Doctor said incredulously, his face more puzzled than hurt, though she was still somewhat afraid of looking back at him, having been thoroughly disturbed by the icy gaze he had given her not moments before.

"You can't even acknowledge that you are the slightest bit similar," she said, her voice still barely audible but even-toned.

"Look, you are speaking of things you know nothing about."

She whipped her head around to look him squarely in the eyes. "Then tell me about them," she pleaded. "Why are you being so cryptic?"

"I'm not being cryptic," he said, rather defensively.

"There you go again," Martha said, throwing her hands up in the air in exaggerated exasperation, "completely avoiding it."

"I'm not avoiding it," he said, even more defensively now, so much so that she knew with a little more prodding she might just get it out of him.

"Then tell me about them," she said, crawling to the edge of the bed, closer to him, and staring at him with such intensity that he had to turn from her.

"There's nothing to tell," he countered.

"You're lying," she asserted. She knew she was gaining the upper hand with every second he prolonged it.

"I am not," he defended though less vehemently, "I'm omitting."

"Lie of omission. Still a lie." She knew she was close to cracking him now.

"No, it's not," he turned back to face her, his brows furrowed defensively but non threatening. "And what's with the third degree?"

"What's with all the secrecy?" she replied, but then shifted her gaze to her hands and grew serious, her voice somewhat sad and distant. "Look, we are partners. At least, that's what you've led me to believe. And, and maybe I can't replace Rose, maybe I shouldn't even try, but I at least thought you trusted me." She looked up at him, tears glistening in her eyes.

His expression immediately changed to one of sympathy, his own eyes sad. "Oh, Martha Jones," he said gently. He moved to sit by her on the bed and wrapped his arms around her, giving her a hug which she gratefully accepted. He was silent for a few moments, just hugging her. "I do trust you. I do. It's just, complicated, so very complicated."

She pulled away from the hug and looked him right in the eyes. "I'm not some dimwit you picked up off the street. Everything about you is complicated, I know, but please, just tell me."

He nodded slowly, silent for several moments, thinking of how he might begin. "His name was The Accident, at least that's what we called him... when we talked to him."

"So you get a regal title like 'The Doctor' and he gets 'The Accident'? Who arbitrarily decides these names?"

The Doctor shook his head and ran his hands through his hair. "To us, he was an accident. He wasn't the same."

Martha furrowed her brow. "What do you mean, 'not the same'?"

"A race of Time Lords, the power over time and space, and he was born. He couldn't see, not like us. He couldn't regenerate. He was, he might as well have been..."

"Human?" Martha finished for him.

"No one knew how to treat him, what to do with him. How do you relate to someone who has no idea of what it's like, with all that knowledge, that vast expanse of time in space, who will never be able to comprehend the vast scope of it all? What do you say to them?"

"You do well enough with me," she said stroking his hand gently. He pulled it away from her.

"I was younger then, and that's no excuse for what we did, but..."

"What did you do?"

"We ostracized him. Excluded him," the Doctor said simply, his tone somewhat distant.

"How tragic, he must've been so lonely," Martha said with great pity in her voice.

The Doctor ran his hands through his hair again. "He ran away. There was nothing there for him, no one there for him, and he ran away. And no one, no one went after him. He was different, and he knew it, but he longed to be like us, real genuine longing. He longed to be as we had always been, whole. And the power of that longing, the danger..."

"Danger?" Martha asked.

"He tried massive experiments on himself," the Doctor continued in explanation, "trying to be like us. Mutilated his mind, his body, his whole being, in the process."

Martha expression was one of mixed pity and disgust, to which the Doctor just nodded slowly.

"And then, he stopped trying for himself."

Martha furrowed his brow. "He just stopped? Why?"

"Oh, the experiments didn't stop. He stopped trying to be like us, yes. He had grown older, he began to believe his time had passed. He couldn't regenerate as we could, and his own mortality began to gain on him."

"So what did he do then," Martha prodded.

"He began looking toward the future, to his legacy, to what he might leave behind, to his children."

"Children?" Martha looked confused for several moments before her eyes widened with realization. "You mean the Psycla? The Psycla are his children?"

"He began genetic experiments, trying to create children like us, like Time Lords. Hideous, abhorrent experiments, on all sorts of races and creatures. Suturing the DNA together with no real precision, with no real idea of how to make it all work."

Martha seemed in shock, trying to absorb all the new information. "And you didn't stop him?" was all she could manage to get out.

The Doctor shook his head. "He had lived with us for years, he knew how to hide from us, out in the darkness. He created them. In the darkness, far beyond our sight, he created the Psycla, hideous, frightening composites of so many other creatures..."

"Is that why they wear all those heavy clothes, to hide their form?"

"Yes," the Doctor said simply. "The Psycla were his last creations before he died. A failed attempt. They could see, yes, but not like us. To them, there are no fixed points in time. They can't see what is meant to happen, where the time line goes awry. They can't make any distinctions at all. They just see this mass of information, floating around, scattered in their minds, and they just can't make sense of it. They have no more ability to understand time and space, to see it, than did their creator."

"So what happened to them? After he died?"

The Doctor looked deep into her eyes. "He was our responsibility. We had failed him. It was our responsibility to take care of his creations. The Psycla could not help the circumstances under which they had been created. And perhaps the worst disservice their creator did them was convincing them that they were like us. They truly thought they were Time Lords. They thought they could see and travel as we did. What a crushing blow to their race."

Martha furrowed her brow. "Why? Your two races may be dissimilar but you have many things in common."

"You do no service to an ant by calling him a butterfly. They are who they are, and we are who we are. We provided them with a homeworld and a name. We gave them all that we could and... it saved them... during the Time War. They were spared... and we weren't."

"That still doesn't explain why you are so certain that they haven't changed."

"Evolution on that scale, even from where they are now, with their vast stores of information, takes millions, if not billions, of years. The Psycla have been in existence for less than thousands. They were the same as before the last time I saw them, and that was no more than a hundred years prior to this point in time. There's no viable way a species can evolve that fast."

Martha looked him directly in the eyes, curiosity brimming. "So if they were, in a way, your own children, for you to care and look out for, your responsibility, then why did you hurt them so badly?"

"They were scamming innocent people out of their money," the Doctor quipped back defensively.

"And what's so bad about that? Psychics back home do it all the time."

"And it's just as dangerous then," the Doctor asserted. "The Psycla may be bitter, but no harm was done to them or their world. They still have their homes and their families, which is certainly more than I can say." His words were now strained, and he was clearly upset by this whole topic of discussion.

Martha, struck with pity for the man, the last of his race, alone in such a vast universe, wrapped her arms around him and gave him a gentle hug. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," she whispered in his ear and she held him in her arms for several moments before finally letting go when a knock on the door broke them both from their thoughts.