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clocketpatchMartha has made her camp under a bridge in a nearly dried up streambed. Nearly, meaning that the foot of her sleeping roll is damp with mud, and all of the mosquitoes and other bugs attracted to the moisture are buzzing and biting at her other end. She adds another reason to the long list of reasons to hate Toclafane: they killed off the bats, birds, and lizards which kept the insect population in check.
There’s grass scratching her cheek, and that’s the reason she’s camped here despite the discomfort; it is well hidden. The bridge above and the thick vegetation flocking to one of the area’s last water sources provides good cover from random patrols of soldiers and packs of feral dogs. She knows that the dogs can smell her out, and are probably as attracted to the water as the bugs are, and she knows that, with the perception filter, she could sleep out in the middle of the road and the Master’s men probably wouldn’t notice until they tripped over her. Still, she feels safer covered on all sides.
Every now and again the perception filter fails and the soldiers do notice her. She doesn’t know if this is because the filter is wearing out from use or if there is some other reason. Once, the filter ran out, and while she was fleeing the guards a bomb dropped on the factory she’d been telling her story to moments before. She doesn’t know if this is coincidence or not.
She can’t sleep. She hears the crackling of fire and knows it is all in her head. This wasteland is cold, but she feels searing heat. Smoke invades her lungs, choking, devastation. There is shrapnel in her back, and blood on her hands, and oh god, oh god, she’s going to die, and she’s not going to tell the Doctor’s story, and the whole world is going to die with her. She can hear whistling and buzzing coming and now she isn’t sure if it’s her nightmare or reality. The bloody Toclafane are always disturbing her sleep with their noise. That thin whistle that seems to get into her bones and make them ache. It’s as if they know where she is, and even if they can’t find her, can’t see her, can’t kill her, they can always find ways to torment her.
She remembers the day she met the Doctor and the way she begged to go with him. To travel, to learn, gain new experiences. Well, this is an experience and a half. She should have slapped him and walked away, except, had she done that, who would there be to save the world? But if she hadn’t been with him, if she hadn’t urged Professor Yana to open his watch… paradoxes hurt her head. It was all supposed to be over. The Master is laughing at her. Her parents and Tish are crying. Her brother — last she heard he is dead. The worms are feasting. Dogs are barking. The mosquitoes are miniature Toclafane whistling and buzzing and tearing her apart.
The fire — she knows it’s only in her head, she knows, or at least tries to delude herself. She wants to sleep, she’s so tired, but the fire is louder now, brighter, hot against her face… It’s coming through the wan grass, lighting it and eating it, destroying her cover, and then, destroying her.
And somewhere the Master is laughing, and somewhere she is crying, and then a dripping tentacle rimmed with teeth explodes out of the earth and flame to swallow her whole.
Martha blinks.
She’s in the Doctor’s lab lying on a not too uncomfortable cot, and the Doctor is nowhere to be seen. Sun, peeking through the blinds of a grimy window, is warm and uncomfortably bright against her cheek. A folded red t-shirt, a short denim jacket, and a pair of jeans rest on a nearby chair along with a proper set of female under garments. Martha puts them on gratefully, wondering at how they fit so perfectly and deciding she probably doesn’t want to know. There is a small gold locket nestled in the t-shirt and she fastens it around her neck. The weight feels good against the crock of her collar bone, familiar and safe, and it is nice to have a touch of frivolousness. It makes her feel light and child-like.
She wanders out of the lab, noting that the table where the Doctor tinkered last night has been cleared and the tracker is gone. The hall is deserted, but Martha follows the low sound of chatter to the Brigadier’s office. There she finds the Brigadier, Sergeant Benton, Captain Jack, and the Doctor. They stop talking amongst themselves as she comes in.
“Good morning to you sweet heart,” says Jack.
Martha mock glares at him, but says nothing.
“Yes, good afternoon Ms. Jones,” says the Brigadier. He frowns slightly, “We’ve been waiting for you.”
On the other side of the office’s window the sun is plainly tip-toeing its way towards noon, and Martha suppresses a flush of embarrassment at her sluggishness. It’s not her fault though, is it? She’s mildly annoyed at Jack for looking so chipper. At everyone. At the way Benton keeps looking at her — she bit him ,damn it, that shouldn’t be a turn on, and she refuses to reciprocate for a man who is technically old enough to be her father, maybe grandfather.
“They wanted to start without you,” says Jack, “but I convinced them that you would be a raging tornado if you woke to find yourself abandoned.”
“Quite,” says the Brigadier.
“Is it ready then?” Martha asks, and in reply the Doctor pulls something out of his pocket that looks like a wine bottle except for the web of wires and tiny flashing lights visible through the lightly frosted glass. He places the bottle-shaped tracker in Martha’s hand wrapping his fingers around hers.
“When it faces the direction of the anomaly,” he says, guiding her hands and the bottle’s spout, “It will vibrate slightly and glow brighter. Green for hot and red for cold, stop and go; I did attempt to make it as fool proof as possible.”
The lights inside the bottle flicker dimly green when its spout it pointed to the window, and Martha can feel a tingling coming through the glass to sparkle against her fingers.
“Why are you showing me?” she asks.
“I interfere with the signal,” says Jack.
“And I’m driving,” says Benton, holding up a ring of keys, “I’ve been ordered to accompany you, and rules say that only UNIT personnel may drive service vehicles.”
“Which leaves me,” says Martha as the Doctor withdraws his hands. She cradles the tracker. “Weight of the world in my lap again.”
Though she thinks that any other UNIT soldier could do this job. It doesn’t have to be her. Hold and point isn’t exactly difficult. She doesn’t want to be involved no matter how easy it is — she only wants to go home — but, at the same time, Jack is right; she would have been mad as hell if they’d left her out.
“I couldn’t think of a more capable person,” says the Doctor. “I look forward to meeting you Martha Jones.”
“We won’t be seeing each other again?” Martha asks.
The Doctor scratches his chin. “It would be a paradox if we didn’t, but hopefully it won’t be for a very long time.”
It’s then that Martha realises that yes, this probably is a goodbye, because if they are successful and do find the Doctor (her Doctor) then they’ll probably beat a hasty retreat sans farewells as per usual. And, if things don’t go well — well, then it will still probably be a goodbye.
She thinks she’ll miss this Doctor even though she’s known him for barely any time. She’ll miss his low, soothing voice, his sad blue eyes — so familiar and so distant.
Martha suddenly puts the tracker down on the Brigadier’s desk and hugs the Doctor. “Thank you,” she says.
“There, there now.” He pats her back. “Everything will be alright.”
She smiles, trying to be strong, pretending that those little beads glistening at the corners of her eyes aren’t truly tears. It’s not a sappy moment, or a happy one, but it’s one of those transitional seconds where you know you don’t need to be afraid of what comes next because you know that you’ve got people you can trust, and people you can love, or at least care about, standing behind you. The room is hushed, a moment of silence in memory of is to come. Then the tracker goes off, beeping, and flashing, and vibrating to the point where it jiggles itself off the desk.
Jack dives forward and catches the precious piece of machinery before it can smash on the hard tile floor.
“What the Dicken’s is going on?” asks the Brigadier over the tracker’s alarm.
“A large scale temporal anomaly,” says the Doctor. He sways on his feet. Sweat beads above his brow. His voice is calm and level, but Martha can feel him leaning against her, trying to keep his balance against the tug of some invisible current.
The steady beeping coming off the tracker gets louder, becomes a throb that matches Martha’s heart beat thump for thud. The flashes of green and red coming off the device make an epileptic strobe against the office’s wall.
“It’s getting stronger,” the Doctor says. Jack raises a hand in front of his face, as if fending something off. In his other hand he clutches the tracker in a crushing fist. A crack spreads across the side of the bottle.
There’s a loud thud from the hallway and the door bangs open, revealing an out-of-breath enlisted man.
“It’s vanished!” the soldier puffs out.
“What’s vanished?” the Brigadier shouts, “and can someone deal with that damned noise?”
The tracker’s shrieks are dying down, but they still preclude any kind of thinking.
The Doctor, looking none too steady, takes the tracker from Jack and strokes it soothingly, like he’s petting a small animal. The alarm gradually quiets, the bottle stops flashing and shaking.
“The box,” says the soldier in the new, eerie silence, “the blue box, I was on duty to guard it, and then I leaned against it to tie my boot, and it vanished.”
“Are you sure?” asks Jack. He’s lowered his hand, but he looks grey now that the light’s returned to normal. So does the Doctor.
“Sure?” says the soldier, “I fell on my rear!” He turns, revealing a somewhat muddy backside. “It vanished into thin air. It was there, there was this noise like a generator kicking up, and then it was gone. I’m not crazy.”
“No,” says the Doctor, “You aren’t.”
“Though you do seem to have a remarkable talent for not picking up on Messhall gossip,” says the Brigadier, "and for showing improper manners to your superiors."
"Apologies sir." The soldier suddenly looks slightly faint. He snaps to a speedy attention.
"What is your name?" the Brigadier asks.
"Private Crieghton Sir."
"How long have you been with UNIT Private Crieghton?"
"Three weeks this monday Sir."
The Brigadier nods curtly. "I see. Dismissed. But in the future knock, and try not to be alarmed when things disappear. It's all too common an occurance around here for you to be running a fit each time it happens."
The young private's eyes widen, but he says nothing. He gives the Brigadier a stiff salute and then leaves very quickly.“What are we going to do?” asks Martha once he's gone, feeling the edges of panic as what the soldier has said sinks in. The TARDIS is gone. Did the Master steal it? Did the paradox somehow destroy it? Or worse, did the Doctor find his way back, and then, in his daze, abandon them?
“Exactly what we were going to do before,” says the Doctor, “you and Benton and Jack are going to go for a little drive and save the world, except,” he pauses, “except now I’m coming with you.”
“But what about paradoxes?” asks Martha, remembering the long speeches about why he couldn’t help out. She thinks of the planet being tossed inside out by powers almost beyond her comprehension. She thinks of the stars going out one by one.
“That disturbance rated an eight on the Chronornian scale,” the Doctor says, “At six the fabrics of reality start to unwind, at eight they grow increasingly unstable, at nine the effects become noticeable to non-time sensitives, and at ten —”
“At ten we all fall down Alice’s rabbit hole for a bit before getting turned inside out and sucked into a black hole,” says Jack, “right Doctor?”
“Yes.”
“But didn’t you say you increased the risk of —” Martha starts, but doesn’t finish, Jack waves her off and cuts in;
“What the Doctor was saying just now is that, at this point, it doesn’t really matter. These kind of holes are progressive and this one is growing way faster than is good for anyone’s health. It’s going to make a big bang whether or not he tap-dances on his time line, so he might as well come along and lend his expertise. Am I right?”
“I couldn’t have put it better,” says the Doctor.
“Then what are we waiting for?” asks Jack, “let’s go!”
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