Doctor Who_ Fallen Gods Part 7

-It doesn't change what you did.They're there before her eyes again, turning into filthy ash. -I wouldn't have!

Britomartis shakes her head, blunt, certain. -Remember the dance. Your clarity in the midst of it. If I'd told you then, you would still have known it was right. You wouldn't have stopped.

She's reeling now, spinning end over end, the blood crus.h.i.+ng her inside her head.

-You've felt the life flow through you on the blessing-days. You've seen the joy on the faces of the people. You all but demanded to be let back into the G.o.ds' presence, but to do that, you must know, your part in it. You must face what they do, and know, that it is good. good.

There's an avalanche thundering under his skin, unstoppable, a gloating certainty. He's almost crushed beneath it. The bulls will keep on coming, and eventually Rhadamanthys will have to send the Fallen to fight them. The last, time the G.o.ds were, let out on a leash, they learned how to slip it. Never again, will they be imprisoned.And Alcestis paper-thin, a leaf in their hurricane.He forces himself back up, on his hands, tries to plant his feet, ends up spread-eagled again, a fraction closer to the door. Head throbbing with a certainty that he can't stand.

-Don't underestimate Alcestis, he tells them out loud. -She's made of steel.

Something laughs at the anachronism, buzzing its way down his spine. -Of bronze, then. If you kill me, she'll come for you. I've been teaching her more than just bull leaping ...

A thousand horrors burn through his head: her deaths by fire, by wind, by sea, stone or time. But only here, he reminds himself. Only near the sanctuary can the G.o.ds reach them. Where the equations balance to zero. Keep her away and they can't touch, her.

He fights his way up, onto one elbow, turns back to the burning rim. - There's no need for this, he says. -Let me help you, you can go in peace ...

Their laughter forces his face down against the floor, as though pus.h.i.+ng it into a page of sums. As the flood of patterns swells again, he screws his eyes shut, but there's no way to stop seeing once the horrors are, past your eyes.

-You still think you can end this? shouts Britomartis. -Make the world s.h.i.+ne through your child's eyes once again, Every man, woman and child in the empire has drunk deeply of the blood you've ladled out to them. It has become their life. Will you now, take it from them?With a howl Alcestis doubles over, hurls herself downwards, riding the down-draft headfirst towards the island. The wind tears at her eyes, tries to rip the skin from her back, but she pushes herself even faster.

And Britomartis goes on barking in her ear. -That's the last bit of growing up you need to do: to learn that every gift we have for ourselves is built on pain. And that no matter how much you whimper, you won't give those gifts up.

The ground of Thera is spinning up, beneath them. No matter how hard she turns, Britomartis will not shake loose. There are, only moments of life left, and she twists herself towards the cliffs overlooking Kamenai, aiming right for the edge, and as the rocks hurtle towards their heads, she gives her answer in a final shriek.-You did this! did this!With a dull crump Britomartis is ripped from her grasp, and there are rocks shearing past her belly as she plummets onward, till she finally pulls away and spirals upward over the ocean, her momentum running down to nothing, her cries fading to the endless keening wail of a seabird.

They push the numbers through his mind, or his mind through the numbers he's not sure which. The questions run faster and faster, figures spiralling upwards, potential temporal energy bursting outwards all the death and disaster, forced aside for so many years, breaking free.

The volcano, erupts, as it should have erupted. The island, is gutted. Akrotiri is buried under ash and stone. The sky is carpeted with soot, locking out the sun. Doomsday has arrived.

The G.o.ds won't stop the helter-skelter of mathematics tearing through the Doctor's consciousness. They are, too gleeful, painting him pictures of the island's inevitable destruction, hauling his struggling mind above, the numbers into their own incomprehensible raw perceptions, like an amoeba crammed with quantum mechanics.He crawls out of the shrine, blind eyes screaming full of universes.

They don't want him to go; they can't reach much beyond their sanctuary. He's got to get more distance between him and them. He can't lift himself up and he can't see or hear and he's not even sure which way is up; there's no way he can make it back down the path. Much more of this and he'll be mad or dead, the centres of his brain melted like ice in a cup of hot tea.

He pulls himself along with his fingertips, clawing them into the earth until they find empty s.p.a.ce. With a violent lunge he propels himself over the edge and into sanity and silence Finally Alcestis goes back to the body, and sits rocking in a ball for a while.

She has to nerve herself to touch, Britomartis's remains. The way she's landed, on her side, with arms and legs all skewed, she looks like a sacrificial offering on the altar of the rocks. The moonlight is just barely bright enough for her to see how Britomartis's head had been pulped by the impact. Alcestis turns away to retch, but her throat is too tight for anything to escape.

Finally she gathers herself enough to push the body the few feet to the edge. It disappears into the darkness without a sound. Then she stands, herself on the same rocks, arms spread out, and falls forward, following the body. Perhaps a hundred feet down she lets the currents spare her, and carry her home.

He lies on the path, unwilling to stir. The fall from the ridge to the first switchback of the path below was not great, perhaps twenty feet or so, but his return to consciousness was slow. Down here he's beyond their reach, but he can still feel the emptiness in his head, where they pushed him aside to make s.p.a.ce. It reverberates with an all-encompa.s.sing sense of something precious lost.

He drags himself to his feet, reeling like a blinded man, and stumbles his way home.

She tries to tell herself that she didn't mean to do it. She knows she did. She tells herself that Britomartis deserved it. Oh G.o.ddess, how Britomartis deserved it. To be harried to the ends of the earth, repelling every creature she meets as they see the stain of guilt across her.When Alcestis reaches the palace on Kamenai, she lurches to the ground in the courtyard, then pads silently through the portico towards her room, a moonlit ghost in blood-and-bone silks.

The Doctor is a heap on his bed. Arms tangled across him, one bony elbow sticking up, cheeks thin over his skull. For a moment he looks like Britomartis did, and her mind just refuses to form any more thoughts of any kind.

Then he moves his head, a blind man following a sound. She sits on the floor against the bed, her knees up, to her chin, her head close to where his lies. Neither has the strength to touch.

-She deserved it, she says, her voice weak.-She killed so many ... She killed so many, and who am I to say my hands are, clean? Who am I to judge?She shakes her head, too drained even to doubt. -Who am I to judge? I'm anyone. Anyone can judge.

-But then I have the strength to carry it out.-Yes. Which means in their eyes, I have the right.

-Yes. If they want a world where they can put their own law aside, and have justice lie down before strength, then they must accept that their strength must lie down before mine.He shakes his head slowly, blankly. -They're so big.-And there are, so many of them. All towering over me from the inside.-I can be tiny in the ocean and be at home. But Ocea.n.u.s didn't just show me the ocean, he was ocean.

-Every ocean I've ever seen, and I've seen so many.-That's the trouble with polytheism, you're outnumbered ...

With a cringing shudder he pulls his eyes away from whatever he alone can see, then focuses blinking on her. -Sorry, he says, his voice a ragged croak. -Did I just miss something vital?But it's too much to repeat, and she lets the thought grow cold and hard inside her. Now, she tells him about the victory prayer, about what she did, and the words come out flat and lifeless.

He hunches his body over in the bed, bending to meet her gaze. I'm so sorry, his eyes say, and say it eloquently, but there's no reaction on her own face. When he actually has to mouth the words, I'm so sorry, it's like an admission of defeat.

He has no strength for anything more. His head sinks sideways to the bed, his eyes drift closed.

-What do I do? she asks.

-There are, ways to live with it.

-I'm not living with it, I'm dead with it.

-That too shall pa.s.s, he says faintly.

-A hundred thousand people, she cries. -How would you know,? His eyes open just a hair, and all she can see in them is the dead white. - Believe me, he says, in the raw tone she now, knows from her own mouth.

The eyes drift shut again, and the words start flowing out more freely. A polished answer now, almost a glib one. -Time is fire, when I stop it burning in one place it spreads to another. A decision I make tonight could affect whole civilisations thousands of years hence. It happens everywhere I act. Empires live and cities die in the s.p.a.ces between my thoughts, all unseen. I've killed far more people than I could ever know about.

-How can you deal with it?

-I can't, he says, almost gently. -You can't either.

Now, she's feeling. Her body's betraying her, curling inwards andshrivelling like a leaf in a fire.

He goes on. -It's not the sort of thing you deal wit deal with. Compensate for, perhaps, like a man with an arm cut off. Or an old man whose memory has gone. You find a way to live without the part of you that you had before the part that was sure of your innocence. But to deal with is deal with is to resolve, and I'm no good at resolutions. Just at moving on to the next moment. to resolve, and I'm no good at resolutions. Just at moving on to the next moment.

-But it's so big ...He can only nod. -They are.And it's too big to think, waves cras.h.i.+ng over her head, and all she can do is reach up, to his face, her fingers through his hair, and try to pull him to look at her from inches away. -I'm falling, she whispers. - Catch me.

-I can't.

So her voice cracks, spilling out all the anger and ugliness she alwaysknew was in there. -You brought me here. Put me up, so high. How can you turn me into this and make me face this and then just drop me? drop me?-You're looking for absolution, I can't give it. It's not my place, this isn't my world. I'm not the one who suffered. I can give you an ear, a word, a shoulder, sympathy, companions.h.i.+p, magic tricks ... but I can't be the one to forgive you.

She laughs, a choked sob. -Who's left to forgive me? The children who'll never be born? The survivors who watched their friends burn to the ground?

He just lies there, shaking his head, a tiny bony creature. She feels herself falling again, plummeting through the floor. -Even the G.o.ds wouldn't forgive me. Why would I need forgiveness for their moment of freedom?

-Oh don't worry. The G.o.ds hate you, but it's nothing personal.

It's not possible, not possible at all. But he won't stop. -They hateyou like you hate mosquitoes, or a stuck door. They hate all their gaolers. And they're ready to scour you and all your empire from the face of the earth.

She hesitates before she speaks. Not because she doesn't know, what to say; the thought is already there unbidden. Not because she has any doubt about it; just a faint feeling that perhaps she should have doubt.

But she searches for it, and can't find it, and lets the words out.

-We deserve it.

-No you don't, he says, but too fast for him to have thought about it.She turns, leaning her chin on the bed inches from his face, and repeats: -We deserve it.

Now, he opens his eyes, realising she means it, that this isn't just idle despair.

-They'll turn your island, to ash. Rain fire down on the guilty and the innocent alike -There are no innocent. Everyone in the empire is living on stolen time.

-They didn't know -Neither did I!

-So let yourself off the -It doesn't change anything, it has happened has happened. We've all profited from the crime. Everyone from the King, to the lowliest slave. Every farmer, every sailor, every wh.o.r.e, every infant. We all have to pay.

-It would be a slaughter.

-It would be just.

-It's never just anything.

He's struggling up, on one elbow as he talks, trying to reach her. -Releasing them would be only the beginning. They're a completely unchecked force.

-We already have have an unchecked force in the palace. The G.o.ds are the only ones who can bring any kind of justice an unchecked force in the palace. The G.o.ds are the only ones who can bring any kind of justice -They're no more the ones to judge or forgive than I am. That's something for you to work out among yourselves -It won't happen! she cries. And she's filled with rage at him for fooling her for so long, for making her believe in something better. She whirls to her feet, pacing and shouting. -I know, just what these people are. We'll do anything without thinking about it. That's what led me into the dance. That's why it all needs to end.

-No.

He glares at her, and she realises it's taking every bit of his strength.His eyes are, still fiery, but he's so battered he can't even sit up.

-There's another way. I've been finding it all my life ...

And she stands, there, a laugh freezing inside her, as she feels the lastscales fall from her eyes. -How old are, you? she whispers.

He just looks at her, lost.

-All these lives you've led ... who has died to keep you in them? How many souls has it taken to keep you acting like a child? How old are you?And she can see the years behind his eyes. -I'm afraid I've lost count.She sees nothing more to say. She stalks to the door, ignoring his calls to her, and throws herself into the sky till the island, is far behind.

Four: Stone

Midnight, the Doctor in his forge, face lit only by the fire as he weighs the chunk of iron in his hands.

The inventions that Rhadamanthys needs could be fas.h.i.+oned out of bronze; they're more or less within the range of contemporary technology, so his sense of guilt is minimal. He has just finished pounding out a large flat sheet, ready to be reheated and bent into the appropriate shape. But the things he requires for his own purposes will take more than the Bronze Age can provide.

Already he's driven the smiths from this forge, with Rhadamanthys's blessing, to protect his craftsman's mysteries and to hide the changes he has made to raise the temperature in the furnace. So now, he works alone. He moves slowly now, leaning heavily to support quavering legs: his face and chest streaked with grime from his labours, his body still not fully recovered.

The charcoal bed rests among the flames, ready for alloying. Even a glimpse of this secret could give Minos's empire an unchallengeable edge, weapons of a strength that could throw all of history off balance.

But if he's going to face the G.o.ds, or even Alcestis, he's going to need steel.He casts the iron into the forge, and lets it play with the fire.

Midnight, Alcestis at her kiln in Akrotiri. With no clearer idea of what to do, she has returned home, to lose herself in the motion of her potter's wheel. Now she hovers over the vent in the top of the kiln, her eyes fixed through the heat-haze on the batch of cups inside, watching as the fire sears away their last traces of softness. Wonders how long it would take to make a thousand cups, ten thousand, a hundred thousand.This will pa.s.s, she tells herself again. This will pa.s.s. This isn't the first time in her life she's felt so sick about the world that she wants it all to erase itself. It's just a moment, it will ease.

A thousand cups would cover the floor around the kiln. Ten thousand wall her in, her own hands endlessly shaping more. A hundred thousand blot out the sky, bury her alive, no way to move, no way even for a moment to end.

A thousand cups. Ten thousand. A hundred thousand.

If the soldiers come for her, she has faith in her ability to vanish. It's all she has faith in now.

At the marketplace, Pelopia has welcomed her, back into the fold. Like everyone here, she has no idea of the name of the colourful bird who has been saving them from the bulls. She bustles round her stall, arranging her linens artfully. -Oh, you're well away from that one, let me tell you. He's a beauty all right, and they never last.

-I thought I was a beauty. You said so.

-Well, that's different.

-So was he. At least I thought so.

-Oh, I know, how all the poems go, chuckles Pelopia. -Milky-white skin, a high ivory forehead, a neck like polished marble ... Well, milk curdles, dearie, and marble cracks with age. Even here.

Alcestis moves an amphora a handspan to the right, then back to the left. In the light of day, it was likely he hadn't known where his youth came from, any more than she had known. But, either way, she'll have to work this out away from his eyes, his words. Even if he was guilty, she'd still end up believing him. And she still feels the cinder in her stomach from the moment when he had refused her the comfort or answers she needed.

-He taught me a lot, she says.

-I'll just bet he did, cackles the weaver.

-No, no ... Do you know, what I found out? I found out the source of all our blessings. Our riches and our long, long lives.

-Rhea, of course.

Alcestis looks up, at the weaver. -In a manner of speaking.

Pelopia is troubled by the look on her face, busies herself with dusting a display. -What are, you getting at, girl?

-We stole it all from Athens. We killed them and took the remaining years of their lives. The G.o.ds did, at our command.-Well, we were at war with them.Alcestis stares at her. -This isn't the same as conquering a land and carrying off tribute. We took their lives.

-Well, how is it any different? (Alcestis says nothing.) -It's a shame, I suppose. But that's the price you pay in war. Besides, the Athenians don't place the same value on human life as we do after all, they do have less of it! They'd have done the same thing to us, if the G.o.ds had been on their side.I can't believe it, thinks Alcestis. The terrible secret, the awful revelation, and her fellow Theran barely batted an eyelid.

She tries again, with Nisus, young Nisus the big hero of the fourth attack. The uncertain days have worn him down; he's lost weight, and there are furrows under his eyes. He tells her she's lost her mind.

She confronts the lay preachers, shouting back at them, telling the truth about their G.o.ds. In moments they pick up her cries, turn them about. It's all just confirmation of what they've been saying all along: everyone else is guilty. The truth is soon washed away in the torrent of their words.

Neleus the innkeeper is already drunker than any of his customers. He doesn't dismiss her, but nods sagely, grumbling under his breath. Something in his glazed eyes tells her, that he believes her, he finds it all too easy to believe. But it's so frightening, he can barely move. He just shakes his head, and goes on shaking it as she walks around the inn, forcing her, message on them. Don't any of them understand? How can life just go on?

She stumbles outside and stares around the marketplace, at all the women and children. Are they all the same? Not even bothering to feel defensive, no longer even thinking about how frightened and angry they are? Would any of them even think of the women and children of Athens? Of the men who watched their families die and watched their own limbs shrivel? Would any of them even wonder who fed the blessing ceremonies in the years before At before Athens people now, so destroyed that they can't even be named?

Oh, she knows what they feel: she's felt it herself. Hates the taste of it in her, mouth. She had always been able to go on because she knew there was nothing else, she could do. A glib, comforting bitterness, the protection of knowing you're powerless in the face of it all. Even now, she feels it: the rock-hard certainty that, for all her rage, there's nothing, nothing she can do to s.h.i.+ft the balance and bring it all cras.h.i.+ng down. But now, it's a horror rather than a balm.