Face off

'Well,' Vozarti said at length, taking in the grim landscape, 'it's not bone.'

Nivet checked his portascan. 'Not natural, either. It's some kind of renewable resource, though, and it's growing.'

'The grass you mean? It's some kind of simulation?'

'I mean this whole area is growing.' Nivet gestured at the wide open space. 'Replicating and reproducing itself.'

Vozarti frowned. "The layout of the Edifice is changing?'

'Could explain why the walls were weakened,' Nivet said, engrossed in his readings. 'An hour or so from now our former prison cell will be in the open air.'

'And that could explain why the spiders chose to attack us when they did,' said Vozarti.

"Their own environment had been cleared away by this ... this ...'

'Nature?' Nivet seemed pleased with his summation.

'What would cause this part of the Edifice to grow?'

'I don't know. Maybe something's putting flesh on its bones, hi any case, does it really matter? Without our link to Gallifrey we're dead.'

Vozarti shook his head. 'I don't think so.We've been signalling for some time. If we stop responding the moment they finally get through, they'll know we're in trouble and send help.'

'The fact that they got through at all suggests the stability of this place could well be fluctuating,' Nivet pointed out.

'Then help will be along sooner rather than later,' Vozarti said. 'You're one of the architects of times future, Nivet. Isn't an optimistic outlook an asset in your line of work?'

Nivet held up a presumptuous hand to silence him, eyes widening in excitement. 'Perhaps it is, Castellan,' he muttered, and passed Vozarti the portascan.

Vozarti stared at the tiny winking light on the holographic screen.

'That's a TARDIS,' Nivet said, grinning wildly. 'Weird residual echo, but it must be close by.'

Vozarti felt his grip tighten involuntarily around the portascan. 'The 102?'

Nivet nodded. 'We've got her.'

Ressadriand was heaving the little door shut with all his strength when something heavy fell against it. He cried out.

'It's me!' Eton's voice was a frantic shout. 'Let me in, you idiot! Iet me in!'

Ressadriand fell back and let the older man scramble right over him in his haste to be through the doorway. Together they slammed the door shut.

'Damn filthy thing touched me,' Eton said, shuddering. 'It was so cold ... hard as bone ...'

Ressadriand laid a hand on his shoulder. 'I thought it had already got you. That's only reason I -'

Eton shrugged off the gesture and got to his feet. "The only reason you do anything is for yourself, Ressadriand.' He surveyed the scene: the heath stretched out in all directions, and a cold wind was starting to whip at their muddied robes. 'Where in Rungar's name are we now?'

Ressadriand felt like crying. 'I don't know. I don't know.'

'Our only chance is to get help,' Eton snapped.

'Help?' Ressadriand stared at Eton as if he was mad. 'And where are you going to find it, eh?

You want to ask your friend the spider for directions?'

The very moment Ressadriand spoke, there was a scraping sound from behind the door, like a spade tackling frozen earth.

Eton turned and walked off without another word. A second or so later, Ressadriand was back beside him.

There were hundreds of butterflies nailed to the doors.

Mali looked at the Doctor, wondering if he was going to have another seizure on her. His body had begun to twitch as if he were uncertain how best to express his alarm and dismay.

He reached out to one of the desiccated insects, words forming on his lips but never finding voice. The insect's body crumbled to fine powder at his slightest touch. All that was left behind was the rusty nail that had pinned it to the rotting wood.

'My butterflies,' the Doctor finally croaked, looking at them as if each had been a memento of some longlost love.

Mali left him and circled the giant, flickering structure they'd finally reached, unsure of what to say. Since they'd located the dead Type 102, both of them had fallen silent, lost in their own dark thoughts. She could only feel a crushing sense of disappointment; she didn't even know why she was bothering to watch the Doctor any more. The reassurances of a predestined future seemed suddenly as out of reach as the Doctor's safe, untainted biodata, both locked away inside his stonecold TARDIS.

And yet, still the Doctor kept on. He'd lost the chance to be free of the Faction virus. He'd lost his means of escaping Time Lord justice. Where could he possibly go from here? Still circling, Mali saw there were four other splintering doors in the glistening wall of the structure. The papery carcasses of the insects were smothering each one as if seeking sanctuary; perhaps the Doctor was doing the same. Taking refuge in trying to solve the mystery of this nightmarish place.

When she returned to him, he was still staring at the door, only now his fists were clenched.

'It's the final sign,' he said. 'A sign that whatever this place is, it's meant for me.'

As though reinforcing the Doctor's words, the old door lurched on its hinges, and opened inwards. Mali jumped. A skein of fine dust fell on her as most of the pinned butterflies shattered with the sudden movement. She choked, and grabbed hold of the Doctor's coat before he could dart inside.

'Not that trick again,' she managed. 'Wherever you go, I'm going too.'

A soft light was pulsing from somewhere behind the door. The Doctor gestured sullenly towards it.

'Then you can go first,' he said.

'The work is not yet done,' Kellen announced to the sweaty crowd squeezed into the grimy room. "The living body of Greyjan the Sane is proof of our power. While the loa are still with us, it is time to hone our gifts. To unravel another stitch in time's filthy tapestry. To make natural order our cowering plaything.'

The others were still hanging on his every word, and Kellen wanted to laugh out loud with pleasure. He thought back to the excuses he'd given Fitz, defending the coven in those first sweet moments of becoming its leader, and let his sneer become a smile. What did the real reasons for doing this matter? Just so long as he could always feel this way.

He raised both arms, the smell of his own sweat deliciously barbarian to his senses. 'Take your masks,' he commanded. 'We shall reassemble shortly in the Great Hall. Prepare for the Chaos Ritual!'

Fitz woke up feeling as if he'd necked a bottle of Pernod before spending the night wrestling gorillas. Currents of pain ebbed and flowed about his body, and he felt queasy with the heat that was coming from somewhere ...

A fire. A large pyre had been lit in front of him. He instinctively tried to move away, only to find his arms had been tied above his head.

Dark figures moved past him, the heat of the flames distorting their faces, fleshy pinks mingling with blood reds. Blood. He remembered a needle, a needle going in below his neck, further than he'd thought possible. There'd been fire then, too, and ...

A girl. A girl with auburn hair, just the same as the one that was staring up at him now. It had been ... She'd done this to him.

She put a finger to his claggy lips as he tried incoherently to accuse her. He knew what the words were meant to sound like, but his tongue was too swollen to properly participate.

'I'm glad you've woken up, Fitz,' the girl said. Tarra. Her name was Tarra. 'The ceremony will offer so much more value if you're able to participate. And I'm glad you'll be able to see what you're making possible.' She traced a finger down his chest, opening each button on his shirt, until her nail became hooked on his belt buckle. Fitz had recovered enough to hold in his stomach despite the pain as she moved closer, and smiled.

'I was thinking, also, that the time for subtlety has passed. That perhaps you might want to see a little ... more of me?' Tarra coyly allowed the shoulder of her simple white gown to slip down, exposing smooth skin that was equally pale. 'I've been longing to show you ...'

Fitz's aggression diminished somewhat, and a trickle of sweat swaggered down his astonished face. The girl was flaky, sure but she was still gorgeous as hell. Maybe she was into bondage; each to their own. Whatever, a part of him was almost glad words had left him so he couldn't utter anything to muck this up.

Tarra licked her lips then someone walked past, a bloke with blond hair who also looked familiar. 'Mask, Tarra,' he instructed, placing something white and round into her hands as Fitz's heart began to sink. 'We're almost ready to begin. You're on display.'

'Of course,' Tarra agreed, her eyes never leaving Fitz's own, her fingers gripping her ivory mask. 'But in a moment. I think it's only fair I give our guest of honour a private view.'

She dropped the mask to the floor, and Fitz smiled. Then she smoothed her hair back behind her ears with both hands, and pulled.

Tarra's face came loose and fell to the floor beside her other mask. Fitz was left staring into a twisted, grinning skull daubed with blood and gristle.

"That feels so much better,' the gory creature said before rubbing its sticky red head against Fitz's chest. 'Don't you think so, little monkey?'

Words finally came back to Fitz but he was screaming too hard to use any of them.

Chapter Twenty-two.

Chaos ritual

They made a curious procession, Nivet decided, leading the way across the heath. Vozarti followed right behind him and the four remaining guards were taking up the rear. Holding the portascan as if waving incense at the head of an ancient funeral march, Nivet turned this way and that to take his bearings on the Type 102 's whereabouts. All they needed now was a body.

'What's the delay?' Vozarti snapped impatiently.

'Some kind of doubleecho effect,' Nivet muttered. 'It's odd, as if the TARDIS signal is being swamped by ...' He broke off from studying the indigo screen to stare over Vozarti's shoulder. 'No more delays, Castellan. I think we've found it.'

Nivet set off for the pale figure at a halfrun, negotiating a large round table and some weirdlooking bits and pieces on his way. Clearly the 102 had run into some problems in this place to be spitting out its insides like this. He wondered at the ship's human form, up to its knees in the mire; why hadn't it disguised itself? Then he noticed a patch of pink skin incongruous ill in the bonewhite stone of its body, and reached out a hand to touch it.

'Don't!' Vozarti warned, jogging up behind him. 'It's armed. This could be a trick.'

Nivet pressed his finger against the soft flesh, then tapped it against the area surrounding it.

'No tricks,' he said. "The organic shell is calcifying. I think it's dead.'

The Castellan shook his head. 'It can't be dead. If it's damaged, you'll have to fix it.'

'But look at it!'

Vozarti ignored his protests. 'It's got to get us back to Gallifrey.'

Nivet stood deep in thought as Vozarti directed his men to haul the figure free of the mud, wondering what he might find inside dial statue shell. 'What about the Doctor?'

'What about him? He's nothing, not now we have the 102.' Vozarti smiled. 'And a hero's welcome waiting for us back on Gallifrey.'

'What about Mali?'

'There's nothing we can do.'

'There's still the Edifice.'

'The President will deal with this place, mark my words.' He gestured at the body being dragged from the earth by the guards, his fresh face flushed with success. 'Now we have this, the future is secured.'

'And so's your pension,' Nivet muttered. 'You must be very pleased, Castellan. It seems there's nothing you've overlooked.'

But Vozarti wasn't listening: he was staring over Nivet's shoulder. Puzzled, Nivet turned too.

Running towards them were two men, redfaced and panting in filthy robes that might once have been white, too exhausted even to call out.

The guards went for their guns, but Vozarti seemed suddenly to come back round. 'No! Put them away,' he commanded.

'You know these people?' Nivet asked, incredulous.

'Not really.' Vozarti shook his head, his mouth set in a determined sneer. "The older one is my son. Eton.'

Nivet looked dumbfounded at the guards, checking he wasn't missing something and that they were as bewildered as he was.

'Father,' Eton gasped. 'Father, I can't believe it's you ... I mean, I never dared to ... I'm delighted to see you.'

'Delighted,' Vozarti echoed in disbelief before turning to the other newcomer. 'And who might you be?'

'Ressadriand, sir,' the mousyhaired boy replied. 'I'm the second son of-'

Vozarti cuffed Ressadriand about the face. 'I don't care about your pedigree, or your House, anything except a very good reason why you wear draped about your sorry person the robes of a Faction Paradox initiate.'

Nivet shook his head and let out a low whistle of amazement. This had to beat it all. Up against giant bone spiders the Castellan never lost his head, but against some delinquent kid and his own son a very different man was emerging.