Doctor Who_ Cat's Cradle_ Times Crucible - Marc Platt [78]
The Doctor held up the plumbline and watched intrigued as its trembling dance became more and more frantic. In the midst of all this chaos, he was certain he was searching for something, but it eluded him. If Ace had told him, which she insisted she had, then the memory had dropped repeatedly through the open grating that apparently constituted his mind.
His head was full of random nuggets of information that jangled loosely like the trembling walls around him:
Those whom God has a mind to destroy he first deprives of their senses.
Never stand under a tree in a thunderstorm.
Never stand on a tower in an earthquake.
"Very sensible," the Doctor muttered as the building shook. A shower of dust hit him in the face and he slid across the parapet, flinging his arms wide to ward off the loose masonry that tumbled down around him.
Vael swung himself higher through the girders of the Watch Tower. The whole mountainous edifice was only a tangled lacework of iron girders. Easy to slip inside through the gaps between the churning engines and clanking chains.
He clambered up the struts and ran across the girders bridging the sections, not daring to look down.
The howl of summons to the Tower had dragged him back from the battle in his head. He knew what it meant. The Processes already had word about Wilby. Vael had to act quickly. The premonition of mortality that had been with him since he was a cadet had closed in like a cold breath on his neck. Not even a Pythia could save him this time. He had to do it himself.
Slipping through the Tower gantries, he had seen one of the guards stumbling in, drawn inescapably back by the summons. The others were still wandering aimlessly in the City, their so-called allegiance to the monsters crushed by the unforeseen death of Reogus and its deadly consequence.
To hell with the rest of them, Vael was only intent on averting his own doom and rescuing his own future.
"The World City, I myself created it!"
The older monster's unnerving whispered shrieks carried easily above the relentless clamour of the machinery.
"Far longer ago for you than this Process can remember," squealed its young counterpart.
"It will be rectified. The Phazels. They are not reliable. More guards must be recruited. Wilby. He can be controlled and the stolen Future secured."
Scared witless, thought Vael, nervously wiping slime from his hand on to his jacket. He leapt on to a passing platform and was carried upwards to the level he wanted.
Ahead, he saw the torn cocoon where the little brat Shonnzi had been held. Beyond it was the thing he was seeking. The horrific object with which the Processes had taunted and controlled him. His own future: an older Vael bound in a mesh of glistening web.
He edged along the girder, balancing across the drop, and reached for the far side. His fingers clung to the scaffold in desperation. The cocoon that had encased him was tipped open. The weak body of the future Vael was gone, already dragged down to answer the Processes' summons.
He was cold sweat all over. From below, he heard the younger monster's voice. "The old guards, they are useless. They must be replaced."
"No," croaked the older Process. "Only supplemented with fresh workers!"
Vael scrambled down the gantries, like an ounce-ape in the forest canopy, until he could see the platform where the Processes held their conference.
The two monsters were circling each other. Swinging each head with rage, footmouth arching over repulsive footmouth. The Guard Captain stood implacably in the centre of the area. Beside it was the guard, slumped exhausted on its knees like a sacrificial victim in the temples of Gallifrey. Two fresh cocoons were attached to one of the support struts. In the mesh of one, out of all possible reach, lay the skeletal