5x05: Three-Dimensional Chess
5x05: Three-Dimensional Chess
(The Vortex)
Racing down the hill past astonished students and into the TARDIS, which murmurs with faint unease, the Master spares a moment to wonder what he thinks he's doing. Lab coat tossed over a railing, he watches the Doctor run about the console, pulling levers and pressing buttons and full of desperate focus, and he stops wondering. He's getting his hands, if not on, then near a TARDIS, and he's finding out what's happened to frankly intriguing Donna Noble, and he's here to find out in as much detail as possible if the terrible empty space in the Doctor's mind is his doing.
"How did that machine of yours work?" the Doctor asks over his shoulder as the TARDIS rumbles to life.
"Inelegantly," the Master replies, leaning back against the railing. "I would have needed at least a week to perfect it. I only started setting it up this morning. It's entirely likely Miss Noble is outside of spacetime altogether."
The Doctor types something frantically; then his shoulders slump. "I can't get a trace."
Interesting. "How easily the Doctor admits defeat."
"Stop it," the Doctor says, which really doesn't disprove the Master's point.
The Master sighs. "Cast out a wider net. She might have created a time pocket. Check for snags." When the Doctor simply blinks up at him, he snaps, "Do I have to do everything myself?" and strides up to the console.
"No, don't, I have it on isomorphic --" the Doctor protests, a second too late; the Master snatches his hand back from the console with a yelp at the shock. Bewilderingly, the Doctor does the same.
"What did you --?" they say as one, and at that moment the console monitor flickers to life. They scramble over to it.
Donna's face blinks out at them. "Doctor?"
"Donna!" The Doctor grips the sides of the monitor. "Where are you? Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." She leans in close to the screen. "Is the Master with you?"
The Master edges in next to the Doctor. "How very thoughtful of you to test my machine, Miss Noble."
"Right. Good." Donna looks tired, and if there's a room behind her, it's entirely white and featureless. "Listen, both of you: you've got to stay together. I don't care what you do or how many planets you feel like taking over, Master, I'm starting to think literally the fate of the universe is going to rest on both of you being in the right place at the right time."
The Master snorts. "Bit over-dramatic, isn't she?"
Donna grins ruefully. "Yeah, well."
"Hang on, Donna," the Doctor says, frowning, "how did you remote-link like this? You'd need massively advanced technology."
"Yeah," Donna says, looking remarkably shifty at this. "Got to go."
"Donna --" the Doctor says, but the image has already flickered out.
"So." The Master leans back against the console, which doesn't shock him this time, but doesn't respond any other way either. "You get to keep me after all. Congratulations, Doctor."
"What -- you believe her?"
He does. "Well, I wouldn't go so far as that." The Master grins. "You don't really think I'm not interested in hearing that the fate of the universe rests on my involvement? No, it is a bit interesting, wouldn't you say?"
The Doctor fidgets. "What happened to that refusal to spend your life imprisoned with me?" He won't look at the Master. Interesting. In the Master's timeline, those words were spoken not two days ago. For the Doctor ...
"How long has it been?" the Master asks quietly, ignoring the Doctor's question for the rhetorical plea it is.
Hands jammed into his pockets, defensive: "About a year."
Only with the greatest of self-control does the Master refrain from laughing. "Tell you what," he says. "We haven't caught up in the longest time, and I was a really terrible host. You know how it is, ruling a planet really does take precedence over those little courtesies. I'd love to hear all about this year of yours. What do you say we have some tea and biscuits and catch up?"
The Doctor stares at him. "You are joking."
"Mm." The Master pretends to consider this. "No. Serious as a heart attack. Well. As a human heart attack? No. Serious as a really sloppy temporal paradox. Never mind. Tea and biscuits, Doctor."
He sets off down the helix staircase in search of a kitchen. As expected, after a few requisite seconds the Doctor stops doing a stunned puppy impression and starts in on the lonely, love-starved puppy following its master impression. Charming, really.
Two levels down he finds something that at least approximates a kitchen, in that it holds a twenty-third century Food-O-Matic that produces substandard tea, a cupboard (its dimensions exactly the same on the inside and outside) containing a dusty but serviceable biscuit tin, a table from sixteenth-century Spain, and twentieth-century plastic lawn chairs. The Master sprawls out in one of these and has poured tea for them both by the time the Doctor sidles into the room. "Plenty for all," the Master greets him.
The Doctor sits down carefully and accepts a cup, but he makes no move to drink it, and there it sits cooling to the temperature of his hands. "Donna might be right," he says. "All sorts of strange coincidences happen around her. And -- well, I thought we'd hit the buildup point, but then she found you and got her memory back -- permanently, I still don't know how she managed without dying -- so now, well, she's massively important and I can't imagine what it's leading to."
"Saving the universe, probably," the Master says dismissively. "With virtue as its own reward and all that rubbish." Still, he can sense what the Doctor's talking about, the warp threads of Time pulling in tight around them and fanning out to critical points unknown. Obviously he's very important, but it flatters him to feel the universe sitting up and taking notice. He sighs and knocks back his tea, not actually tasting it, which is probably a blessing. "Let's find out more, then."
"Donna obviously didn't want us to come after her --"
"No," the Master says, rolling his eyes. "Let's find a reliable prophet."
The Doctor's shoulders go stiff. Under normal circumstances the Master wouldn't blame him; neither of them have ever been particularly fond of binding up their fates with any foreknowledge of their personal futures, especially as most really accurate prophecies are the obnoxiously self-fulfilling sort. Given the right effort, too, any Time Lord out of his first century and even some with an innate ability can (could, back in those days when Time Lords were around to do such things) trace the various threads of potential and extrapolate likely outcomes. Neither the Doctor nor the Master has ever put much effort into being good at this, though. The Master wouldn't even be suggesting a sneak peek at their personal futures now except for an overwhelming need to know the circumstances of his ... stay ... with the Doctor. Either he's fated to get away, in which case he can rest easy in the knowledge, or he's fated to be imprisoned with the Doctor for whatever length of time, in which case, well, it's predestined and there's no point wasting energy on escape attempts. He studiously ignores the circular logic inherent, and gives the Doctor a glare. "Go on."
"The last few prophecies I've heard ended in death," the Doctor says, the words seemingly dragged out against his will. "No more."
"Oh, well, everything does eventually," the Master says dismissively, and grins. "Except me, of course." He springs to his feet and pockets the biscuit tin. "What do you propose, then? Do we stay here until fate or Donna Noble come knocking on the door?"
"Well, I can't let you out," the Doctor says reasonably.
"Not even on some remote little planet where no one would notice us? No?" The Doctor just keeps looking at him with steady patience, which is ridiculous, so the Master throws up his hands and stalks from the room.
Whether the Doctor follows him, he doesn't pay enough attention to know. He walks tensely along one curving corridor and another, and somewhere along the way the stiff walk turns into a stroll. His own TARDIS is at the end of the universe, a rickety derelict Type 50 stolen in the war and blown out from the reentry into times unknown. When he'd taken the Doctor's, she'd been fighting against him all the way. Now, with the Doctor back and the Master posing no immediate threat, she's idling in the Vortex, and even without any telepathic connection to her the Master finds himself relaxing a little. Time Lords and TARDISes are meant to be together, and grudgingly as he admits it, the Doctor's taken obsessively good care of this old thing. The Master presses his hand to a wall, enjoying the hum of the engine, and wanders along until he's offered a door.
Through the door the Master finds the vault of a game room.
His eyebrows go up. If the TARDIS is trying for subtle, it's missed the mark a bit. Still. He wanders inside, past a tottering pile of board games (Cluedo, Galactic Monopoly, R.O.U.S.-Trap, all the usual nonsense he expects a man like the Doctor would collect over the course of a millennium) and into the wide space kept bare for more difficult endeavours. "What do you think?" he asks, his voice echoing a little, not turning around.
A fractional hesitation and he hears the Doctor walk into the room. "Haven't been in here since Martha beat me at tennis," he says.
The Master snorts, still not turning, and tips his head back to squint at the ceiling, arched above and studded with roundels. "Course she did. That body, it's a miracle you're not tripping over your own legs every step you take."
When the Doctor says nothing to this, he turns. The Doctor's standing by a stack of board games, hands jammed in his pockets and looking a bit lost. It's fascinating, really, how different he is than when the Master last saw him. Or -- no. Not different, not from those last moments the Master remembers being cradled in his arms, the panic in his face and tears clinging to his lashes. It's been a year for the Doctor and in all that time -- with Donna, the Master assumes, with the accidental creation of nearly a fellow Time Lord, and the hundred other nice cuddly Doctory things the Doctor must have done -- all that time and under the Doctor's careful-casual stance, under the mild look on his face, just beneath the surface he's still crumpled up and shaking from suppressing his sobs. The Master can see it, and in the moment of realisation the thrill is so great he can't breathe.
But it's only a moment, and he's able to say, with absolute composure, "Don't just stand there, then. If you're determined to keep me, at least keep me entertained."
"You want to play a game," the Doctor says, a little disbelievingly.
The Master smiles faintly. "Do we ever do anything else?"
For a moment he thinks the Doctor's actually going to leave. Then the Doctor shrugs loosely and comes the rest of the way into the room. "I was under the impression it's been a bit more serious than that for a while."
"Nonsense," the Master returns dismissively. He wanders further into the room. "Tell me you're in possession of something more intellectual than children's games and sports equipment."
"I quite like Cluedo," the Doctor says, sounding a bit affronted.
The Master grins, although his back is to the Doctor again, which is a small blessing. "I don't suppose you'd agree to a game of chess," he says.
"Maybe," the Doctor replies warily, which of course means yes. A hesitation, and he adds, "Rules?" to which the Master grins. That question is the first overture to the game.
Chess, the sort they're talking about, has essentially the same rules as the European version on Earth, except that they, as Time Lords, have no real need for a board -- they can hold the pattern in their minds -- nor a grid. A game might last several hours to several months, and where humans might use carved bits of wood, this three-dimensional version uses living moving sentient beings. Theoretically.
They'd invented it together, long ago in a fit of boredom while studying the cultures of the lower beings and thinking up ways to improve upon their technologies, entertainments, anything. Back then they'd still adhered to the tenet of nonintervention, and late nights playing their invented and adapted game had been purely in the abstract. Later -- much later, and on very different terms -- they'd played just one game for real, to distract them both from exile. But that was long ago.
"Rules," the Master repeats, turning to face the Doctor. "Well, obviously if you won't let me off the TARDIS, this is going to be an entirely theoretical game."
The Doctor tugs over a sports chest and sits down on the lid. "Obviously."
Offered nothing, the Master simply sits half-sprawled on the shiny floor. "For my king I'll take ..." he hesitates, nearly says the Dalek Emperor just for a rise, but it's not even funny to him. The king needs to be something capable of defending itself, not actually invincible, and limited enough to be most useful outside of battle. "Orived Six," the Master decides, naming a sentient planetoid. Planets are always fun to wage war over. "For my queen, Martha Jones." He grins at the surprise on the Doctor's face. "Fool me once ... Go on, if she can get the better of me I'm not leaving her to the likes of you."
The Doctor shrugs. "For my king, the TARDIS. For my queen, Donna."
"Oh, that's hardly fair," the Master protests; "I already know they're off to form an alliance and that will never do."
"You shouldn't have chosen Martha, then," the Doctor says mildly. He props his chin in his hands and adds, offhandedly, "The one game we played real-time -- did I win?"
"Not if you have to ask," the Master returns. He shifts a little on the ground, trying to find a more comfortable way to sit, gives up, and sprawls out on his back; vulnerable but for the way the Doctor actually draws his knees in a bit, gives him space. "Forfeits?"
"I win, you don't try escaping," the Doctor says at once, so the Master knows why he agreed to this game in the first place. Charming. The Doctor doesn't actually want to leash him.
"I win," the Master says after a moment, "we go to a planet of my choosing."
Even if he loses he'll get out of the TARDIS for a while, but he really does hate to lose. "Now," he says, "for bishops ..."
Four hours later, the room is an unholy mess.
Scattered tennis balls delineate an asteroid field; the board games variously indicate a conglomeration of hive-ships, a battle fleet of Cybermen, and the Thirteen Wondrous Worlds. Between them the Doctor and the Master have rigged up a massed crisscrossing of string to indicate the various timestreams, and somewhere in hour two the Doctor scrounged up a whiteboard, wherein they're recording the vastly complicated score. Martha and Donna have indeed teamed up, and have tricked the Guardians into keeping watch over Orived Six while they pilot the TARDIS through the asteroid field to rescue UNIT from the Cybermen. Martha, the Master insists, is really involved in an elaborate scheme to use Cybertechnology in a bid to advance Earth's defense systems by thousands of years. The Doctor is quite sure Donna's onto this plan, but hasn't yet decided whether to thwart it.
He scribbles down the latest score and pauses.
The Master leaves off hanging his latest bit of string and strolls over. There on the board is one of the arbitrary numbers they'd agreed on lifetimes ago as meaning a draw. He's a little disappointed, or -- no, that's the Doctor's disappointment he's picking up. Only four hours and the game's already over, which means the easy arguing and petty machinations are going to become suddenly real again.
It also means the Master's not supposed to run away. He usually enjoys breaking promises, but at the moment he doesn't really have anywhere to run away to, and his last attempt has certainly done enough damage to be fascinating for a while yet. "So," he says. "I get to pick our landing spot."
"Yeah," the Doctor says, rubbing the back of his neck. After a moment he notices his tie has come undone in the excitement, and ducks his head to studiously do it back up.
Someplace with spaceships? No, he'd be laughably easy to track down. He takes a deep breath and says the first thing that comes to his head. "Let's go to Betelgeuse and get really pissed."
The Doctor glances up at him, a look of complete wide-eyed innocent freckly surprise. "Yeah, all right," he says.
(Betelgeuse Seven, Alpha Orionis, 14,237)
The problem with a Time Lord metabolism is that, even after drinking enough for a lesser being to experience the sensation of having its brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick, both the Doctor and the Master have quite a few bits of brain left and are capable of coherent speech.
They both order seconds, which makes the tentacled barthing give them an extremely nervous look out of three of its eyestalks.
"What about the other forfeit?" the Doctor asks, nursing this second glass, which bubbles gently.
In the event of a tie, additional forfeits are made: one question truthfully answered apiece. They've ignored that particular rule for centuries, and the Master doubts the Doctor would even have asked if he hadn't been feeling a little lemon-and-bricky. The Master squints into his own drink, which thankfully does not squint back, and considers. "Fine," he says. "You ask first."
The Doctor fixes him with a look. "Would it really be as bad as all that?" he asks. At the Master's blank stare he seems to remember he's left something critical out of the question, and elaborates, "In the TARDIS with me. I mean, there's winning and then there's going a bit far, don't you think? So -- it wouldn't really be that bad."
Carefully sorting the question out from this ramble, the Master considers whether the harsh truth or hope will be more painful to the Doctor in the long run. Then he wonders what the harsh truth is, exactly. He sighs, and doesn't meet the Doctor's eyes, and says, "It's not so bad so far," which probably isn't a lie.
The Doctor beams at him, so disgustingly open and affectionate that the Master makes a note to be sure this is the Doctor's last drink. Not stubbornly hiding behind walls is one thing, but if the Doctor's really this pleased to have him about he's definitely done something wrong.
"Right," he snaps, "my turn," and watches the Doctor flicker immediately into alarm. That's a bit better. He thinks carefully.
"Would you do it again?" he asks. Unlike the Doctor, he doesn't have to elaborate. The Time War quietly underlies all the things they don't say.
The Doctor visibly sobers. "I don't know."
"Cheating," the Master says.
"No, but I really don't," the Doctor insists. "It was the only thing to do, but I don't know if that makes it the right thing, and if I don't even know that -- well --"
He watches the Doctor's face and sees for a moment the mobile grief on it, sees that the Doctor has changed, after all: sees that his own death in the Doctor's arms has unlocked something, and that ever since the Doctor has been counting every last dead body, some insane stupid turnabout from denial to what the Doctor must think is acceptance, crushing himself down and down in his own guilt. The Master can't help it; he actually laughs. He laughs and points a steady finger at the Doctor and says, "You, sir, are madder than I."
"Excuse me!" the Doctor says, pulling back and pulling in and closing off until he's nothing but affronted, his hair quivering a little over his forehead.
"Well," the Master says, knowing this will only make things worse, "I think you did the right thing."
The Doctor knocks back the rest of his second drink and gets a bit wobblingly to his feet. The Master still feels fine, if a little fuzzy around the edges, so either the Doctor's skinny body isn't coping so well or he's faking it. When the Master gets to his feet and the Doctor nearly at once latches onto his shoulder for balance, he decides the Doctor must be faking it -- no, must not, because he certainly wouldn't do that ... would he? The Master sighs. He's getting a bit of a headache already, and when he gets headaches, the drums never, ever help.
Worse, there's something terrible and comforting about the Doctor leaning on him like this. He doesn't move to support the Doctor's (fairly inconsiderable) weight, but he doesn't push the Doctor off, either.
"Idiot," the Master tells him. "Now I'm going to have to keep you from piloting the TARDIS for the next few hours or you'll crash-land us somewhere and the Judoon will give us a bloody parking ticket."
"For being space hooligans," the Doctor agrees. "Good word, hooligans. Fun to say. Hooooligans."
They're both too old for this. "I hate you," the Master reminds him, just for good measure, and they set off back to the TARDIS.
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