Kinza [War Doctor/Ailla]

[Ailla]

Some time had passed before [the War Doctor] turned towards Ailla and huffed, "She's following us, I'm sure of it.”

Ailla simply nodded. “Yes, she has been for some time. I can't detect any hostility in her, though. Otherwise she would have been dead already.”

“I wonder if she thinks that if she sees us perish, she can find my TARDIS and escape with it. Well, good luck with that endeavor. The old girl has some new tricks under her that battered paint job of hers. And she's become very particular," he added.

“We're her only way off this planet. It makes sense for her to keep us in view. But the Warpsmiths are a time-sensitive species. She would know better than to try to pilot a TARDIS, especially during a War,” Ailla replied. “The pilot is as valuable to her as the craft itself. I don't trust her. But that doesn't mean we can't make use of her.”

The top of the crater did not afford them good position to make their way to the camp. "We need camouflage if we're to get closer. Something to fool the Dalek patrols. The land is too flat for too long to make a run for it," he said, considering their options. "If we could take down a glider degredation perhaps we could use that...make it seem like its taking us in..." he mused out loud as they walked.

"What's a... 'degradation'?” she asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. Given the common linguistic use of the term, it wasn't likely to be anything good, especially when it had been adopted by Daleks.

[Deleted]

Ailla simply nodded. “Yes, she has been for some time. I can't detect any hostility in her, though. Otherwise she would have been dead already.”

He sighed. "I can see why they wanted you as my 'escort.' The CIA do love efficiency but they hate wasted opportunity and resources more, I daresay." Enough to have frozen her away and kept her hidden from him.

“We're her only way off this planet. It makes sense for her to keep us in view. But the Warpsmiths are a time-sensitive species. She would know better than to try to pilot a TARDIS, especially during a War,” Ailla replied. “The pilot is as valuable to her as the craft itself. I don't trust her. But that doesn't mean we can't make use of her.”

"Desperation leads to strange places," he remarked. "It might seem a better deal to try one's hand at it than falling to the Daleks. What do you mean, make use of her?"

"What's a... 'degradation'?” she asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. Given the common linguistic use of the term, it wasn't likely to be anything good, especially when it had been adopted by Daleks.

"If you ask me, they're mistakes.," he said, still peering out over the terrain. "They're Dalek experiments. I would expect to find something like them here, occupying the planet as a foothold legion. They're unstable, unpredictable messes of Dalek genome, with the in-commonality of the common language of extermination. As for their forms, they are more varied than what we'd normally expect to see, and here in an experimentation camp, they could be quite varied indeed. Some of them I have seen can skim along the ground, large enough that we could perhaps use it."

[Vansell]

For such an impatient creature, the Time Lord was fond of talking, Sarracenia thought to herself as she crept closer.  His gruff manner was only one layer of him; in easier times, she was sure he would be a man of many words.  

The pair had paused to consider their options - perhaps the first wise move they had made since landing on this planet.  Their voices, however, were still far too loud - she could make out jut about every word they were saying as she approached.  Closer...closer...footfalls completely silent, she allowed herself to get closer than she would have dared before, knowing now at least that the female could sense there was no hostility in her.

"You need to observe more," she said quietly, when she was three or four paces behind them.  "Daleks are organised.  Methodical.  The degradations that patrol do so to a schedule.  Observe for long enough, and you will know which sort will be passing by, when and where.  There are trenches running from the rigs and chimneys, channelling factory waste.  At the right time, keeping to the correct wall of a trench can conceal you from the sonar, spotlights and sweepers."

This time, having spoken, she was confident enough to walk the rest of the way forwards, to join the pair.  She knew she had something to offer now.

[Ailla]

"Desperation leads to strange places," he remarked. "It might seem a better deal to try one's hand at it than falling to the Daleks. What do you mean, make use of her?"

"If she's been on this planet for any length of time, she could be a mine of useful information. About the Daleks, the layout of their settlement, their routines and their defences. And maybe even about the Gyn'sabu. If she was truly a prisoner here, she might know where they're being held.”

Even as she spoke, her old training was unconcsiously reasserting itself. The old single-mindedness, ingrained in her since childhood. The mission was everything; nothing else mattered.

The top of the crater did not afford them good position to make their way to the camp. "We need camouflage if we're to get closer. Something to fool the Dalek patrols. The land is too flat for too long to make a run for it," he said, considering their options. "If we could take down a glider degredation perhaps we could use that...make it seem like its taking us in..." he mused out loud as they walked.

"What's a... 'degradation'?” she asked, not sure she wanted to hear the answer. Given the common linguistic use of the term, it wasn't likely to be anything good, especially when it had been adopted by Daleks.

"If you ask me, they're mistakes," he said, still peering out over the terrain. "They're Dalek experiments. I would expect to find something like them here, occupying the planet as a foothold legion. They're unstable, unpredictable messes of Dalek genome, with the in-commonality of the common language of extermination. As for their forms, they are more varied than what we'd normally expect to see, and here in an experimentation camp, they could be quite varied indeed. Some of them I have seen can skim along the ground, large enough that we could perhaps use it."

The more Ailla heard about the Daleks, the more she disliked them. She had known from the beginning that for the usually non-interventionist Time Lords to openly go to war against them, they had to be vile creatures, a threat to the universe on the scale of the Great Vampires themselves. As the mission progressed, however, she was starting to understand it from first hand experience.

She was about to reply to her father, when she felt a frisson of something brushing against her empathic field. Whirling around, she saw Sarracenia standing there. Ailla narrowed her eyes. Oh, the woman was good, of that there was no doubt. She'd almost managed to approach an empath undetected, something that was close to impossible. It was an ability that only served to make the young Time Lady even more wary of her.

"You need to observe more," [Sarracenia] said quietly...  "Daleks are organised.  Methodical.  The degradations that patrol do so to a schedule.  Observe for long enough, and you will know which sort will be passing by, when and where.  There are trenches running from the rigs and chimneys, channelling factory waste.  At the right time, keeping to the correct wall of a trench can conceal you from the sonar, spotlights and sweepers."

“And you, Warpsmith...” Ailla replied, her tone equally low. “Have you observed these things? Is that the information you wish to barter in return for a ticket off this planet?”

[Deleted]

"If she's been on this planet for any length of time, she could be a mine of useful information. About the Daleks, the layout of their settlement, their routines and their defences. And maybe even about the Gyn'sabu. If she was truly a prisoner here, she might know where they're being held.”

"Mmm....it would be helpful. That is of course she's willing to -be- helpful. It looks like they've got quite the collection of species unfortunately. We've got to be careful before they decide to count ourselves in their number."

Sarracenia:
"You need to observe more," [Sarracenia] said quietly... "Daleks are organised. Methodical. The degradations that patrol do so to a schedule. Observe for long enough, and you will know which sort will be passing by, when and where. There are trenches running from the rigs and chimneys, channelling factory waste. At the right time, keeping to the correct wall of a trench can conceal you from the sonar, spotlights and sweepers."

Ailla:
“And you, Warpsmith...” Ailla replied, her tone equally low. “Have you observed these things? Is that the information you wish to barter in return for a ticket off this planet?”

"Observe more, yes...well, as you've done some observing, my compatriot does have a point now, doesn't she?" he said, glancing at the Warpsmith. "Trenches, which direction then?" he started, again looking towards the centres. He had the information given by the CIA, but things changed. Also, they lied. And when they did not lie, they simply did not say anything at all. "Then I suppose we shall observe. Still, from here we're not like to see much. We'll have to get closer and to do that, but the expanse..." His face frowned even while his mouth stayed a grim line. "How long until the patrol comes over the horizon?" he said, turning to her. It was a question with dual nature. One, simply for the information but two, to see how willing she was to be of any immediate use at all.

[Vansell]

"And you, Warpsmith...  Have you observed these things?  Is that the information you wish to barter in return for a ticket off this planet?"

Quite deliberately, Sarracenia's voice held the same note of suspicion when she replied as the two Time Lords were making it quite clear they regarded her with.

"If that is the price you are asking," she said slowly, "then I can pay it."  After all, what did she have to lose?  Either way, they seemed determined to get into a Dalek stronghold.  If she left them to their madness, they would certainly be captured and imprisoned or exterminated before they could achieve what they had come here for.  If she guided them, though, there was a chance that they could get there - and therefore, a chance with long odds that they could get out, and repay her with her escape.

"How long until the patrol comes over the horizon?"

At last, they were down to business.  She was almost tempted to propose that the Time Lords not talk so much, as a condition of their agreement.

"Eighty-six rels," she replied promptly.  "It will circle that chimney," she pointed, "and then pass by this hillock on its way towards the crossroads over there.  They will see the crater from your ship, but they will not deviate from their course - they will send another delegation out to investigate, which will come from the barracks at the end of that track.  We must move quickly."

And with an almost-imperceptible beckoning motion, she ducked down and began to practically skim along the rubble, not stirring a single pebble as she descended the slight incline ahead of them, hurried along the ground, and then dropped out of sight into a ditch that was almost invisible from their current position.

[Ailla]

Quite deliberately, Sarracenia's voice held the same note of suspicion when she replied as the two Time Lords were making it quite clear they regarded her with.

"If that is the price you are asking," she said slowly, "then I can pay it."  

Ailla studied the woman carefully, searching her empathic field for any sign of deception, but could find none. The Warpsmith wanted a way off this planet and was willing to bargain to get it. It didn't mean they could trust her, necessarily. But it made her information worth listening to. Slanting her gaze sideways towards the Renegade, she gave him an almost imperceptible nod.

"How long until the patrol comes over the horizon?"

"Eighty-six rels," [Sarracenia] replied promptly.  "It will circle that chimney," she pointed, "and then pass by this hillock on its way towards the crossroads over there.  They will see the crater from your ship, but they will not deviate from their course - they will send another delegation out to investigate, which will come from the barracks at the end of that track.  We must move quickly."

Ailla's eyes narrowed against the sun, her gaze following the woman's pointing finger, committing the route to memory. The Renegade was right, there was too much open ground. And although Ailla was well-versed in covert missions and infiltration, her expertise lay in a much more urban setting. She'd had some training in guerilla warfare, back in her early days at the Facility, but very little practical experience.

Sarracenia, on the other, seemed almost part of the wasteland. Ailla had to admire the way she moved, quickly and efficiently, and more importantly, almost invisibly. She was deft enough, the young Time Lady thought wryly, to have made any CIA instructor cry with joy. The Warpsmith had informed them that her bondsperson slept. Was it her own talent then, that allowed her to blend so perfectly with her environment? Or was it some innate ability of the body she wore? Ailla knew that the answer was immaterial to their current mission. However, she couldn't help wondering, just the same.

She flung one quick glance at her father, to make sure he had no objections, before moving to follow their guide. And although she had no chance of emulating Sarracenia's undetectable progress, she was still CIA-quick, her new regeneration lending her an added strength and agility, even over and above her rigorous training.

In seconds, she had joined the Warpsmith in the shallow trench, keeping her head low and peering out over the edge towards the Dalek settlement.

[Deleted]

"If that is the price you are asking," she said slowly, "then I can pay it."

"Might I remind you, that you're the one following -us-...so, it would be a boon if you could assist us." He sighed, tired of the game of negotiation. If they stood arguing about the semantics and motivations of their would-be deal they'd be dead before dawn. Still,  it seemed she'd decided to throw in with them. He caught his daughter's minute nod and returned it, more with his eyes than anything else.

"Eighty-six rels," she replied promptly. "It will circle that chimney," she pointed, "and then pass by this hillock on its way towards the crossroads over there. They will see the crater from your ship, but they will not deviate from their course - they will send another delegation out to investigate, which will come from the barracks at the end of that track. We must move quickly."

That was not very long at all. Yes, it was best to be gone before they gave them something else to investigate. He nodded again to Ailla as she made to follow suit after the Warpsmith. Feeling the dearth of opportunities at their disposal, he did not like to solely depend on Saricenia. For now though the way out was through. Being captured now would put the mission in jeopardy. And as much as he hated being on a 'mission' for the CIA at all, he did want to help those that were being held here. Less quiet than the two women but more stealthy than he looked like he should manage, he ambled in a half-slouch towards the Dalek enclosures. Seconds after the last powder and dust from his footfalls had settled, the Daleks would be active, scanning the encrusted surface of Sarn for runaways, escapees, and enemies trying to get a foothold.

[Vansell]

Hunkered down in the ditch, Sarracenia turned to face the rubble bank on the side they had jumped down from, pressing herself against it and motioning for the two Time Lords to do the same.  Their backs, and backs of heads, were safer surfaces to present; Dalek scanners could automatically detect the glint of fearfully-watching eyes as they passed overhead.  Some could even pick up the heat of expelled breath; she held hers, becoming so utterly motionless against the rubble that she seemed almost to melt into it.

That was one of the things about being an incorporeal lifeform housed in a corporeal body.  Sarracenia was far more aware of every nuance of this body than its original owner would have been.  Every smallest, clumsy movement, every sound - lungs like bellows, a heart like a bass drumbeat, the weight of flesh and bone knocking against walls or crunching on gravel.  And being more aware, she was all the more able to learn to adapt in such a dangerous environment as being on the run on Sarn.

Just as she had predicted, precisely eighty-six rels later, the Dalek patrol skimmed over the horizon and began to head in their direction.  Faces to the wall, they were relying entirely on the sound of its distant, faint humming noise to follow its movements - a technique that Sarracenia was well-practised at.  She wasn't sure about the two Time Lords - she doubted that they would have the same expertise, but she had no intention of keeping them updated, even in a whisper.

There was the briefest elevation in the pitch of the humming as the patrol passed the crater with the crashed TARDIS, but no delay.  The next delegation would be on its way soon to investigate.  Closer, closer...until it whizzed practically overhead, from the direction of the bank they were pressed against.  Sarracenia carefully counted the microseconds in her head, and then when the patrol was at the precise suitable distance away again, turned to press herself against the opposite bank of the trench, alerting the female Time Lord beside her with a light prod to the shoulder.

[Ailla]

Trained from infancy as an infiltration specialist, one of Ailla's most valuable skills was the ability to adapt to her environment... and even more importantly, the capacity to learn quickly from others more adept than herself. The Time Lords were an innately arrogant race, not much given to acknowledging any form of superiority in other beings. But having recognised immediately that Sarracenia was an expert in camouflage and concealment on this inhospitable planet, Ailla set out to learn from her.

As soon as the Warpsmith gestured for her to press her face against the rubble wall, she did so, regardless of the discomfort. Before long, her sharp ears picked up the subtle hum of the approaching patrol, just as their unexpected guide had predicted. It didn't prove the woman to be any more trustworthy, but at least it showed she hadn't been lying about her familiarity with the Dalek patrols.

The hovering whine passed almost overhead, and Ailla badly wanted to look up, to see for herself exactly what they were dealing with. But the brimming tension inside Sarracenia warned her that it wasn't a good idea. Instead, making use of her respiratory bypass system, the young Time Lady slowed her breathing to the point of becoming almost non-existent, willing her body to remain completely motionless.

To her infinite relief, the patrol passed by without pausing. She was still careful not to move, however, until Sarracenia prodded her in the shoulder, to indicate that it was safe. Too many agents had lost their lives by jumping the gun, and Ailla had no intention of joining their ranks.

Satisfied that the coast was now clear, she turned to her father – the commander of this mission - for further instructions.

“What now?”

[Deleted]

He pressed his body against the wall and felt the vibrations change under his calloused hands. His eyes were narrowed and his breath was low. Though he had hid many times, and as many had blundered through or at the last moment jumped up to surprise the enemy, this time he stayed quiet. He felt a pang of concern for his poor TARDIS; the old girl was about to have another hard time. He hated what the war did to her, scarred her not on the outside, but inside. And him with it. But she had a few tricks up her sleeve for that patrol. They had to get in and out as quickly as they could.

The hum intensified...and slowly, inexorably faded into the distance, past his keen Time Lord hearing. Slowly, he moved his hand from the wall and glanced at the others.

Satisfied that the coast was now clear, she turned to her father – the commander of this mission - for further instructions. “What now?”

"That's a good question," he said, looking at Ailla. He turned to the Warpsmith. "Perhaps you should tell us what the route is. Now, Sarracenia."

[Vansell]

"Perhaps you should tell us what the route is.  Now, Sarracenia."

Oh, she just knew that hastiness would grate on her before long...moreso than it already was, anyway.

"Now," she replied coolly, "you find some trace of patience.  Open your ears, your noses, your temporal senses, your senses of touch and balance.  And I lead you."  As far as she was concerned, she could agree with the Time Lord on one unspoken matter: there was no "we."

The trek was long enough as it was, made even slower by Sarracenia's unhurried, wary pace.  While the Daleks were unaware of their presence, there was no need to rush - rushing led to mistakes, slips, noises, traces and footprints left - and then they would need to rush, leading to further mistakes and traces.  And the only route that that path could lead to was capture, and death or worse.

They travelled along the ditches and crevasses at a crawling pace, every footstep measured and carefully placed.  Frequently, they had to stop and once again turn their faces to the side of a ditch of ledge to mask their faces as a Dalek patrol swept by, and wait with baited breath until the Warpsmith signalled that it was safe to move - which once took almost a whole hour.  She had them both lie down on their backs in a sticky bog, to coat their backs and back of heads in grey, foul-smelling sludge for better camouflage - she herself had her cloak.

The sun crept across the sky, from one horizon to the other, seeming almost to move even faster than they themselves at times.  It sank below the horizon, and the night blackened until even the greenish, sulphurous clouds of smoke couldn't be made out against the night sky.  Finally, at long last, in the shadow of a belching chimney cast by the spotlights of the Dalek patrols - which doubled when night fell, no doubt anticipating more escape attempts of their slaves under cover of darkness - Sarracenia came to a halt.  There was no sign at first that this stop was any different to any other stop to hide, until she turned to them.

"Here," she said simply, probably only about the third word she had spoken since they had set off.

[Ailla]

Ailla considered she had little reason to be grateful to the CIA, given the circumstances surrounding her forced cryo-storage. However, during the miserable, seemingly-interminable trek across the war-torn surface of the planet Sarn, she found herself feeling surprisingly thankful for the rigid training regime she had endured for the first two centuries of her life.

Without the fitness and endurance typically bred into an Elite soldier, she would have found it very difficult indeed to maintain Sarracenia's punishing, guerilla-style footslog. It wasn't just the physical strain of the journey, although that was bad enough. It was also very demanding on a mental level, requiring immense patience to wait motionless for long periods of time, often almost within touching distance of the enemy. The fact that she didn't trust their guide didn't help matters either. She needed to be constantly alert, scanning Sarracenia's empathic field for the slightest hint of treachery or deception.

By the time they reached the looming shadow of the red-brick chimney, she was exhausted, although she was damned if she would show it. Not to her newly-acquired father, and not to the Warpsmith. An Elite never showed weakness to her commander, or she could be deemed a liability to the mission, and dealt with accordingly. And even more importantly, she never showed weakness to someone with uncertain loyalties, who could turn out to be an enemy.

Instead, she crouched in the shadows beside the Renegade, and gritted her teeth against the ache of her protesting muscles, slanting her eyes slightly towards Sarracenia as the woman finally spoke, careful not to make any movements that might betray them to anyone watching.

"Here," she said simply, probably only about the third word she had spoken since they had set off.

“Here?” Ailla echoed, her voice low and husky with strain and mistrust, her keen gaze searching the surrounding barren area with no tangible result. “There's an entrance here somewhere?”

[Deleted]

"Now," she replied coolly, "you find some trace of patience. Open your ears, your noses, your temporal senses, your senses of touch and balance. And I lead you."

"I'm afraid you'll find my last trace of patience was already used up before I even got to this planet!" he said gruffly.

The CIA had worn out their welcome yet again and he was tired of being told what to do. He was not so foolish as to dismiss Sarracenia but he was hardly in the mood to capitulate to her desire to control even basic information. He was not a chaperone to her ego. But as their trek continued onwards, he found it hard to hold onto his ire. Where he had lost his patience, he'd used his ire and annoyance next, venting it into the landscape they trod upon, into hiding with frigid rigidity for hours, into painfully listening for any scraps of sounds. Scents on the dusty winds faded into a wretched, repeatable same-ness. One rock here looked much like another, and losing concentration in a place like that got you killed. Even so, he was not grateful for the thick, brackish water they sunk themselves into at her demand, but he had no argument it would afford a basic camouflage.

Still, he half suspected she did it just to annoy him further. He wished he had the energy to become irritated but instead he slogged onwards without commentary. Time crept painfully by, the sun dogging their steps. His legs were stiff from walking by the time they came to the chimney, crouching down to evade the strobing of the patrol lights.

"Here," she said simply, probably only about the third word she had spoken since they had set off.

“Here?” Ailla echoed, her voice low and husky with strain and mistrust, her keen gaze searching the surrounding barren area with no tangible result. “There's an entrance here somewhere?”

"This is the entrance," he said flatly. Then he turned to the Warpsmith with a critical eye. "That's what you're saying, isn't it? Well then...let's get to it."

[Vansell]

"Here?  There's an entrance here somewhere?"

"This is the entrance.  That's what you're saying, isn't it?  Well then...let's get to it."

"Yes," she replied, in an equally flat tone.  She turned on the spot, tilting her head back to sniff the sulphurous air, then swiftly skimmed up the side of the trench and dropped down into another dip, barely seeming to lose contact with the ground, rather like a ferret slinking over an obstacle.

Down at the very lowest point of the dip - which was oddly conical, as though perhaps the ground was sinking at the very bottom of it - the gravel was slightly damp, and giving off a strong chemical smell.  Sarracenia dropped to a crouch, picked up a piece of shale and began to dig, motioning with a free hand that the two Time Lords should do the same.

The Daleks' facilities were not, and could never be, completely watertight and airtight, but like so many other conquering, slave driving civilisations before them, they had learned from experience how much of a vulnerable point drains were.  A slave could escape unseen and unable to be pursued through the narrow space.  An enemy could breach the hull, creep in and plant explosives.  And to an oppressed people starved of the taste of freedom, even the faintest stirring of outside air could lend hope.

She had been crawling now for what seemed like an eternity.  One elbow forward, then the other, then dragging her thrall's aching body a few inches further through the oil and noxious fumes.  At some point, she had closed her eyes, when the fumes began to sting - now, she felt as though she could no longer tell whether they were open or closed, the blackness around her was so absolute.

That blackness.  Part of their deliberate design, she was sure.  Not even a reflection in the oil of a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, nothing to give her any belief that this even was a way out.  But, in the absence of anything else, it was the better alternative over returning to the Daleks' prison cells and experimentation, or putting her head down and giving up, failing both herself and her thrall.  The only way to go was forward.

And then her hand met gravel - real gravel, with the gritty, sandy, uneven consistency not of an artificially constructed sump, but of something beyond the Daleks' sphere of construction.  Dragging herself forward that last few inches, she began to dig.

Even the vortex could never have predicted she would find herself retracing those steps...