* * * 39. The Fortune Teller * * * /The hostess has been trying to cheer up Imran after the failure of his act.../ --- 'I'd mention Allie already said something about all that... but /two/ attractive women telling me to get a grip on it...?' Imran murmured. 'Heh. Just my luck I get neurotic about writing...' Hmm. Thematically speaking... Author, Audience, Creativity, Medium, and Inspiration. There's a Discordian guideline, the Law of Fives... Creativity needs Inspiration - the spark that gives it shape in the Author's mind. The Author sets it down on a Medium, and the Audience interprets that Creativity through their own perception... Spirit, Robe, Sword, Cloak and Charm. Alryssa, Allie, Gordon, Imran and Kid... Alryssa, Gordon, Imran and Kid... we've already been attacked. Alryssa managed to break her attack, Gordon...? Hmm, we'll see. Me? Hardly the best person to judge, but I'm /recovering/, getting a grip on myself... Kid /collapsed/, what /happened/? What happened to him...? But Allie? Not the draining - that was Allie struggling to keep the story going against what the Gods were doing, a reaction... Imran started feeling nauseous. He had a very, very nasty feeling about what the Gods were going to do next. Oh, he knew... Mists started rising in the ring, rolling in from the night outside. The Gods had finally called their act in. Even before the mists cleared, he knew what - or who - their act would be. The spotlight snapped on. The mists swirled and coiled at the edge of the light, surrounding the figure in the spotlight. A gypsy fortune teller. Head bent over her table, ready to offer up her knowledge of the future. They'd twisted one of the few 'magical' images they knew... known from the Psychic Circus, from Morgana. A little stab at Kingpin and Mags' past. And at Kid's, judging from what he'd heard of the Contessa. Nasty. Unimaginative, but nasty. Then she looked up from the table. And Imran almost choked. The fortune teller's head... Where her head should have been was a crystal ball. Somewhere on the other side of the bleachers, the Gods were quiet. This did not look good.... --- Our ringmaster choked back the gall that rose when the fortune teller raised her head. *This* was mockery, she thought. Taking Imran's magic story bubbles and twisting them, making them deceitful, vindictive. It's a trap, she thought. A nasty trap. Don't look. Like a witch bottle: If you look too closely, your soul will be trapped inside that sphere. But I -- we -- *have* to look. If the audience refuses to participate, refuses to *be* an audience, isn't that a as much a forfeit as if a performer refuses to perform? How can we prevail against the Gods of Ragnarok, now? They may be false gods -- more forces of absorption and stagnation than creation (even Sutekh desired to be an active force in the world -- to create his version of a world), but they *were* gods. However powerful the forces of love and joy, the pro-funsters in whose hands those powers had been placed. were mere mortals. Even when they had advantage of the last word, their chances were slim. And now, even that had been taken away. Then, in the midst of her despair, the troll smiled. The Gods of Ragnarok *were* false Gods, without the power or the desire to truly act. The Omniverse, however, was full of *real* gods -- Gods and Goddesses of hope, and dreams, and life. Her home world of Radwah, and her adopted world of Earth alone had more true gods than she even knew how to count. Every living planet was itself a deity: a conscious and wise entity that guided the life of every individual it sheltered, from the single-celled protozoa to its most complex lifeforms. So she called first on the Goddess Jubilganza (or whatever name she knew Herself by) to support and protect her and her pro-fun guests. She asked the goddess to accept her feelings of fear and anger and despair, so that she (the troll) could let them go -- to drain out of her body into the ground beneath her feet. She asked the Goddess to transform those feelings into hope and creativity. She called on the Goddess Earth, to protect Her far-flung children. Then she called on the Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory, and mother of the Nine Muses, to protect Her children and her children's disciples from the Gods of Ragnarok, so that no matter what the GoR threw at them, they would never forget the true beauty of stories, or the true beauty of their lives. Slowly, slowly, as the mists around the fortune teller shrank back into the night outside the Big Top, the avocado troll could feel the Goddesses gathering around her, around the circus -- drifting in from the Omniverse outside to stand in the shadows as witnesses. :::*Thank You*::: the troll thought, gratefully, tears of joy welling up in her eyes, :::Thank You::: :::This is still *your* battle to fight, not ours::: Jubilganza said, silently, into the troll's heart. :::But we are Here::: The Avocado troll squared her shoulders, and turned her gaze to the twisted vision of the fortune teller in the ring. :::And we are ready::: she thought. --- Allie gasped. So did Yokoi and Tessa. Allie's grip on her microphone tightened. Can't let them see, can't let them see... Tessa indicated the hostess questioningly. Allie nodded. Tessa's eyes widened. The Tenth of the Nine is here? Their /mother/? Yokoi nodded. Tessa's mouth fell open. Oh my Goddess! Yokoi raised an eyebrow. Tell me about it - well, if we can finish this set... --- Imran let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. His cloak sparkled. The Audience had just grown stronger - and he could feel the power the newcomers had brought with them. Knew what that meant, who was with them. God against god. Dark images flashed across the ring, emanating from the crystal. Probing, searching. A dark, twisted series of illusions - forboding fortunes, omens of doom, prophecies of disaster, challenging the onlookers to look deeper, to know the full extent of their fate. And to be trapped by that crystal. But we are the ones with power over our lives. If we surrender that... then whose life does it become? Not mine. No. I will not give that up. I will not give my life over to them. The visions moved on. Imran carefully let his train of thought continue. Absorption is the flip side to creativity. The Gods of Ragnarok are the negative of the other Gods - as each Universe was born, lived and died, and a new Universe was born, the Gods of Ragnarok survived. The dark mirror of the active Gods. Now, now... they were out of balance. If we could check them once more, stop them gorging on their stolen power, they would be reduced back to what they once were, what they had been when the Seventh met them... A dark force bound once again. Their destruction... no. That act would strike against Fun, even with entities like *them*. And he suspected that the other Gods had realised this, and so had ... had /asked/ the Guardians to bind them. Now that they were freed - and let free on the Universe's stories - Imran saw why the Guardians had bound the Gods of Ragnarok so long ago... and that it could be done once more. If they had hope. If they continued to stand and be true. He hoped so. He heard a voice, coming from the ring. And looked up. --- "Cross my palm with silver..." the fortune-teller whispered. A breath of speech, carried on the mist like sound over water. "Cross my palm with silver, my dearies..." And a dry rasp came, that might have been a laugh. A hand was held out in the spotlight, too smooth and unlined to have any right to that cackling voice. Too perfectly moulded to belong to anything human at all. In the crystal ball the mists swirled like an echo of those beyond; and the watchers were drawn in, each one seeing the hunched figure in the ring as clearly as if he or she alone were seated in that blank place on the far side of the table. "Cross my palm with silver..." And with the third invocation, there came a soft sigh from out of the nightsky cloaks all around the ring, and a silvery whispering rush. Imran sensed it first, swallowing. He'd known they were going to do this. He'd *known*... He dragged his eyes away from the ring with an effort and glanced across at TYA. His heart sank. "What's happening to you? -- *Allie*!" --- On the outstretched palm, seven spots began to shine, twinkling at first as if they gleamed with stardust, until they took on weight and substance -- cold metal denser and harder than lead. Pro-Fun energy... leeched away. Taken in payment. Deformed and trapped. "That's right, my lovelies..." The crooning was horribly intimate, a spider caress in every ear sounded for each alone. The little deputy shivered. One coin was flicked up, spinning, for a moment once again free -- then snatched back. Waxen fingers closed around their treasure like a trap. The handful of silver vanished into the shadows of the shawl in a movement too swift to see. "That's right, my precious darlings, that's right. Pay with what's most precious, and you shall see your hearts' desire..." The crystal ball cleared, seeming to swim before the turquoise troll's eyes barely an arm's-length away. Deep within, the image began to form, alluring and oh so sweet -- A clatter in the bleachers. Someone had sprung to his feet. She wanted to look round, but she couldn't miss the vision; all she'd ever wanted, so dearly bought. "Don't watch!" A voice, vaguely heard. The Third Doctor. Why was he getting all so worried? Everything was going to be fine, now... just fine... --- "Listen to me, all of you!" Third glared round at the sea of glassy expressions, twitching his cloak back. He was still wearing his costume from the light-and-music show -- he felt it rather suited him, particularly the cravat -- and the optics he'd arranged in the sequins flung little patterns of light across the faces around him. But his was the only cloak still brightly shimmering. The Cloaks of Audience seemed to have lost all their vigour... like the audience themselves... --- There was something... The light. ...wasn't there? If he could just see that little bit further... ...that little bit closer... Something he had to do? If he just had a little more time, then he'd see it in the light. Remember. Remember? Remember her. A... girl? There'd been a girl... Hadn't there? 'Well, I'm on work experience.' 'Listen. I've got this idea...' 'Ooh. Now where'd I put that video?' Fighting evil by daylight. Finding inspiration by moonlight. Inspiring. Musing. Amusing. A Muse. His Muse. Allie. Alisandra. 'Alisandra...' --- Alisandra... Cross my palm with silver, and I will tell your future. Give me your hand. Ah. See, there? You /will/ go to the ball, clothed in the finest silver, silver horses leading your carriage. When the Prince sees you, he will be captivated by the beautiful, mysterious, silver lady. Together, you will dance through the night. You have no carriage? No dress? Look again. Your ballgown gleams in the moonlight. Your carriage waits outside, ready to take you to the ball. Your family will be fine. Think of what will happen when you return, having captured the Prince's heart. You will be a princess. A princess. And you need never do anything again. Never. --- The Third drew his sonic screwdriver. If he'd guessed correctly... He turned it on. It began to hum. The crystal began to hum in counter-resonance. --- He searches the fairground, looking for her, humming one of her songs to himself. ...she had been singing, and he'd watched, admiring, from the audience... ...and then something had happened... ...and now he's looking for her... But where? Where is she? Then he spies it. A little tent, set a little apart from the fairground. A fortune teller. Maybe she's in there. At the very least, the fortune teller could tell him where she might be. Whispering. He can hear whispering. A thousand whispering voices. Shaking his head, he moves closer. He lifts the tent's flap. The fortune teller sits alone. She turns her ghastly head to him, a globe crafted of the purest crystal. And within the crystal, her soul caught, entrapped... ...her face. Her face. Screaming silently. Warped and distorted. Screaming. Remember. Mnemosyne was a Titan, mother to the Nine Muses. Inspiration is born of Memory. 'Allie...?' he whispers. 'Allie, do you remember?' She looks out at him, her grey eyes almost dead. Remember...? He steps forward again. 'Allie?' My... my family. She was saying something about... My family. My friends. Imran. Xeffy. Gordon. Alryssa. Eloise. Imran...? --- Allie? We're here. She steps out of the carriage. The footman looks up at her, one eye offset by the polyp which distorts his nose. 'Allie? Do you remember?' Does she? Does she...? 'Allie?' 'Imran...?' she whispers. Listen, and you can hear the hum of a thousand people chattering, talking within. The Prince waits for her inside. Yet she dallies with a footman. 'Imran?' She steps closer, as if making sure. 'She said I'd be a princess...' 'Who said?' She... she can't remember. But... 'I'd never have to do anything again.' she whispers. He looks stricken. 'Not even sing?' Sing? Could she sing? Had she sung? Why doesn't she know? --- He strikes at the fortune teller's hand, striking the six pieces of silver she held - payment for the heart's desire, payment for a dream - from it. The illusion shatters. --- She opens her mouth- -and a perfect, crystal tone sounds. The illusion shatters. --- The hostess shook her head. Ooh. What had /happened/? She had that odd sense in her head that she used to get as a child, right before she'd slip into a night terror -- the unshakable sense that she was out of phase, somehow, with reality, and there was nothing she could do about it. --- The Third grinned. Just as he'd suspected. The sonic screwdriver's counter-resonance had broken the fortune-teller's trance. The audience were starting to recover. --- Seven pieces of silver fell from the fortune teller's hand. As they fell, they faded, dissolved. Silver smoke hung in a haze over the ring. Slowly, it returned where it had belonged, flowing into the audience. The pro-fun energy drifted back down over the troll, brushing her skin like a spring mist, waking her completely from the nightmare just past and filtering into the stars on her cloak, reigniting them. She glanced over her shoulder at Mnemosyne -- tall as an oak tree, her face hidden in the shadows of her silvery spiderweb cloak. Still, she could sense the reassuring smile that the Titan gave her, and she smiled back. "Thank you," she whispered. And the audience looked around themselves, as if they were waking from a dream. --- The ring fell silent. The fortune teller stood up, curtsied... ...and was gone. The Big Top slowly returned to normal. Imran looked over at where the Gods sat in the bleachers. Still quiet. Still silent. They had said nothing, made no move, since they had called upon the PTB. Intermission, before the Doctors' act. Finish passing out all the cloaks this time - although he rather suspected that what would count wouldn't be number, but the diversity within that number. Either way, best to make sure everyone had one... especially now. Quietly, he started moving around the audience. After that, get to Allie. Because he had an uneasy feeling about this... ...and what the Gods had had planned. We'd better be prepared. * * * 40. The charm reawakens * * * /The fortune-teller's act was over. The avocado troll stood up./ --- Now was her chance. With Imran looking after the audience, and the three Divine Mothers on guard against the Gods of Ragnarok, she was free to leave the Big Top for a moment. On the pretense of making sure her team of TARDIS twelve were ready for their act, she went out to check on Kid. --- The team stood, dozing, just outside an entrance leading to the wings of the Big Top. "Hey, Sweetheart," she said, going up to the leader, reaching up to pat her on the shoulder. "How are you? Are Mags and Kingpin treating you well? You ready for your act?" The leader lowered her head, and the troll looked into the 'horse's' eye. There was a brief flicker, like the movement of a camera shutter, and the avocado troll could see through the eye (like a window) to the inside of the TARDIS: the main dance hall, lined with stalls, the grand buffets reduced to a few leftover rolls and pieces of cheese. Several of the streamers had started to fall, and the balloons were looking limp and wrinkled. "Let me see Kid," the troll said quietly. The leader's head snapped up, tense, setting the bells on her harness jangling loudly, her ears flat against her head. "I-is he really so hurt?" the troll asked. "Does he still want nothing to do with me? I... I only want to make sure he is all right. ...And I *need* to apologize ...even if he'd never accept it." Her TARDIS, in the persona of the horse, relaxed visibly. But her head remained high, her neck, arched. The back of the circus wagon opened, and a gangplank lowered to the ground. The troll sighed. "You're right," she said. "He deserves his apology face to face." She made her way across the campground to the wagon. And despite the warmth of the summer night, she turned up the collar of her ringmaster's coat, and hugged herself. Once inside, she hesitated. She'd never been to her TARDIS's zero room, and wasn't sure if she could find her way, or if she'd even recognize it when she got there. As if in response to her unspoken questions, a door appeared in the back of one of the stalls, where none had been before. Going through it, the troll found herself in a corridor, or rather a tunnel, only as high and as wide as it needed to be to let her through, and only lit brightly enough to give her some sense of direction and orientation. The troll suspected that, ordinarily, there were no corridors leading to the zero room, that it existed as truly separate from the rest of the universe, and that the TARDIS was creating a tunnel at the moment only to lead her there. After the zero room was no longer needed by anyone other than the TARDIS herself, she suspected all passageways leading to it would disappear again, if they weren't already disappearing just behind her last step. Eventually, the tunnel ended at a high, arched door, and the troll knew that beyond it was Kid Curry, and the apology she needed to make. She pressed her hand against it, and the door swung inward silently. What she saw made her gasp: a universe of stars, stretching overhead in a high, domed ceiling -- like a planetarium, but also stretching outward along the walls -- more stars than any human or troll had ever seen before, as if she were looking in all directions of time, as well as space, at all the stars that ever were, and ever will be. Only the floor was dark and smooth, and she wondered if that was for Kid Curry's benefit. "You come back here to check on your little pet?" His voice cut through her amazement, and she looked down toward his hunched form. "Oh, C-Kid..." she corrected herself, grateful that both halves of his name started with the same sound, and he would never know. "Put me away in a pretty little cage, with food and water," he continued, "where I can't cause any more trouble?" Now that her eyes were adjusting to her surroundings, she could see him -- sitting on the gound with his knees hugged tightly to his chest, his forehead resting between them, as curled in upon himself as it was possible for a man to be. "*You're* not the cause of our trouble, Kid," she assured him, "far from it. The Gods of Ragnarok attacked you. They hit you hard. I was afraid that if they struck again, it would've been the end of you. And then where would we be?" "Better off, most likely." "No!!" "It's over, isn't it?" "'It ain't over till the fat lady sings.' And this fat lady," she said, tapping her thumb against her chest, "ain't gonna sing until you and I can do a duet at the victory party." "Got no reason to sing. I've failed. I let my ... I failed." "Kid, look at me. Please. I have something I *need* to say to you, and if I'm going say it right, I've got to look you in the eye." Slowly, he raised his head, and looked at her. She could see his past there, in his eyes -- all his fears, regrets, rages, and murders -- like the shadows of fish swimming below the surface of a lake. She felt a chill to her very marrow. But she did not look away. "You have every *right* to be angry with me, Kid," she said. "You have a right to be furious. I know, deep in my bones, that it's wrong to enter someone's mind without his permission. But I got scared, and I let fear do all my thinking for me. And that made me stupid, and clumsy. And I hurt you." As she spoke, she remembered the pain she felt in his mind just before she pulled away: the confusion, fury, humiliation, and desperate loneliness, as if it were her own. Tears, barely noticed, flowed from her eyes, and down to the end of her long nose. "I'm sorry. I am so, so, sorry." "What were you so scared of?" The question was automatic, his voice, flat. A little sound, somewhere between a sob and a laugh, came from her throat. "*This*," she said. "That the Gods of Ragnarok would strike you down and take away our strongest defense." "So that *is* how you see me," he said, "as a guard dog -- an animal you can train and tame and call your own." She sighed. "I'll admit, C-Kid," she said, "I can't say I *like* you. If I'd met you anywhere outside the Hoedown, where *everyone* is welcome, I would have crossed the street to stay out of your way. But you've earned my respect. The way you didn't spit out that jellybaby I offered you, even if you hated the taste. The way you risked your life for a bunch of strange strangers, when you thought the TARDIS was going to go into that cliff face. The way you're willing to fight for the survival of Vortex City, even if most of the folks there would like to see you on the gallows. The world is full of murderers and outlaws. Most of them, though, pretend to be heroes. Most of all, you are honest about yourself. And that's something a weak man could never do. If I *could* change you, I doubt my fiddling would lead to anything better." "*You* pretended to be the Contessa," he said, anger returning to his voice (and she was glad of it -- at least it was a sign of life). "You called me 'Curry', just like she does, to get my attention." The troll shook her head. "It wasn't on purpose," she said. "I admit: I was clumsy, and wasn't thinking it through. If I had been, if I hadn't panicked, I would have done more to announce to you that it was me. But I never *meant* to deceive you. Being in a person's mind," she explained, "is a bit like going into a crammed attic: memories, knowledge, wishes, all jumbled together. I reached out for 'name', for your identity, and I hit upon 'Curry' because that's the name I found there. It's how you think of yourself, and now," she admitted, "it's how *I* think of you." "How much did you see up there... in that ... attic?" "Not much: only that you're desperately lonely, and you want to go home, and you wanted it to be the Contessa who was contacting you -- not me. I was trying to tell you," she said, "*not* to change, not to be a hero. The Gods of Ragnarok are stealing our energy, trying to trap our souls. We're fighting back as best we can. But we could sure use a thief on *our* side." "The charm's broke," he said, sagging into himself once more. "Turns out I wasn't worthy of it, after all." "I think..." she said, "that the lamp has gone out, but it's not shattered. If you can find the spark inside yourself, you can reignite it." She stood, stiffly. "I need to get back," she said. "The intermission can't go on for much longer, and I need to announce our next act." "'Our next act'? But don't the Gods go first?" "Not any more. The Powers That Be ruled against us. The Gods of Ragnarok have the last word on all the acts, now. Still, if they break many more rules, then maybe we would have enough to raise formal grievances against Them, and turn the tables back again." "So they did cheat." "They attacked you, didn't they? I'd say that was out of line." The door to the zero room opened, and the avocado troll got the message. She didn't want to leave that haven. But she didn't have much choice. "We'd love to have you back, Curry," she said, before she left, "if you're feeling strong enough for the battle." --- "Rumble Bob's", Vortex City:- A pockmarked brass ceiling. No mirror behind the bar; only fly-specked boards, stained with the rings of old bottles. There was a stale smell of beer, and the Contessa's skirts dragged in the spills of last night's drink. She paid it no mind. None of the regular women were present to ply their trade at this hour, and there were only a handful of daytime drunks. But such as it was, the whole saloon had fallen silent, watching her. Famished eyes devoured the gold at wrists and ears, the tight-bodiced silk, the moonstone glimmer of her pearls. The Contessa moved calmly among them, at home here where no lady would venture. She had drawn blank at the Grand Hotel and the rooming-houses downtown. The saloons held no qualms for her. If she still found no trace of the man she sought, there were rougher joints than this to be checked by far... The barkeep was heavy-eyed and slow. She had to repeat her question twice before a faint spark of understanding flickered, back in the recesses of his gaze. "Never seen him..." His voice held a sullen satisfaction in having bad news to import. "He don't drink here -- never did." "So I can well believe," the Contessa agreed softly. For a moment, under her cool glance, smeared glasses and scarred tables sprang into sudden, unwelcome clarity, and the barkeep shuffled. "Wait a minute..." Hastily now. "Here, Slick -- didn't you hear tell this Doc Gallifrey left town, more'n a week back?" Slick raised rheumy eyes from the empty shot-glass he was nursing, blinking agreement. "Left town nine days gone, headed south." A wheezing thread of a voice. "He done me a good turn once, and old Slick don't ever forget a face. 'Slick,' he says, 'if them boys ever come back, you tell them from me they won't get off next time so easy.' And they never did." His head began to drift downwards, nodding away again into the past, and the Contessa sank swiftly down beside him, her skirts billowing unheeded across the unswept floor. "You saw him?" Her face was turned up close to the graying stubble of his, without flinching from his breath. "You saw him go?" The old man shrank from her insistence. "Sure I saw him... headed south. Old Slick, he don't forget a face..." She could get nothing more. But up and down the tail-end of Main Street, the word was the same. Doc Gallifrey had been in town. Had talked with George, chewed over the fat with Harvey, passed the time of day with Morg and Seth -- his face growing more grave and set in every report she gleaned. He'd come in from the Little River range, up in the hills beyond Ruby City, to the north -- and less than half a day later, had heard enough to send him out again, hell-for-leather down into the badlands. Down into the gathering storm. No need to ask what he had learned. No need to ask even why he had not sought her aid. Their lives touched, now and then, as strands of legends crossed and wove -- but her power was of a different kind. Enough to show her what was coming -- enough in itself to draw it, like carrion birds to a dying man -- but not a kind he could use. She would have begged his help; but he had gone his own way, unbidden as always, out unasked to face their incoming end and salvage what he could. In the city all around her, time itself ebbed and flowed, for those with the senses to perceive it; clouding her crystal ball, blinding her powers. All things were uncertain now, one moment ghost-like and then the next second painfully clear, as if their life blazed out by contrast against the faded ground on which they moved... stories whose time was all but spent. The Contessa walked among them, silent and weary now. Passing for human. Passing for fiction, in a world where fact was stranger than either... Too gaudy, too exotic for respectability. Too elegant and fine to fit in an underworld she knew all too well. Story-teller, far-seer, home-maker, dreamer of joys, exile without a planet... one of a kind. Doc Gallifrey was gone beyond her reach. The Monitors would not help. Only Kid Curry remained, for good or ill; dark soul, wild card, sent out almost unthinking so many weeks ago... and bearer of the charm. --- Zero Room, the TARDIS:- Stars... stars in their thousands, in their millions, in the wide, wide sky. Open. Silent. Free. Not the old Missouri stars, tired and twinkling, that had shone down on late chores in the yard back at Aunt Lee's, with little John or Lonie tagging, whining, at his heels. Not those same stars, almost twenty years and six hundred miles later, that had glittered in the bitter cold of the small hours as horses stamped and men cursed and checked their guns, waiting for the train to grind its way up the grade with fifty thousand dollars on board. Not the southern stars that had mocked him overhead at the last, as he stumbled, barefoot and gasping, through the lush undergrowth on the rim of the Pacific, his own partners at his heels with murder in their hearts, and the great smoking slopes of Corcovado looming uncaring against the darkening night. Not even the once-strange stars that mapped the skies above Vortex City; a tracery he knew now as intimately as he knew the scars that seamed his own forearm -- guiding patterns learned over the years of wandering that somehow slipped away from his grasp whenever he tried to reckon them up... Too many stars -- oh, too bright, surely, to be true? Stars like grains of diamond piled as sand; like ice-crystals on the prairie; like silver hairs on a fox-fur coat... and all around him the darkness stretched out, endless, accepting, at peace. A dream for a man who fled his own dreams. A haven. Kid Curry took a deep breath, and stood up, letting the last sick dregs of fury drain away. Allowing himself finally to see his surroundings as they truly were. No prison, no kennel -- but a sanctuary. A place a man could keep in his heart, or search a hundred years and never find again. A few paces away, the little green troll stood, hesitating, unspoken hope clear in her eyes as she glanced back. 'We'd love to have you back, Curry...' And she'd *meant* it. He remembered tears trickling down that long, comical nose; real woman's tears on the tip-tilted face of a yellow-green creature the size of a child. Tears shed for *him*, that he'd refused to see... 'I am so, so, sorry...' Their eyes met. He nodded, slowly, with an effort. It was suddenly hard to speak. Harder than he'd ever dreamed. "Yeah." He drew another deep breath. "I'll come --" Held up his hand as she rushed into speech, fending off the words he didn't deserve, trying to make a space for the hardest thing of all -- "Lady... I never meant to hurt you none..." And at his throat, wakened to life, the blue charm stirred; and he knew the Contessa was thinking of him. --- The avocado troll noticed the faint blue flicker at his throat, of course, but she kept her eyes on his. "Curry," she said, letting a small smile relax the muscles of her jaw, "*you* haven't hurt me. You haven't betrayed my trust." She left the last word: 'yet', unspoken. She hoped that word would remain unspoken always. But she had glimpsed enough of the darkness of his mind to know she must never forget that it was there. She had also seen enough to stand by her earlier conviction: what this man was, and what he had done were two different things. The man was worthy of the gryphons' respect, as well as her own. She gave a brief nod and ducked through the door leading out of the zero room. The journey from that center to the outside world was one best made alone. He would come, he said, but she imagined that he would come at his own pace, when he was ready. The corridors leading outward seemed shorter than they were going in. She wondered if the TARDIS had been giving her time to compose herself, before, and was now hurrying her on. Or it might just have been a figment of her imagination. She paused by the leader of her TARDIS team and patted her on the shoulder again. "Thank you," she whispered. When the the team of twelve had first appeared as part of her TARDIS's real-world interface, she had thought of them as androids. She'd been wrong. They were no more androids than the metal gryphons on Titan Three had been androids, or Compassion. Perhaps, on the other hand, Sweetheart's team had *started* out as androids, and she had since projected more of her personality, her sentience into the leader since coming to Jubilganza, in preparation for the Circus. The troll realized with a pang how much she had taken her TARDIS for granted since they'd adopted each other during that dark, strange time so long ago. As if in response to the troll's thoughts, Sweetheart turned and licked her face. "Great!" she said, laughing (finally letting the tension that had been building since Kid Curry's collapse drain away). "Swapping tears for horse slobber -- brilliant!" She pulled the handkerchief from her jacket pocket, noticing, as she did so, that it now held the same night sky as Imran's Cloak of Audience. Perhaps it had caught some of the the pro-fun energy that was released when Imran struck the fortuneteller's hand. She dried her face and carefully refolded the handkerchief, slipping it back into her pocket. "How do I look?" she asked Sweetheart. There was another flicker in the eye, and it changed into a mirror. She grinned when she saw her image. One of the stars stuck to the apple of her left cheek, and another on the tip of her nose. "Perfect!" she said, and she went into the circus ring to announce the next act. Daibhid's Rucksack and the seventh Doctor were just finishing up their act. The rucksack was juggling seven balls, and the Doctor was juggling the rucksack plus five pins. Then, suddenly, the rucksack leapt from the Doctor's hands (drawing a gasp from the crowd, who thought it was a drop), somersaulted, and landed neatly beside him. Then they tossed pins and balls into the air, and caught them as one. The applause was thunderous. "Wasn't that wonderful, Ladies, Gentlemen, and Gods?" our ringmaster called out, as she trotted into the center of the ring, applauding herself. "And now, if I may have your attention, prepare to be dazzled as the Doctor battles himself in a dazzling display of epee artistry!" She went back to the sidelines, and peaked out the tent flap. She scanned the campground for Kid Curry, finding his silhouette at last, standing next to his old brown, looking up at the stars. His back was toward her, but she could see the faint blue halo around his head -- the light from the Charm. A strange halo indeed, for a strange angel. ((Meanwhile, Gordon and Saville have troubles of their own...)) * * * 41. Echoes of another Universe * * * /Essential members of Gordon and Saville's act seem to have gone missing.../ --- "What do you mean the zombies have grooved off?" cried Gordon. Saville shrugged helplessly. "They just kind of danced their way out of the caravan and they're out there somewhere..." He indicated toward the wide open spaces before them. "Well, we'll just have to improvise." "Eh? What are we going to do now?" "Well, we're going to..." --- "Now what?" "I'm sorry?" asked the man on the throne. "You've won..." "Yes, although I must admit my old friend, you made a most magnificent attempt to stop me." "...and now you rule this world." "Yes, and your point is?" "Now what?" The figure dismissively brushed a few specks of dust from the shoulder of his dark red velvet suit. His dark face was broken up by a dazzling smile. "You know, I never actually planned that far ahead? I have a world of my own. "I just don't care anymore. I'm bored. they always said it wasn't so much the winning as the taking part. They were right. I have this," he indicated the sceptre of office. "But it really means nothing." He sighed. "Here," he handed over the sceptre. "Find someone. Someone who'll do right by this planet. I don't need it." He shook his head in realisation. "After all these years of trying to gain power, I don't *need* it..." "What are you going to do?" The suited man looked up. "I have no idea. My purpose is gone. Maybe I'll return home, face the consequences of my previous actions." "There is an innocent civilisation in danger of being made extinct. A small world by the name of Lave. One of their archaeological teams has disturbed a temple of the Shin Ra and you know what that means." "The Shin Ra will claim rights of genocide against the trespassers." "Go there, make a difference, play the game, play to win. You win that battle and there will always be another. That is the path I took." "And you've travelled that path well my friend. Very well indeed." "Why thank you." "I've always wondered what it was like to be on your side of the war." He grinned. "Let's see whether a leopard really *can* change his spots!" --- Gordon and Saville stood there... "What the bloody hell was that?" asked Saville as he looked around for someone to blame. "It's been happening quite a bit recently. Flashes from what I thought were my fictional echoes from other streams. But I didn't recognise that one..." They jumped as they heard anguished screaming from a nearby tent, followed by evil laughter. They both scrambled over to the entrance of the tent and flung the cover open. The Master. All eight of him. Auntie Krizu stood in front of them with a feather duster in her hand and a big grin on her face. Yokoi stood behind her, shaking her head in disbelief. Gordon walked in, dragging Saville behind him. They took in the scene. They boggled. |\O_o/| |\o_O/| "And exactly what are you up to Auntie, as if I coudn't guess..." Trying to look innocent (and failing) she turned round and looked straight at Gordon. "Someone said something about wondering who let the Gods out?" "Who? Who? Who? Who?!?!" shouted the Voord. Gordon turned to the Voord, "I warned you about spontaneous singalongs earlier didn't I?" The Voord all sneaked back into the corner of the tent and sulked. "Nobody takes us seriously..." one muttered. Gordon turned back to Krizu, "You were saying?" "Of course, we immediately suspected one of these men, these fine, devilishly handsome men, well, not the decayed ones obviously...and the ones without beards of evil(TM)..." "Ahem!" "Ah yes, so I tied 'em all up and tickled them to find out whether any of them let the Gods out." Saville turned to the Voord. "Don't even think about it..." "And?" "None of them did it." "What?" Yokoi laid a hand on Gordon's shoulder. "She's right, I would have known if any of them were lying. It wasn't them." "Great, back to square one. Everytime we think we know who's responsible for this, we're wrong or there's someone else behind the person we think it is." He turned to Saville, "Go and see if you can find any of the zombies will you? I need to ask Auntie a favour." "Okey dokey!" Saville strode out of the hut, dragging a couple of Voord along to help him. Krizu looked perplexed. "You want *me* to do something for *you*?" "Yes, have you ever wanted to play the..." --- Have you ever wondered what the edge of the universe looks like? The smartly dressed figure looked at the sight in front of him. And endless sea of darkness, filled with deep static shadow. He lit a match, which threw light over his sharp, angular face. He could just see his two friends, the match light fluttering around their concerned faces. ~ How long have we been here? ~ "Seconds, hours, days, weeks, months, years? Time doesn't even exist here anymore." "At least there's a ground," piped up a voice from below. "I don't think I could handle floating in nothingness..." "We thought what we were doing would trap them. But instead we unleashed them on other worlds." ~ Do you think he managed to follow them? ~ "Well, he was pulled in with them. I'd imagine he and Justine may have arrived in the same universe. If they didn't, they may have managed to track them. I think Ship was still functional." "Ours isn't..." muttered the voice from below. "No, the old girl used the last of her power bringing us back to some semblance of reality. Poor thing. She may never recover." ~So we are trapped?~ "I'm afraid so, unless something absolutely extraordinary happens." --- Gordon, Yokoi and Krizu shook their heads, clearing the visions from their eyes. "That's twice in half-an-hour that's happened." said Gordon. Yokoi groaned. "What was that? Who were they?" "I don't know. I thought I recognised one of them, but I can't be sure. I keep feeling my ideas and inspirations falling away from me. Is that the Gods? I know it's not Yokoi." Yokoi managed to smile. "Thanks..." "Well, it's not." He gave her a hug. "Where others teeter on the brink of creativity, we go bungee jumping!" He grinned disarmingly. "Now, we've had a little change of plan regarding our act..." --- Meanwhile, outside... "Here zombies! Heeeeeeeeeere zoooombiiiiiiies!" Saville and the two Voord he'd taken out with him scoured the landscape for any sign of the circulatory challenged dancers. "Hi there!" Saville turned at the sound of the cheery voice. He saw a young woman with dayglo red hair running toward him. She looked tired and out of breath, obviously she'd run quite a distance to get here. "Er, hello?" "I'm Justine. I was wondering if you've seen any big, evil, godlike entities around here?" "Any in particular, or just in general? "Well, we're looking for the Gods Of..." she leaned forwards and whispered in his ear. "r..a..g..n..a..r..o..k" Saville dejectedly pointed towards the main circus tent. "In there." "What are they doing?" "I don't know, trying to destroy the universe or something. I thought the Doctor had trapped them forever, but some idiot let them loose." Saville saw the reaction on Justine's face. "You know who did it don't you?" "Well, yes, no. Kind of." "What do you mean kind of?" "Things aren't as simple as you think..." "Are they ever?" "Nobody unleashed the Gods. They're still trapped. Trapped until death comes to time." "Then what what are the things in there? John-Scott Martin, Terry Walsh and Pat Gorman?" "Those, my young friend are the Gods of Ragnarok!" Saville spun round to see a tall, dark skinned man behind him. He wore a dark red velvet suit, black gloves and held a cigar in one hand. The moonlight shone off his bald head, a neatly trimmed goatee framed a mouth full of bright teeth. But his eyes. They were eyes you could look at and fall into, those eyes could make you do anything, anything... "Only thing is, they're not *your* Gods of Ragnarok. They're *ours*." --- 'Allie?' Imran looked around the wings. Alryssa was still concentrating on the Tarot cards, Tessa watching a little nervously. The hostess was nowhere to be seen; he rather suspected he knew where she'd gone. And right now, if he was right, she didn't need to be disturbed. Gordon was outside with Saville, and the zombies - although, from the shouts he could hear... Nyctolops was with Cameron, and... 'Allie?' '...You *bastard*.' He turned around. Allie's grey eyes were red, puffy with tears. Her robes hung around her, dulled and lifeless. 'You bastard.' she repeated. 'They were the ones who tried to trap you...' 'You reminded me,' she continued, apparently not listening. 'You /reminded/ me.' Imran didn't say anything. 'The music. You asked me about the music, and I didn't know. 'I. Didn't. Know. 'And then...' A tear started trickling from her eye. 'And then... and then you gave it /back/ to me. Xeffy. Mum. Dad. /Everything/. You gave it /all/ back to me.' 'Allie...' 'EVERYTHING!!' Allie roared. 'I... Xeffy wailing her head off as Mum gave her to me, introduced her to big sis, Dad getting me the kiddie videos I said I'd never watch, but I did, hitting the karaoke clubs with Yokoi... M-mum... 'Mum fading away, and... she took his hand, she took Dad's hand, and... 'She used to take... she used to take Xeffy and me down to the beach, did you know? It was fun... burying Xeff up to her neck in sand, slipping seaweed down her back... sharing the ice cream with Xeff when hers dropped onto the sand... paddling in the ocean...' 'I... I... Calliope... I... 'I don't want her to die. I don't want my baby sister to die, do you know?! I DON'T...' Allie shook. 'I don't want Xeffy to die. Not like Mum...' 'No...' Imran whispered quietly. 'No. We're not going to let that happen.' So... Author and Muse turned around. The giantess stood behind them, tall as a tree, her face obscured by her silvery, spiderwebbed cloak. Only a shadow, Imran thought madly. Only a shadow. If she really /were/ here... I am here. I walk wherever memory exists, wherever life exists. And now I stand audience, to remember this. 'Audience...?' Ah... 'The Cloak?' Woven from a strand of my cloak, woven alongside the robe. Granted to you, that they may be put to use. 'Firstmother...' Allie whispered. Alisandra, I must ask your forgiveness. Allie simply looked at the Titan of Memory, wide-eyed. The body's memory is also mine. In granting you the robe... your body remembered what it had been, answering to my touch. You are a year younger - in body - than you were. 'Wh...I...I...' Allie's voice petered out. 'The illusion?' Imran breathed. That was the Robe's doing. Once of memory, it touches memory, inspires through memory. Inspired you to remember her. Catalysed her memory's return. 'Inspiration...' Allie whispered. Alisandra... 'N-no.' Allie finally got out. Listen. Please. You /are/ a true Muse, in heart and soul. You have served beyond, and far beyond, what any of my daughters would ask of their students, of their pupils, for your Writer. Never forget. 'M-my sister...?' Xephanya is safe. It might have been imagination, but a smile flickered across her face. Complaining, somewhat confused... but safe. 'That's Xeffy...' Allie's expression was that of a girl who's just passed through the sea of panic, and was now paddling on the other side. And now... the Titan said, the challenge begins once more. May you be granted good fortune. A moment later, her presence no longer stood before them. 'She..' Allie's voice came from far away. 'She asked... She asked me...' She started giggling hysterically. 'She asked /me/ for forgiveness. She asked me! Mnemosyne asked /me/ for forgiveness...!' 'Come on, laughing girl.' Imran said, grinning almost in hysterical unison with her. 'Time to get back in the ring...' As Imran guided Allie back, Tessa coming up to take her other arm... ... no one noticed Allie's robe, flowing and shifting with colour once again, once more alive. Once more awakened. * * * 42. A Duel between the Doctors * * * /Meanwhile, the Fourth and Eighth Doctors begin their sword-fighting act.../ --- The fourth Doctor walked out, the lights reflecting off the beaming grin on his face. He looked rather ungainly, with his big coat, scarf and floppy hat, but looks can be deceiving. He held up his epee, there was a small cocktail sausage on the end, which he quickly removed and threw into his mouth. The eighth Doctor entered, the light shining of his velvet coat, which was blue tonight. He quickly picked a marshmallow from the end of his epee, hoping nobody had noticed... They both looked up and cheekily saluted the Gods Of Ragnarok, before taking their places under the spotlights. The fourth Doctor continued smiling at the audience. "Ahem, when you're quite ready?" the eighth Doctor said quietly. The fourth Doctor spun around, his scarf sweeping along the floor, sending a cloud of sawdust scattering across the ring. "/En garde/!" The fourth Doctor thrust forward, the eighth deflected the attack with a quick flick of his wrist. The fourth stood back and gave the first of the traditional insults... "Soon you�ll be wearing my sword like a shish kebab!" The eighth raised an eyebrow. "First you better stop waving it like a feather-duster." He quickly feinted, before making an attack, but the fourth Doctor managed to sidestep it. The fourth Doctor parried. "I once owned a dog that was smarter then you." "He must have taught you everything you know." The fourth Doctor looked slightly hurt by this, the look on his face distracted the eighth long enough for the fourth to surreptitiously loop his scarf around one of the eighth's feet. As he retreated, the eighth Doctor moved forward and tripped over the scarf, falling flat on his face and sending a large cloud of dust up into the air. Fourth chuckled. "You�re no match for my brains, you poor fool." A muffled voice replied from the cloud of dust. "I�d be in real trouble if you ever used them." Eight picked himself up from the floor, trying to brush the sawdust off of his coat with his hands and failing. "You have the manners of a beggar." he muttered. Fourth stood back, shrugging. "I wanted to make sure you�d feel comfortable with me." "/En garde/!" cried the more recent incarnation. "Well, alright then..." Both Doctors made their way around the ring, exchanging flurries, attacks, parries and ripostes. They seemed so evenly matched, could there actually *be* a winner? The audience "ooooh"ed, the audience "aaaaaah"ed. The fourth Doctor suddenly smiled. "You are wonderful!" The eighth Doctor looked slightly taken aback at this. "Thank you. I've worked hard to become so." "I admit it, you are better than I am." The eighth Doctor looked puzzled. "Then why are you smiling?" he asked. The fourth Doctor's grin actually managed to get even wider. "Because I know something you don't know." "And what is that?" The fourth Doctor threw his epee into the air and caught it with his other hand. "I am not left-handed!" He lunged forward with a rapid series of lunges and flicks, almost but not quite managing to place the point of his blade on his future-self's body. The eighth Doctor stood back for a second, overwhelmed. "You're amazing!" he exclaimed. "I ought to be after seven hundred and fifty years." the fourth Doctor grinned. The eighth Doctor caught his breath. "There's something I ought to tell you." "Yes?" The eighth doctor smiled disarmingly. "I'm not left-handed either." He suddenly switched hands and deflected his past-self's attacks with a fluid set of parries before managing a couple of ripostes. The audience cheered. The fourth Doctor retreated, until he got to one of the large poles leading to the trapezes / tightropes. He started climbing up the ladder. The eighth Doctor followed, being careful not to poke his epee anywhere sensitive. As he got to the top, the fourth Doctor started making his way along the tightrope, holding his arms out for balance. As he teetered along, he aimed a big cheeky grin towards the Gods of Ragnarok. "Having fun?" he asked cheerily. They edged along the tightrope, maintaining perfect balance all the way. Fourth suddenly looped his scarf around one of the cables leading from the pole to the floor and slid down to the floor, holding his epee between his teeth. The eighth Doctor looked around, lacking a scarf he needed some other way to get back to the ground. Suddenly he saw it, he jumped, grabbing hold of the chandelier and using it to swing across the ring, landing on the stairs in amongst the audience. The audience as one stood up and applauded. "Where did that chandelier come from?" Barry asked Igor. "Shut up and eat your candy floss." "How did the bit holding it up change length so he could get to the ground?" Igor stuck a toffee apple into Barry's mouth. "Shut it." The eighth Doctor ran down the stairs, leaping over the ring edge to land right in front of the fourth. "Give up yet?" "Of course not, I'm having far too much fun!" the fourth beamed. "Glad to hear it." said the eighth breathlessly. "Fancy a pint?" asked the fourth. "Eh?" As the eighth Doctor was distracted by the question, the fourth moved in quickly and managed to touch the eighth's waistcoat with the tip of his epee. The eighth Doctor looked down. "Curses. Foiled again..." he smiled. There was a small chorus of laughter from the audience, but they sounded slightly disappointed. This wasn't the exciting end to the act they had been expecting. A voice came down from the trapezes and tightropes. "My dear Doctors, why don't you let a true master of the blade show them how it's done?" A figure swooped down on a rope, cape flowing behind him. He somersaulted from the rope and landed in between the two Doctors. He turned to the audience and bowed. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Count Grendel at your service!" Backstage, Gordon looked at the bit of paper that had arrived in the shape of a paper aeroplane, with the message promising help. He smiled to himself. The Count turned to the Doctors, "And this time, I shall not be as lenient!" he smiled as he brought up an epee in each hand. The Doctors both raised their own blades, ready for battle. The fourth doctor attacked first, but Grendel nonchalantly parried. The eighth then tried, but he too was held off by the Count's efficient movements. For a couple of minutes, they took it in turns to lunge, feint and thrust, but every attack was parried or deflected. The Count smiled, he was clearly enjoying himself. The Doctors stood back for a second, looked at each other and both attacked at once. But still they could not get through the Count's masterful defence. He dodged and feinted and parried every one of the Doctors' attacks. Holding his own against both Time Lords. Someone in the audience cheered. Then another. Another. All cheering for the Count. Willing him to win. Then he gave his riposte. Both Doctors were surprised, they had to fight to defend themselves. His fluid, rapid attacks caught them almost unawares. Both men retreated, allowing the Count to advance, to switch from defence to offence. Both Doctors started smiling, they may have looked like they were on the verge of losing, but they were enjoying themselves too much to be worried by it anymore. The audience cheered the mastery of the blades shown by all three men as they circled the ring, Count Grendel pushing his advantage, waiting for that moment when one or both Time Lords would make the slightest error, allowing him the chance of victory. The Doctors once again moved either side of the Count, but it was still no good, Grendel still held them both at bay, if you were close enough, you could see the twinkle in his eye. The count spun round and caught both Doctors' swords with his own blades. He twisted and flung his arms up, disarming both Doctors at once. He simultaneously touched them both, just over their left-hand hearts with the tips of his blades. "I think you both get the point, yes?" he laughed. The audience stood up as one and applauded the Count, cheering at the magnificent display he had given. The Count put his epees back on his belt and walked forward to acknowledge the applause. "Thank you, Ladies and Gentlemen, for your appreciation, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the show." He smiled at the Doctors, "And please give your appreciation for my valiant opponent, twice over, the Doctor!" The audience once again applauded. Count Grendel turned to his opponents, "Doctor, and Doctor, shall we retire to the beer tent for a....pint?" he grinned. The Doctors laughed and they walked backstage together, the audience's appreciation still ringing in their ears. --- Our ringmaster applauded and cheered with the rest of them. But something was nagging at the back of her mind. Why hadn't the Gods reacted? Since the circus had begun, they'd been a seething force of hatred and anger, attacking the pro-fun side at every turn. But ever since the fortuneteller act, it was as if they were all ... asleep, as still as stones -- icons that had been long forgotten. Why? Was it simply that they had turned smug, since the Powers That Be ruled in their favor? Did they believe that they had already won (and if so, why)? Or was there something else? And in what twisted way would they answer the Doctors' glorious performance? * * * 43. Undead Gladiators * * * /The Fourth and Eighth Doctors' mock-duel has just finished.../ --- 'This isn't going to be good...' Our hostess turned around in surprise. 'Imran?' There was an odd cast to his face - red, flushing - as if he'd just been laughing very, /very/ hard. The look on his face, however, was serious. 'This is going to get nasty.' he continued. 'Look.' Two figures stepped silently out of the night. Our hostess' eyes widened. They wore the uniforms of Roman legionnaires - but battered, twisted and rusted. Armour long-discarded, long-forgotten. And under the helms, she could see nothing. Nothing at all. Automata. Automata animated by the power of the Gods of Ragnarok. 'A gladiator battle...' our hostess whispered. Imran nodded. 'Twisting it. No displays of talent, no showing off. No dramatic announcements, no playing to the audience. They'll simply /battle/ - until one or the other goes down. No pride. No honour. No mercy.' 'My Gods...' our hostess said quietly. 'Wait. Wait... we have Mnemosyne with us, don't we?' 'The Muses were worshipped in Greece,' Imran pointed out. 'But there would have been /Romans/ who knew of them,' our hostess said. 'The Roman Empire /did/ include Greece... And what they're about to do out there /will/ be a twisting of memory.' Imran looked thoughtful. 'Hmm... Better get out there. The Gods may get a bit /too/ impatient.' 'Yes...' our hostess mused. 'That is odd, though. They've been very quiet - ever since the fortune teller, in fact.' 'I wonder...' Imran said quietly. 'Calliope!' our hostess said, clicking her fingers. 'Muse of epic poetry... Is this going to be a slap in the face to the Greek epics?' 'I wouldn't put it past them.' 'Then I think it may be time to call upon the presence of one more goddess - and hope she answers.' No, the silent voice said. Mnemosyne's voice. My daughter already waits outside, barred by the web. She has come in answer to her pupil's call. 'Pupil?' Our hostess frowned. That meant Tessa, Yokoi or Allie. And as far as she could tell, none of /them/ had called her... In answer to Alisandra's call. For the answer she finally received to her memory... She waits outside, to face whomever shall win the challenge. 'Is there any way she could come into the tent? Or at least lend us some of her power?' She may not enter. Only a God may break the web's bonds, may enter before the challenge is over - and then, only when called, as you called upon us. My daughter is a demigoddess. Her power is already with you - she is wellspring to all the Muses in her care. 'Our Muses.' our hostess realised. A thought was tickling at her brain. Something she'd heard, something... Or perhaps something Sweetheart had picked up on, something she'd sensed. Hm. 'Maybe,' she said. 'Maybe...' She shook her head. 'I'd better get out there. I mislike that silence...' --- "Leave it be," Kid Curry said softly from behind them. "Maybe that's the test. Leave it be." He was looking across into the ring, eyes narrowed, one hand hooked through his belt, considering. There was a strange kind of peace on his face that Imran wasn't sure he'd ever seen there before. The cowboy didn't seem at all spooked by the creaking armour. Maybe he didn't even recognise it. "No men in there -- no-one gets hurt. Just a puppet show. And if you don't scare -- then they lose." Both Imran and the hostess were looking at him now, shocked. Kid Curry shrugged. "Let 'em knock each other to bits. They can't hurt you -- and sure as hell /they/ can't feel it." He nodded towards the wings, where Mags, in full costume, was busy with the white horses. "Use the time. You got a horse act to get on with --" a glance upward, as if to pierce the canvas -- "and if the sky out there's anything like the one back home, guess the night's running kind of short on you." His mouth tightened beneath the heavy mustache. "Some things, you just got to let go by. Maybe I never learned that till now. Maybe I should have." --- "Perhaps you're right," Our ringmaster said. "Still, the Gods have used their act to directly attack the audience, twice already. The second time, they nearly succeeded. I wouldn't be surprised if they tried a third time -- it's just their style to do things in threes. Stay on your toes." She sighed. "Well, I've got a job to do." and she went out to the center of the ring. "Ladies, Gentlemen, trolls and Gods, I present to you a historical tableau of the Roman Empire!" She hurried back out to the wings, eager to leave the space before they started hacking at each other. Kid was right about one thing: dawn was coming up fast, and this would be coming to an end, for one side or the other. The way things had been going, she wouldn't be surprised if simply outdoing the Gods weren't enough... The Gods had to be rebound -- returned to the dimensional cage they had been released from. And *that* would have to be done by the pro-funsters alone, without divine help. But how? What sort of key had opened that lock? And how could they find it? --- And meanwhile... A brief - and possibly tangentially relevant - interlude. Subreality City. Xephanya watched the rain falling outside. In Subreality, everything, even the weather, was usually subject to the writers' wishes. Not tonight, though. Tonight... ...stormclouds bordering on Subreality, rolling in from the Mists. Storm front. A storm at the border. Subreality was still protected - so many writers, characters and Muses in one location, it couldn't help but be. The storm... part of the storm was directed elsewhere, its effects weakened. At full strength... ...things would've been much harder by now. Much harder. And if it /did/ focus its full strength, if it succeeded... Subreality, which depended on Imagination and Reality, would be devastated, drained, /eliminated/. Drained. An appetiser. And Imagination would fall next. The feast. Then... only one story left. The story of the Story Eaters. And Allie... Allie was out there, trying to fight them, stand against them. Allie. /Her/ sister. Bragging rights at the school, she could imagine it now. 'Oh yeah? /My/ sis faced off against the Gods of Ragnarok, /won/, and saved Subreality to boot!' Hah. Take /that/, Chloe, you bitch. Always going on 'bout /her/ big brother, and what /he'd/ done with his Writer. Well, try topping /that/ one... Teen queen. Yeah. For a month. At /least/. She blinked. For a moment there, she'd seen... She looked closer at the window. And saw it. Silent scream, a silent impression against the window. 'Please...' Then gone, lost in the rain. 'Allie...?' Xeffy whispered. 'Allie, what...' No reply. The window showed only the rain, and her own frozen, terrified reflection. 'What happened?' Trouble. She's in trouble. But... what am I gonna do? /I'm/ not a Muse... Who can I tell? Could tell Dad, but... what could he do about it? Have to do /something/... What if it wasn't her? Then why? A trap? Yeah, right. How'm I gonna fall into a trap I can't even get into? Have to. This isn't the way it usually goes - /someone/ answers a ghostly cry for help. Not watch, while Allie screams and screams and... But how? Needs help. Okay. Sorted. Screaming. Hurt, or trapped, or threatened... Need /something/. Xeffy looked around her room. Posters. CDs. Clothes. Doomed makeup experiments. TV. Couple of books. Wall mirror. Bed. Desk. Need something... Mum or Grandma must've picked up /something/ useful. Must have. Thousand years - lots of chances to pick up something, right? But... Mum hadn't had that many souvenirs. Neither did Grandma, none that she left to them... Come on, come on... this is when the lost thingie reveals itself, and that it's got some awesome, earth-shattering power... Nope. This is /Subreality/! Xeffy almost wailed. Where's the story?! Come on. /Something/ that'll get me there... Need something... Teen queen, remember? You can take this on. Something, at the corner of her eye. Nah. Must've imagined... Xeffy blinked. Hnh? A tiny little pouch sitting on her desk, underneath the mirror. Easy to miss; Dad was always losing /his/ keys somewhere, to her constant teasing. Maybe one of Allie's presents while she was at college? Could be. Or something like that, anyway. Allie'd kept leaving her fieldwork and notes round the house, would be just like her to leave something in her room and forget about it. Allie'd probably kill her. Then again, if it turned out to be something that saved her... Xeffy figured that ought to cancel it out. Allie wasn't gonna be /that/ unreasonable. Well, not usually. She picked up the pouch, pulled its drawstring, and looked inside. Sand. Pouch of sand? Must've picked it up from the Shifting Sands. Souvenir. She idly poked at the sand. Well, that wasn't gonna be much help - not unless she threw it in someone's eyes and it stung. Or poured it down their pants... Xeffy winced at a certain set of painful memories. Hmm. She pinched up a bit and considered. Keep it back for another rainy day? Sprinkle it on Allie's food, maybe? She let the grains slide out of her fingers, fall to the floor. When they did- -barely time- -realising- -she was- -/falling/- Xeffy's last conscious thought before she was swept away in a tumult of sand was: Saving her with her own bag of sand. Allie is /so/ gonna hear about this... When the sand finally settled, only a few scattered sand grains remained on the bedroom floor to show Xeffy, and the pouch, had been there. --- Meanwhile, back in the Big Top... The two fighters battled each other tirelessly, never ceasing. Neither gaining the upper hand. 'This reminds me of something...' Imran murmured. Robotic. Mechanical. Patterned. Something nagging. Darkness underneath the helms. Silence from the Gods. One struck at the other... Silently waiting? Autonoma, animated by the will - and power - of the Gods of Ragnarok. How /much/ power? Combat has power. A ritual. Feeding the Gods. Feeding the vessels of their power. The combat was /feeding/ the fighters. Build up the power until it can be released. In the final stroke. Oh no. Oh no. 'Oh no...' 'What?' The other fell to the ground. The one on top lifted a sword, to deliver the final blow. 'EVERYBODY DOWN!!' Impact. The automaton exploded in black light. The victor was consumed in the dark fire. Darkness scythed across the ring - an expanding ring of black The audience dived beneath the bleachers, just in time. (Everything happened so quickly, and yet, seemed so drawn out...) A loud, crackling hiss echoed through the air as the expanding un-energy hit against the protective web of energy outside, and bounced back inward. :::The Gods are trying to cut through the web separating us from the Omniverse, the avocado troll thought. Their minor victory with the Powers that Be, must have made them impatient.... tPTB must be pissed at them now::: And the Gods reabsorbed their grudgingly given power - and the power the ritual combat had given them. Out of the corner of her eye, our ringmaster saw Curry on the ground beside her, arms protectively over his head. She saw the charm flicker more brightly for a split second, as though it were absorbing a power charge. He got to his feet quickly, finding his balance again. Of all of them, he undoubtedly had the most experience diving out of the way of a line of fire. 'Ummfff!!' 'Sorry...' Imran apologised, lifting his elbow off the ringmaster's back. 'That was close...' the little ringmaster said, readjusting her hat. '...What /was/ that, anyway?' 'A win-win situation. Ritual. A ritual to gain power. Ritual combats served to reenact ancient battles of the gods, ancient triumphs. Reaffirm the gods' power.' 'And the Gods were using this combat to reaffirm /theirs/,' our hostess deduced. 'If they could take out the audience, they won - and even if they didn't, they still gained more power from the ritual.' 'Exactly.' Imran said. 'A small victory for them.' 'A victory for /us/, too.' our hostess pointed out. 'If we hadn't realised in time what they were doing, who knows what that darkness of theirs would have done to the audience?' 'Quick and brutal,' Imran murmured. 'Not surprising..' Our hostess frowned. 'But why? Why the need to reaffirm their power?' 'It could be we're getting to them,' Imran offered. 'Or... they need that power for later use. Or both.' 'But what would they need that power for?' our hostess wondered. She looked out again. The Gods were still silent. But now... ...their silence seemed to hold a near palpable malice. A malice directed against the others within the ring. Our hostess shuddered, and drew back quickly. --- Outside the Big Top... 'Iz, you feeling okay?' the tall, thin man with stubble still on his face asked. 'I'm fine, Fitz.' the fish girl reassured him. 'Just needed a quick dip in the barn's swimming pool. I was drying out.' Fitz looked back at the tent. 'Why the Doctor volunteered /our/ services to help out with the horses... I /swear/ one of them gave me a tail flick. /Deliberately./' 'Come on,' Iz said. 'I'm sure her TARDIS isn't out to get you.' 'Izzy, lemme have a /little/ paranoia, okay?' 'Okay.' Izzy said, grinning. She started whistling 'I'll Be Watching You'. Fitz shot her a dark look. 'Anyway, better be-' 'Oof!' 'We've been travelling with the Doctor too long,' Fitz observed. 'Because that didn't worry me in the slightest.' 'Seeing a girl tumble down a sand dune out of nowhere?' Izzy said, as they walked over. 'We really need to see someone about that... I mean, we're from different /continuities/, and we still get it...' By the time they'd reached her, the girl had picked herself up, and was trying to work the sand out of her eyes. 'Umm...' she said, blinking furiously to get the sand out. 'Is it time for the big battle yet?' Fitz and Izzy /blinked/. The girl had long brown hair, some of which was braided behind her, with the rest was left free, big blue-grey eyes, and looked to be around twelve. 'Umm... not /yet/.' Izzy said. 'Give it another few acts...' The girl looked relieved. 'Oh good. Umm... so umm, do you know an Allie?' They nodded. 'And she's in trouble, right?' 'That depends on your definition of trouble...' Fitz said cautiously. 'She is.' the girl said. ' 'Kay, point me to her.' 'Who /are/ you?' 'I'm Xeffy? You know, her brat kid sister?' Fitz put his hand over his eyes. 'I knew this was going to be a long day when I woke up...' 'Ignore him.' Izzy said. 'I'm Izzy, and he's Fitz.' 'So what trouble /is/ she in?' 'Apart from singing on stage with the Gods of Ragnarok in the audience?' 'Oh.' Xeffy looked almost disappointed. 'You're sure? Nothing else? Nothing really, spectacularly bad?' The other two nodded. And raised their eyebrows (or eyeridges, in Izzy's case). 'Wonder what /that/ was about...' Xeffy murmured. 'What what was?' 'Oh, nothing... Okay. Point me to her.' Izzy and Fitz exchanged glances. When someone says they're thinking about nothing... it usually turns out to be something important you really should have known right /then/... Then they shrugged in mutual resigned acceptance, and followed Xeffy back to the Big Top. ((But Xeffy was not the only unexpected arrival...)) * * * 44. The Nth Doctor * * * /The members of Gordon and Saville's act have wandered off vaguely into the night... / --- "We've kind of lost the zombies (not due to any sort of attack, just bumbling incompetence) but we have a plan -- " "Honestly, who'd be unobservant enough to let the zombies out?" "As I understand it, Auntie Krizu walked past and Saville and Igor were distracted long enough by her cleavage of evil(TM) for them to slip by..." --- Saville and the Voord found the zombies at the edge of the web. For a second they looked like a bizarre line of mime artists, all doing the invisible wall routine, but if you looked closely, unfocused your eyes slightly, you could see the faintest glimmer of static where the web stood. Saville was still slightly unsettled by his meeting with Justine and her friend. He hadn't recognised the man, yet he *had* recognised him. He shivered. He just hoped this didn't complicate things. "Shigeru, Jarvey!" he called to the two Voord. "Help me organise this lot into some semblance of an orderly line and we'll head back to the circus." --- TIme Lords almost always recognise each other on sight. Unless of course, the other one's wearing a silly mask or disguise of some sort. But in the everyday course of the universe, two Time Lords meeting will *always* recognise each other. But when the stylish, dark skinned figure walked into the backstage area, the Doctors all had to look twice. The figure seemed familiar, but was completely unrecognisable to them. The fifth Doctor walked up to the newcomer, extending his hand. "Hello, I'm the Doctor. I don't believe I've had the pleasure, although you seem familiar somehow." The figure smiled, a warm, gentle smile that lit up his face. He looked round at the other seven incarnations. "Likewise. I see a bit of him in all of you, yet you are all so completely different." He turned back to the fifth Doctor. "I am usually known as the Master." The Doctors looked surprised. "I thought we had all but one of you chaps tied up in one of the tents?" pondered the third. "Yes, we're only missing one that we know of." the first said, pointing a finger at the Master. "And you, my fellow, are not he..." The Master walked over and sat down at a table. He propped his elbows on the edge and arched his fingers before him. "I suppose I owe you an explanation?" he said, quietly, as the Doctors sat around the other sides. Justine walked in and took up a chair behind him, not interrupting. "Have you ever seen a universe die? Just give up? Until the Day Of Ragnarok, our universe operated pretty much as normal. With occasional....glitches. But then it happened. Things that everyone took for granted just stopped. Depending on where you were, the sun didn't rise, night didn't fall. The only thing that kept going were the people. Within a few hours, the cold began to bite. Ponds, lakes, seas and oceans all froze up. The air hurt to breathe. Everyone should have died, but they didn't. Death came to time. "Ragnarok wasn't meant to happen for billions of years. Something, or *someone* released the Gods Of Ragnarok early. Oh, we tried to send them back to where they came, but we failed. Then we tried to send them into one of the dark dimensions, but I miscalculated. They managed to create a conduit, a gateway and escape into this universe. If one of you were to check where you trapped the Gods in *this* universe, you will find them still there. These are false gods from outside your realm." He indicated himself and Justine. "At the last minute we managed to follow them in TARDIS. But he and his companions are still trapped there, at the edge of a dead universe." "And he is?" asked the fifth Doctor. "Your equivalent in that universe. He used his TARDIS to hold the gate open long enough for us to follow the Gods." He shook his head sadly, "I can only hope that my old friend has managed to find safety there..." --- ~ What was that? ~ Silence signed. Katherine shook her head to clear it. "Who were those people? Where were they?" The Doctor just stood there, silent. "The circus...of course." he said quietly. "I believe we are seeing echoes of wherever it is the Gods have gone. I recognised the tents and paraphernalia of a circus, the Gods were linked to such a circus many, many centuries ago." He scratched his forehead. "There's some sort of link, some sort of link between us and someone there. Someone who's fighting against the Gods." ~ Someone is fighting them? ~ "Yes, foolhardy as it might seem. But you just never know, there may just be a chance..." --- "Have you got any dice on you?" Gordon asked Saville as he walked back in, with zombies. "Er yeah..." he answered, bringing out a small pouch filled with dice of every shape and colour. Gordon rummaged around inside, before pulling out a simple six-sided dice. It was dark blue, with white spots. "Thanks." "What do you need it for?" "Just a contingency plan. Something to give us a chance..." "We found the zombies." "Ah, good. We can incorporate them into the new act." "The new act?" "Yes, I'm a bit worried about how things are going, we're doing a panto now." "It's not Christmas..." "Doesn't matter, pro-fun rule #273 You can hold a panto whenever you like." "You just made that up..." "Yep." "Just be careful, stay alert, stay frosty." "I will." --- "6031769 bottles of beer on the wall, 6031769 bottles of beer..." "Katherine..." "Sorry, I'm just getting a bit edgy and fidgety here." "I understand, but at the moment all we can do is wait. TARDIS is out of power, and I'm not sure there's enough energy left in this universe for her to draw upon anymore." Silence ran her finger through her short hair, frowning in concentration. ~ She sleeps. ~ The Doctor looked at her. "That's good to hear. All hope is not lost." "What about this link with someone over there? Can it help us?" asked Katherine. "I honestly don't know, my dear. It all depends on if the person on the other end realises what is happening. Until then, all we can do is wait..." --- "So how can we defeat these other Gods?" asked Second. "I honestly have no idea anymore," said the Master. "Although, from what I've seen you are doing a rather good job so far. Who knows? Perhaps it will be enough. I certainly hope so." A bell sounded, indicating the next act was about to be announced The Master stood up. "The least I can do is be a witness to the proceedings." He walked up to the curtain, to watch the entertainment about to start. The Master muttered darkly to himself, "This could be this universe's last chance..." --- Ok, in case anyone needs to know who the Nth Doctor, Katherine and Silence look like, http://www.bhfh.fsnet.co.uk/paradoxenginemain.htm has photos of who they're based on. Hopefully have some artwork up there soon. --- ((Meanwhile, the avocado troll is worried about the effects of the black energy from the gladiator act on those outside the tent...)) Our ringmaster gave a brief nod to Imran and Curry, and ducked back out the tent. The horses were clearly spooked. Mags and Kingpin, along with a man she hadn't seen before, someone who appeared to be a fish-woman, and a twelve year old girl, were moving among them, trying to calm them down, and not having much luck. "Is everything all right?" she asked, somewhat afraid of the answer. "That last attack from the Gods of Ragnarok didn't hit any of you, did it?" The twelve-year-old ran up to her, not caring about looking cool. "Is Allie all right?" The troll smiled. "You must be 'Xephy'" she said. "Yes. She's fine. We all managed to duck in time. Go on in. I'm sure she'll be glad to see you. I just decided to check on things out here, and make sure you were all all right." "We're fine," Mags said. "The gryphons sensed the attack coming before we did, and three of them shielded us with their wings, deflecting the energy away." :::The other three must've gone out to protect Gordon, Igor and the zombies, she thought, gratefully::: "But the explosion," Mags continued, "when their un-energy finally hit the web, was very loud, and the team got spooked." The avocado troll went up to the leader. "*You* got spooked, Sweetheart?" she said, patting her on the shoulder. "You're a TARDIS, remember - not a two year-old thoroughbred filly. You've witnessed whole galaxies go up in a mass of supernovas. Why should a little bit of noise from a set of wannabe gods get you so upset?" Sweetheart lowered her head, and butted against Our Ringmaster's chest, nearly lifting her off her feet. A flood of telepathic emotion swept over the troll, registering in her mind as though they were a picture whose resolution was reduced to vast fields of muted color, light and dark: Memory, Danger, Uncertainty, Empty, Silence, Loneliness, Sleep. And she realized that she was glimpsing her TARDIS's final memories of the loss of her Timelord pilot, before Eloise found her. She swallowed hard. "I'm fine," she reassured Sweetheart, her voice a little shakier than she would have liked. "*We* will be fine. We'll win this. You know we will. Fun always wins out in the end." The leader nickered softly, and the twelve horses calmed as one. The troll smiled. "Now go in there and show them why you are the most spectacular TARDIS in all of the eleven dimensions!" And she hurried back inside the Big Top to get ready to announce what promised, quite frankly, to be her favorite act. ((Meanwhile, Allie is about to receive a pleasant(?) surprise...)) * * * 45. The Equine Magic of the Twelve Sweethearts * * * /The Eighth Doctor's companions are showing Xeffy round the Circus.../ --- 'Can you see the others?' 'Over... there, I think.' Izzy said. Xeffy peered at the group sitting in the bleachers. '/Those/ are your friends?' 'Yep.' Fitz said. 'In short order - the reptile guy in the helmet and armour's Ssard, he's an Ice Warrior, the blonde woman in the pink jumpsuit's his wife Stacy...' 'Mm-hmm.' Xeffy said. 'The girl in the camouflage trousers and T-shirt's Sam, the guy in the black bodysuit with a black crystal globe for a head is Shayde...' 'Mm-hmm.' 'The girl in the steward's outfit...' Fitz frowned. 'Hmm... Yeah, that's Charley - short for Charlotte - the redhead with the cynical expression is Compassion... personally, I think she's faking a good chunk of the cynic attitude, and don't mention her crush on the Doctor... and the woman in the casual suit, black hair, can't miss her, is Anji.' 'Mm-hmm. So... are you this Fictiverse's Justice League?' Fitz spluttered. Izzy concealed a grin. 'You're dressed for it,' Xeffy pointed out. 'I wish...' Izzy said, grinning. 'No, we hang out together - well, at least at points our Fictiverses collide. Not all the time, though... but we decided to drop in on the Hoedown.' 'Actually, the Doctor dragged us along.' Fitz muttered under his breath. 'And I just /knew/ this was gonna get weird - the Doctor can't cross the street without getting into an adventure.' 'XEFFY?!!?' Thud. 'Umm, could we get some water over here?' Tessa said. 'Allie's fainted.' 'Interesting definition of "glad to see you",' Fitz observed. 'Is it any wonder? She's been rollercoasting on emotion - panic, terror, hysteria, stress... She had to let it hit sometime.' Tessa observed. 'She is okay, right?' Xeffy hunkered down next to Tessa. 'She'll be okay. She's just had her emotions - and exhaustion - catch up with her.' Tessa brushed Allie's hair back. 'And fighting off an attempted soul capture...' Tessa closed her eyes. 'She had to rest.' 'What?' 'The Gods were trying to capture her soul,' Tessa said quietly. 'Together, she and her writer managed to break the illusion, stop the capture... but even resisting it took a lot of effort.' 'Her... soul?' Xeffy whispered. A reflection in the window. A silent scream against the glass. 'Please...' 'Where's her writer?' 'Is she okay?' Imran asked, huffing slightly. Tessa nodded. 'Exhaustion. She needs to rest for a bit.' Imran nodded. Then double-took on Xeffy. 'You're her sister...' 'Good guess.' Xeffy said. 'What the hell'd you do to Allie!?' Imran's voice lowered. 'Nothing. I did /nothing/ to her.' 'Then why'd she collapse?' 'She's exhausted.' Imran said coldly. 'Tired. Worn out... She /needed/ to rest.' 'Yeah? You haven't collapsed yet.' 'Believe me, I'd love to.' Imran said. 'This isn't "Writer sits back and lets his Muse do all the work" - so don't try to make it that way.' 'Xeffy,' Tessa said quietly. 'Both of them need to rest - they've undergone a lot of stress.' She looked up at Imran. 'Don't go falling apart on us just yet.' 'I'm saving that for the big climax.' Imran said drily. 'Hmm.' Fitz said. 'Hmm... Why don't we look after Xeph?' Tessa bugged. '/You/?' 'We were the ones she met first,' Izzy pointed out. 'We can watch her. And anyone trying to attack her's going to have to go through an angry TARDIS.' 'A what?' 'Compassion.' 'Oh.' Xeffy frowned. 'Is she some sort of super-powerful entity, then?' 'You might say that,' Fitz murmured. 'We'll look after her till you or Allie are okay, okay?' Izzy suggested. Imran let himself sink to the ground. 'Okay.' A young troll came up. 'Umm, Eloise was wondering if you could give these a look over before her act?' He handed Tessa a sheaf of paper. Tessa raised an eyebrow. 'Hmm. A hymn to Epona... We should be able to manage one of these.' 'Thanks!' the young troll said. Yokoi read over Tessa's shoulder: "Upon a mare white as the moon She keeps a stately pace, And though we chase fast as we can, She always wins the race -- She always wins the race. "Train my heart to your saddle gold, My mind to your silver rein And out upon the trail we'll go, a-Hunting for our dreams, a-Hunting for our dreams." http://www.bhfh.fsnet.co.uk/epona.htm 'Excuse me?' Xeffy said. 'Um... where did you want to sit?' 'Could I stay with her?' Imran raised an eyebrow. 'Could she?' 'Until the act begins,' Tessa said. 'This is a triad - it's going to need all three of us to sing it.' 'She can't.' Xeffy protested. 'She's a wreck!' 'Who's a wreck... Xeph?' 'ALLIE!' 'I should have known,' Allie said from her position on the floor. 'I should have known. You manage to get even /here/...' 'Well, it was your bag of sand that did it.' 'My what?' 'Your souvenir? From the Shifting Sands?' 'That wasn't a souvenir I got...' Allie frowned. 'In fact... no, sure I never got it.' Xeffy un-prised her fingers from around the bag. 'This ring any bells?' Allie lifted her head up. 'No... not mine.' 'So where'd it come from?' Xeffy demanded. 'The Sandman?' 'The Sandman?' Imran said quietly. 'As in Dream of the Endless?' 'Well... oh, you know who I meant!' 'I have a bad feeling I do.' Imran murmured. Xeffy pocketed the pouch. 'Hnh. Okay, find out where it /did/ come from...' 'Better get to our seats,' Fitz said. 'I think she's just 'bout ready to go on...' Tessa nodded. 'See you later, 'kay?' Xeffy said. 'And look after yourself.' Allie managed a grin. 'Ladies and gentlemen, my sister the nanny.' 'Uh-huh,' Xeffy said. 'And who ended up being my babysitter?' 'Much as I enjoy sibling rivalry...' Tessa noted. Fitz nodded. 'Come on.' Muttering under her breath, Xeffy followed Fitz and Izzy out to the bleachers. "Hi," said Nyctolops. "Here have some Audience Cloak." Without further ado Nyctolops gathered up a handful of starstuff from her own cloak and handed it to Xeffy, who didn't know quite what to do with it, but it folded itself to her shoulders nonetheless. --- Moments later, Allie, Tessa and Yokoi were in their ring, Philip ready on guitar. In the wings, Imran sat back against the wall. No magic there. The plain milkshake - and Xeffy's arrival - seemed to have bolstered Allie's resolve that little bit more, just enough... But what was Xeffy doing here? And what about the bag of sand? Hmm... Keeping another eye on her wouldn't hurt. He hauled himself up, and out to the bleachers. The Second and Third Doctors were doing an encore of their light and music act... Originally, there was no intermission planned for this spot, but the Gods' swordfight had made a complete mess of the ring, and her deputy and a pair of younger trolls had been recruited to rake the surface smooth again. They moved in the shadows, while all eyes were directed upward. And she thought she caught a glimpse of Mags hurrying around them ... setting up ... props? :::I wonder what they're going to do!::: she thought, excitedly. Eloise noticed another flurry of activity in the wings -- near TYA's stage. It was hard to make out what was being said above the organ music, and most of the humanoids there probably didn't hear anything at all. But *her* ears could clearly tell that something was wrong. Imran, especially, sounded like he was about to break. :::Just hold on a little while longer::: she thought. :::Whatever happens, dawn is almost here. And then this, at least, will be over::: The final notes and lights faded away as Second and Third finished their act. Then a bell sounded, announcing that it was time for the next to begin. With a case of butterflies almost as intense as if she were getting ready to perform herself, Eloise trotted out to the single spotlight that awaited her. "Ladies, Gentlemen, trolls, and Deities: The amazing equine magic of The Twelve Sweethearts!" and she hurried to the sidelines to wait, barely able to stand still. The spotlight shining on the center of the ring switched off, and the Big Top was plunged into total darkness. And stayed that way. But this wasn't like the darkness of the Gods of Ragnarok -- this was like when a friend blindfolds you, leading you safely to where a Big Surprise is waiting. She could feel the anticipation building in the audience -- the *whole* audience. Perhaps it was the pro-fun energy that the hoedowners had been sending at them that was finally beginning to take hold; perhaps it was the energy they had stolen, backfiring on them; perhaps it was simply that their hunger for entertainment had finally overwhelmed them, but she could feel the malice of the Gods of Ragnarok begin to crack, and a little bit of curiosity begin to seep through. TYA began to vocalize, harmonizing a slow melody in a minor key. It began so quietly that the sound barely tickled the ears and slowly grew louder. Then the darkness was pierced by the orange light of a flaming torch, which seemed, at first, to float through the air. But as her eyes adjusted to the light, she could see that it was held aloft by Kingpin, dressed as a jester -- except that every detail, right down to the bells that adorned the tassels on his collar and his cap, was black. The checkered pattern of his motley was achieved with texture: corduroy, denim, silk and velvet, rather than color. He had even blackened his face with burnt cork, like the figure of Black Pete from ancient pantomime. In the ruddy, flickering light of the torch, he seemed as ghostly as an after image burned on the retina, or a nearly forgotten dream. He began to dance, clockwise, in time to the music, pirouetting every fourth step, describing a circle half the size of the ring itself. The light trailing from his torch traced ghostly spirals through the dark, drawing all eyes and minds into the dance with him. As he circled, he came to other torches, which he lit as he passed by. When the circle was completed, the eight outer corners of an equal-armed cross were clearly marked. And from her memory of how the light had passed that day, Eloise was certain that the four arms of the cross aligned perfectly with the cardinal directions. Kingpin continued to dance, spiralling out to the edge of the ring itself, where eight more torches, twice as tall as the first, awaited to be lit. When he had finished this last circle, a crossroads was etched on their collective imaginations, as clear as if the roads had been paved and signposted by the Highway Department -- the perfectly balanced meeting point of Dream Way and Reality Avenue. Four tentflaps, aligned with the torches, opened simultaneously, letting the cool, pre-dawn breezes sweep through the Big Top, sending a cascade of sparks swirling through the air. And the TARDIS team entered, three horses to a side, wearing silver bridles and reins, and golden, empty saddles, glittering in the torchlight. They cantered toward the center of the ring, changing which foreleg they led with every other stride. The overall effect was that the horses appeared to be skipping, as a child would, for sheer joy of it. They didn't slow one iota as they went, and a collective gasp rose from the audience as a massive collision seemed inevitable. But with the fluidity of a whirlpool, the horses serpentined around each other until the leaders of each line had crossed the full diameter of the ring. Then, as one, they each did a half pirouette, and faced the center of the ring. Only then did they slow their pace, switching fluidly to a highstepping trot, pausing for a split second at the top of each stride, so that it seemed they were moving in slow motion. When the last horse of each line was half way between the inner circle and the outer circle, they trotted in place for eight beats, then stood stock still, not twitching a single ear. :::Eloise knew that all the horses were really one being with a single mind, but she was still impressed. It was as if a person with twelve arms were juggling 48 pins, and not missing a single beat. She began to realize the mental and physical flexibility Sweetheart needed to juggle all her inner dimensions for the troll's safety and comfort, and was immensely grateful::: TYA stopped vocalizing and sang first verse of the hymn: (Upon a mare white as the moon She keeps a stately pace, And though we chase fast as we can, She always wins the race -- She always wins the race.) And as they returned to vocalizing, the horses began moving again, trotting diagonally, this time, across the ring. Again, as they came toward the center of the ring, they serpentined around each other, moving with the precision of a line of Ziegfield Follies dancers, coming at last to stand three abreast in the spaces between the arms of the cross. Again, they turned to face the center of the ring, and stopped on a dime. Mags entered from the wings, dressed as a tramp clown, with a broom for a hobby horse, the bristle end facing forward. And as with Kingpin's costume, every detail, even the head of the broom, was black, except that Mags was wearing whiteface. She romped around the ring, waving to the audience, and miming laughter. She mimicked, with perfect comic sense, each of the moves the horses had made. After the graceful, solemn tension of all that had come before, laughter came easily. Then Mags herself turned solemn, "riding" to the center of the ring, while TYA sang the second verse: (Train my heart to your saddle gold, My mind to your silver rein, And out upon the trail we'll go, a-Hunting for our dreams -- a-Hunting for our dreams) Mags circled the midpoint of the crossroads, clockwise, three times, then went to stand beside the team leader, in the northeast quadrant. TYA fell silent. The only sound now was the wind blowing through the Big Top. The audience shifted in their seats. Was that it? The end? Eloise could feel that even Sweetheart was uncertain. The Gods of Ragnarok began to grow restless, but not with the same malice she had felt before. This time, there was a distinct sense of *nervousness* mixed in with it. Then it happened. *She* appeared, as intangible as a ghost, and as solid as a steamroller: a goddess cloaked all in black, riding bareback and aside�, on a horse even whiter than Sweetheart's team. The horse was walking, yet moved so quickly it stunned the mind, travelling east to west, just ahead of first light. This was Epona, letting herself be seen for a moment, as she journeyed through all the worlds, dispensing dreams. Red rose petals trailed in her wake like clouds of steam, with the life-affirming brilliance of which the Gods' blood red lightning was a twisted shadow. � Not a typo. As though with a sidesaddle -- only without the saddle ;-) Then she was gone. All that remained were the rose petals, scattered across the ring, the scents of apples, fresh baked bread and wine, and the knowledge that she had been there -- giving her blessing, and her warning. The Gods of Ragnarok hissed angrily, as though burned by the sparks from the torches. For the first time since this showdown began, she could feel that they'd been knocked off balance. The hoedowners hadn't won, yet, she knew. Much danger lay ahead. But for the first time, she truly felt that they had a chance. * * * 46. Allie's collapse * * * /The TARDIS' dressage act has succeeded in invoking the power of the goddess Epona.../ --- Gordon had to dodge out of the way as Yokoi enthusiastically bundled backstage. She ran around him several times, grinning like a loony. "Wasn't that just *great*?!?!?!" "I think we may have actually hurt them..." Gordon mused. Yokoi spun round and round. "Which is good, yeah?" "I hope so, I just wonder what they're going to follow it up with." "Oh stoppit Mr. Grumpy. You and Saville are up after whatever they throw at us, and knowing what you two are like, I think the Gods are gonna have probs..." "Actually", says Bokman, waiting in the wings, "I was told me and Zoe are supposed to go on after their next bit. They do another magic thing, we respond, if I'm not mistaken." The deputy troll (on her way to retrieve the torches and rerake the ring) shook her head and tapped the clipboard. Everything since the God's first magic (non)act had been crossed out and rewritten. "There's been a change, remember -- the Powers that Be switched our performing order. *We* go first, now, and the Gods respond. You and Zoe are up immediately after the God's next act." She shuddered. "I'll hate cleaning up after *those* horses," she added. She looked out at Kingpin's and Mags impromptu intermission: "Jester and tramp fight over who gets to ride the hobbyhorse next", and smiled. Hippies they may have been, once, but they had made a life of this. Now, they were artists. "Well," she said, glancing down at her own Harlequin costume, "let's make it a trio!" and she went out to join them, real and true. --- Yokoi hits the button on the retcon-o-tron(TM)... "Oh stoppit Mr. Grumpy. They get a go, then there's Bokman and Zoe's magic act, then you and Saville are up after whatever the Gods respond to that with, and knowing what you two are like, I think the Gods are gonna have probs..." "As long as the innuendo police don't cart us all off, we should be okay." "Don't you worry about them, I stuck 'em in the room with no doors." Me looked at Yokoi for a few seconds. "Stop that, you're scaring me..." Yokoi just giggled. "But just in case, and I'm not saying whatever you and your brother have planned won't be enough, I've called in a few favours and organised one or two little, teensy weensy things that'll just add that finishing touch..." "What exactly have you done?" "Oh nothing, just scooped up a few peeps to help us out." Yokoi grooved mightily on the spot, grinning. Gordon looked incredulous, "You used a Time Scoop?!?!?!" "No, I used the *Tim* Scoop, it's much safer and doesn't suffer from the causality tweakage problems the Time Scoop did." "Riiiiiiiiiiiight..." Yokoi stopped grooving and looked Gordon straight in the eye. "You don't trust me?" "Pinata. Custard. Explosion. Mexican border patrol." "That could have happened to *anyone*." "It was pretty funny, I wonder if they ever got the stains out?" "Anyway," she said, poking him gently in the ribs. "Don't. You. Worry. If nothing else..." Minds touched, concepts, ideas, thoughts, slipstreamed around them, not plan A, or plan B, this was the whole alphabet at once. Brainstorming, redemption, devices, transference, shift, chances. "I suspected as much." "Yeah, well I'll help out if we need to do that. We'll just grab the first person who comes along to finish the routine, I'm sure they'll understand." "Player One ready!" smiled Gordon. "Player Two ready!" grinned Yokoi. "Player Three ready!" beamed Saville. "Wizard has shot the food..." mumbled Igor as he loped past. "This is getting silly..." muttered Saville. "Oh, we're just getting started." Yokoi promised. Gordon took the Sword of Authorial Freedom out of his pocket. "In case of emergency, break laws of physics...let's *do* it!" --- When a strange, gawky girl-child came tumbling into the tent with one of the weirder guests at her heels, Kid Curry couldn't help but notice. Couldn't hardly help but tense up, either, when first Allie then Imran hit the floor when she was around. The brat sure didn't look like much, with those long skinny arms and legs sticking out of her skimpy clothes, and those big round "don't pick on me, I didn't do it" eyes. Kind of reminded him of little brother Lonie at that age, in fact -- who'd been a regular hellion for trouble, and the only one out of the four of them who never took the whippings, after... Yeah, well. Big strong Henry took a cold in the lungs and died, down in Steamboat Springs. And brother John got the wrong end of a shotgun blast from a neighbor, up on the ranch in the Little Rockies they'd worked, on and off, the four of them, since Lonie got big enough to quit school and lend a hand. He'd paid the guy his own back -- for the water, for the ranch, for John. Waited years to settle the account -- but he'd done it. You didn't get away with crossing Kid Curry. Not once, not ever. (Hadn't always been 'Kid Curry' back then, though. Hadn't ended up then as head of the family...) And then it had been just him, and little brother Lonie. Oh, Lonie'd run with him a time or two, out on the trail, but the little'un had gotten himself that saloon... not so little by then, either. Guess it was hard to realize, sometimes, when your kid brother was all grown up. And they'd caught up with Lonie, in the end. Little Brother had been in on that one, big, fifty-thousand-dollar job, that bitter night eight miles out of Rock Creek. Taken a share, sunk it into a new saloon. That was enough for Pinkerton's. Enough to track him down. They'd caught up with Lonie back at Aunt Lee's. Shot him down at dawn on her doorstep, a hundred yards from the house. He'd been barely thirty years old. ---- No more family. No responsibility. Nothing. On his own for once and all... 'Kid Curry' for so long now he'd all but forgotten his own right name... His nose was razor-sharp above thin lips. A stocky figure half-hidden in shadow, he stared at the girl hunkered down by Imran and Allie. Family, maybe. Brat sister, maybe. But then one way or another she'd laid out two of the leading spirits on the Pro-Fun side... and there was no way she should have gotten in here in the first place. She had to have come through that blue wall the charm had laid down -- and he hadn't felt a thing. Not a twitch. Which meant there was something out there *more* powerful than the charm -- more powerful than the Gods -- and there was no way he'd gamble his life against the chance of it being on their side... He'd made one wrong call already tonight, on the sword-fight. If it wasn't for Imran, they'd all be dead, or maybe worse. Now, just like that, this girl turns up -- and Imran's ready to break. Coincidence? Somehow, he didn't think so. He started in on the first few steps that would take him over to the little group in the wings. Little Miss Butter-won't-melt-in-my-mouth had some explaining to do -- and *fast* -- And then everybody moved at once. The ringmaster made her announcement... and the tent went black. Warm, total dusk. Waiting. And Kid Curry was spellbound like the rest. The horses swept across the ring. Once, twice. Rushing towards each other, blending, turning, like cavalry on parade... only there were no riders. No yellow-stripe troopers. Only the animals, dancing like human creatures... and they had changed. More breedy, somehow. Slender legs, small heads, heavy arched necks, strong quarters. When he'd first set eyes on them, hitched to the circus wagon back on the blue-dust plains of the Valeyard's country, they'd been common-bred, scrubby beasts. Hard, almost like machines. Now, they were something more. And looking back out of the wide-set dark eyes... was a mind that knew it. He shivered suddenly as the act ended. It wasn't just the change in the horses. The air itself seemed to grow thick, like the onset of a nightmare... slow like molasses, with lightning claws in its tail... And *She* came. He did not see her. At least, not with the eyes of the body, for they were tight shut. Dreams... many things to many men, but some there be that ride in torment nightly... He felt her. With every bone in his body he felt her, like a thundercloud that passed through the ring, a promise and a warning. He would have cried out despite himself if he dared, with a tongue grown of a sudden deathly dry... Kid Curry fled into himself. Into memory. And found the Contessa, like a warm hand clasping his own. He'd never touched her -- hell, she was a lady born -- never even thought of her that way, until... Yet she was there, her slender hand in his, warding off the nightmares, holding him safe from the Power that walked the ring. He clung to her for a long moment, wordless, like a child. "It is evening here, and things go very badly," she said at last softly into the dream they both shared. "What time is it with you, my friend?" And as he opened his eyes without thinking, the dream slipped away... and the world was full of rose-petals, and the scent of coming dawn. --- 'Just one thing...' 'Mm?' 'That /is/ Xeffy, isn't it? I mean, that she turns up /now/...' 'I'd know my brat sister, thanks so much.' 'Yes... but it /is/ a coincidence...' 'Uh-oh.' 'Uh-oh? ...Uh-oh.' -- 'Uh-oh,' Fitz murmured. 'Will everyone /stop/ with the Teletubby impersonations?' Izzy demanded. 'The what?' Izzy, Sam and Anji looked at each other. 'You do not wanna know...' 'He's heading this way,' Stacy reported. 'The cowboy guy?' Xeffy said. 'Why?' 'I believe,' Shayde said, 'that he is more than a little concerned as to your sudden appearance through the web.' 'Yeah? So am I.' 'Why weren't you?' 'You get used to seeing girls appear out of nowhere...' Fitz remarked. 'You've got a point...' Sam allowed. '...Wait, how /did/ you get here?' Xeffy blushed. 'Um... would you believe...' She rummaged through her clothes. 'C'mon, c'mon, I know I put it here somewhere...' 'It's in the back pocket.' Anji said. The others looked at her. She shrugged. 'Benefits of having a younger brother.' 'Oh. Thanks.' They craned to see what was in Xeffy's hand. 'A pouch?' Xeffy tugged at the drawstring. She frowned. 'Hang on, this wasn't closed before... Gotcha!' 'Sand. O-kay...' 'It was filled with sand /before/ I got here, genius.' 'Hard to tell if it's got mixed with anything...' Stacy pointed out. 'For all we know, this could be Jubilaganzan sand.' 'Compassion would know.' Ssard observed. 'So how /did/ it get you here?' 'Er...' --- 'Dream brought her here,' Allie said. Imran nodded. 'Dream of the Endless.' 'They are not Gods, they were never men...' Allie quoted. 'Not completely true.' Allie grinned. 'I know - thanks to your anal-retentive memory.' 'Mm. The Endless aren't interfering - or at least, not taking an active hand in this.' 'They're /our/ Powers That Be,' Allie said. 'Well, in /some/ respects, at least.' 'Mm.' 'Well, not quite.... They're embodiments, personifications. And Dream embodies, in part, creativity, dream, stories...' 'And so he's interfering /here/ as best he can,' Imran surmised. 'But /Xeffy/?' 'You were really snapping at her.' Allie noted. 'Mm?' 'When she showed up. You laid into her.' 'No excuses there...' Imran murmured. 'But /you'd/ nearly collapsed, you were unconscious... you'd put yourself through hell, you were ready to burn out. I didn't have /time/ to deal with her on top of it...' '/She/ was scared as hell, too...' Allie observed. 'Heh. No, it wasn't what you'd call a good start...' 'Heh.' --- 'Mind if I have a word with the "little lady"?' Kid said. The girl-child looked up at him. 'Yeah?' 'You managed to lay out Imran and Allie jus' by showing up. Pretty impressive.' 'It wasn't my fault she collapsed!' Xeffy huffed. 'No? You show up... and then they collapse. Can't help thinking there's a connection.' 'There's a connection, alright - Allie's been at freakin' breaking point! Anything could have sent her over the edge!' 'That you turn up, at just the right /time/ to send her over the edge... and then Imran goes with her.' 'I DIDN'T KNOW THAT WOULD HAPPEN!!' Xeffy screamed. 'She /wanted/ me to come! She wanted...' '/Who/ wanted?' 'Allie.' 'Allie? No way, kid. She's been here all along.' 'She nearly had her /soul/ stolen!' Xeffy snapped back. 'How'd /you/ know she got all of it back?!' 'And how'd you know you're not being used as a stalking horse, kid? That /you've/ been used to get them outta the way?' 'She isn't,' Allie said. 'Her presence here is because of ...someone in /our/ home Fictiverse.' 'You /know/ how she got here?' Allie nodded. 'The bag of sand was a giveaway. It's one of the items of Dream.' 'Of who?' 'Of Dream. One of the seven Endless, who embody concepts of the universe. Destiny, Death, Dream, Destruction, Desire, Despair and Delirium.' 'Hn. Known all of /those/ in my time...' 'They're... interconnected with my home Fictiverse. Dream in particular. Subreality /does/ lie on the borders of Imagination. And Dream has... old ties to the Muses.' 'Hm. Can you be sure someone ain't faking this Dream's symbols?' 'I can,' Imran said. He reached into the Cloak once again. And withdrew something that glowed white. 'This is a dream. Literally a dream. It was one of Epona's roses,' Imran said quietly. 'If that isn't Dream's sand... it won't respond. Or it will respond... with hostile intent. Dream's sand /can't/ be stolen - only Dream can open the pouch. Allie, Xeffy... do either of you want me to try?' 'Xeffy?' Allie said. 'Do it,' Xeffy said. 'I don't want /him/ hanging over my shoulder all the time - no offence.' Imran held out the dream. Xeffy took a deep breath... ...and poured the sand into the dream. And then- This one walks the path of her story, following where it leads. The sand is *his*, freely given for this tale. Restoration. Restoring. Resolving. In resolving her story may many others be aided. In aiding others' stories will hers be resolved. And a new story begun. 'Looks like you're on the level, kid.' 'Yeah... ' Xeffy didn't look at him. 'You had to be careful,' Imran said quietly. Kid nodded. 'Another player at the table. You don't know whether they're in it with someone, or whether they're playing a game of their own. And if you've already been burned...' He left the sentence unfinished. 'So. And so. We expecting anyone else?' 'Not at the moment...' Imran said. 'Mm. Hope not. We got enough players as is.' *More* than enough. But he kept that thought to himself. Too many big names in town at once had never meant nothing but trouble... and maybe there was such a thing as too many stories. Though the Contessa for one wouldn't agree. :-) And something the kid had flung back at him was nagging on his mind. He glanced up. First at Allie, then at Imran. "'Nearly had her /soul/ stolen'?!" Imran blinked. "What? -- oh, that's right, it was while you were -- um -- out..." One hand reached out for Allie's own; held it, while Imran briefly told of the fortune-teller and her poisoned bargain. Xeffy listened. Eyes wide. Guess she hadn't known as much as she'd tried to make out... Kid looked at Xeffy again. Oh yeah. He knew that look. Seen it on Lonie's face enough times. Girl was /scared/. Scared for her big sister. And maybe she was right to be. Like she'd said... /could/ they be sure Allie had all her soul back? Kid thought not. And he wouldn't have bet on who had the rest of her soul. He just had to look out at the ring to see that. Keep an eye out. Make sure of this. They've been planning, storing power - and been stealing it from us. They got something coming, and it ain't gonna be good. He nodded to them, and stepped away. Make sure of this... ((But the side-effects of the attempt to steal Allie's soul will be more far-reaching than any of them yet realise...)) * * * 47. A ghastly chariot race * * * /Allie needs a rest.../ --- Bag of sand... Heh. Allie really /was/ on an emotional high after that... Emotional rollercoaster, was what Tessa said. She needs a plateau, some stability, a quiet spot. Hell, most of us do. We might be reaching the other extreme - burning out, /forcing/ ourselves to keep going, to keep up the fight. But we're not doing this alone. We can step back for a while, let the others step forward. /I/ can step back for a while - a little while, but still. The other Cloaks of Audience... everyone in the audience now has one, even Xeffy... But Allie... How much more of this can she take? She /needs/ a rest - even Muses can't keep this up constantly. But how? TYA're part of the web - their backing music's building up to the finale, they /can't/ lose the rhythm. Imran stood. --- 'Hi.' 'Oh, Imran! Where've you been?' 'Watching the show. Listen, I need to ask you something.' 'Mm-hmm?' Imran took a deep breath. 'Allie. She's... you /saw/ what she was like before the show; I'm not sure how long she'll be able to keep this up before she burns out completely.' 'Are you asking about the Zero Room?' Imran hesitated. '...Yes.' 'It's available to anyone who wants it,' our hostess said. 'We /all/ need to rest sometimes, so we don't end up self-destructing. So we can relax, and just let ourselves /be/ for a while.' 'That's the problem...' Imran said. 'If she steps back for a while... I dunno, I'm just worried that TYA would lose their rhythm before their big climax.' 'But if Allie burns out before then, there can't /be/ a big climax,' our hostess pointed out. 'Let her rest. She's earned it - more than that, she /needs/ it, that's what matters.' 'So who're we going to get to replace her?' 'Excuse me,' a quiet voice said. Compassion stepped forward, her cape swirling around her. 'You?' 'Me.' Compassion half-smiled. 'Something in the family, I think... If the other Muses do not object, might I fill in for their missing member?' 'Ummm...' 'Of course! As long as the others are happy with this, then go ahead.' our hostess said. 'And...' 'I'll make sure Allie gets there.' Imran said. 'I know. What I was going to say was, let Xeffy know what Allie's doing. She's here because she's worried about her - let her know what Allie's doing, so she understands what's happening.' Imran nodded. 'Ah, there she is,' Compassion said. 'Excuse me.' She walked over to where Yokoi was chatting to Gordon and Saville, and tapped her gently on the shoulder. The two of them started talking quietly. 'Right...' our hostess said. 'Compassion's taking care of /that/ side of things... you see to Allie.' Imran nodded again, and went over to where Allie was sitting, slumped against the wall. After a whispered conversation, Allie nodded, and stood up, with Imran supporting her. Together, the two of them headed for Sweetheart's cart. Whew. Mmm... oh, she could really do with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies right now, our hostess thought. But... was there time? They'd /really/ knocked the Gods off balance with their act - how would they respond? Compassion looked over at her and gave her the thumbs up. Our hostess returned it. Good, that was /that/ taken care of. Now... on to the Gods' response. What would they come up with? And how could the hoedowners prepare? --- In a small secluded area backstage, something was stirring. Not life. Not death. But something. And in the eye of the something was Sailor Gallifrey, surrounded by the Major Arcana of the sacred Tarot. As she was picking each one from its pile, she was releasing and harnessing its energy. The energy that could either kill them all or save the universe. 22 cards, 22 energies, 22 ways it could all go to hell in a handbasket. And she knew something was trying to break her concentration, her mental walls, trying its best to make her doubt herself, her friends, reality as she knew it. She focused on her next card: The Moon. Illusion, transformation, deceit, games, dreams, power. Felt it move. Felt it surge forward, sensing her hesitation. She couldn't afford to lash out, let the Gods know what she was doing. She grimaced, trying to keep control on the new energies flowing through her body, while keeping it at bay. *Dammit, leave me alone!* It was laughing. Getting stronger. Feeding on her frustration. She knew she needed help, but she couldn't break the circle, not now! --- ((Out in the ring...)) A distant sound of thunder... No, something else, thundering yes, but not the sound of a massive electrical discharge striking. The thundering of hooves. Many, many hooves. The hostess moved over to the tent entrance and sneaked a peek around the curtains. A cloud of dust was heading their way, glimpses of shapes could be seen within the dust, but whatever it was threw the ground up around it, making it look like some dark shadow moving across the landscape. The cloud of dust neared, and then the shapes burst out of it. Grotesque creatures that may have once been horses and men, an army of the undead. The horses pulled chariots made of bone, the figures within mostly wore gladiatorial armour, but the bodies within were decaying, some were nothing but skeletons anymore. The hostess scarpered out of the way as they burst into the tent at full tilt. For a terrible moment, it seemed as if they would head straight into the audience. Then they stopped. No slowing down. They stopped dead. The horses and gladiators breathed, their hot, rancid breath forming clouds before them. They didn't need to breathe of course, but they did it for the effect. "They're twisting our ideas again..." Gordon sighed. "Not an original thought between them," grumbled Yokoi. "It's kind of sad in a way." "They're even using zombies, just because they know we're using them as well." "Look at them though. All our ones are of people who died while doing what they did best, bringing joy and laughter to people. I mean look at him," she indicated a large, slightly untidy man wearing a fez. "He's enjoying himself." She pointed at the gladiators. "They didn't die happily." In the audience, that look appeared on Barry's face again. He was thinking. "Hold on, they can't race in here, the ring's not big eno..." Something shifted. Igor looked at the ring, now enormous, with a giant pedestal at its centre, where the Gods Of Ragnarok sat. "The ring's as big as it needs to be." The gladiators lined up in front of the gods. Everything stood motionless, silent. A noise, movement. The horde shot off around the ring, moving in an anti-clockwise direction. Less than halfway round, the first rider had fallen to the ground and been mangled underneath hooves and wheels. "This is sick..." said a quiet voice backstage. "It's an act of the Gods. Of *course* it's sick." Imran replied. They rode faster, their vaporous breath streaming behind them as they rode round and round, round and round. One by one, horses and riders fell. Others crashed into them, not even bothering to get out of the way, running over them, through them, adding to the carnage every time. They got more vicious and more bloodthirsty with each circuit of the ring. A few took out swords, trying to attack the riders or their horses. A scream came out from the audience as some poor unfortunate soul found a decapitated head flying into their lap. Faster, louder, harder. "They're trying to build up power again. It's like some kind of dynamo..." whispered the hostess. "Or an evil hamster wheel..." Saville muttered. "A wheel of misfortune?" ventured Yokoi. Everyone stared at her for a second. "What? Puns are fun. There's always time for puns." "I think you're beginning to get puns drunk..." said Gordon. "They're either trying to build up their own energy or drain the audiences?" the hostess pondered. "The more death, the faster they go." Gordon observed. "The more, for want of a better word, anti-fun energy around here, the less pro-fun, there's usually a balance between the two I think. We're see-sawing in each direction and sooner or later, one of us will tip it far enough to stop the other." "But can we stop this?" Saville asked, indicating the oncoming storm. "I don't know, I'm kind of out of ideas right now..." he looked round, "Where's Yokoi?" He caught site of her standing just inside the curtains at the entrance to the circus, holding something in her hand, talking into it, holding it up to her ear. A mobile phone? what was she up to? Back in the ring... One chariot caught its wheel on a couple of unidentifiable bones lying on the ground, it spun and cartwheeled, a section of the audience ran out of the way as it smashed into the ringside barrier. "They're trying to take out the audience again!" Yokoi shuddered. Only two remained. One, pale skin almost falling off, still had an unnerving sense of bloodthirst in those dead eyes. The other, now nothing but bones with one or two ribbons of organic material hanging off them, looked as if he was smiling, despite having no face. The last two rode faster and faster, the sawdust rising from the ring, swirling around it. The dust swirled faster and faster, faster and faster, the wind howled. The audience held their hand up in front of their faces, ducked down under their seats, anything to get away from the stinging strikes of the dust. "They're trying to take out the audience again!" Yokoi shuddered. "They just don't give up do they?" shouted Gordon over the noise of the storm. He suddenly pointed to the maelstrom. "Hold on, what's that?!?!" A shape appeared in the storm. A regular, empty space. Even through the scream of the storm, the sound of reality being lightly shoved aside could be heard. An art-deco wardrobe suddenly appeared amidst the storm. the doors slid open and a figure walked out. Wearing goggles, and wrapped up in layers and layers of protective clothing, it was impossible to tell who it was. If you looked closely, one of the figure's gloves was larger than the other, covered in runes and circuitry. A thin cable ran from it back inside the wardrobe. The figure waited for the gladiators to round the curve. It picked up some of the little sawdust that remained on the ring's floor. "I offer you fear in a handful of dust!" She blew the dust out of her hand, just as the glove flashed. Normal everyday dust is mostly harmless. It collects on things, maybe makes you sneeze, but on the whole, it's pretty safe stuff. Dust in a dust storm is a different matter. Accelerated by high wind speeds, it scratches at your face, you have to wear protection or your eyes will be damaged forever. It *hurts*. It can even strip paint in extreme cases. So, picture if you will, what a handful of dust will do when accelerated to near lightspeed by power taken from a fully functional time/space machine... The gladiators didn't so much shatter, as dissolve in mid-step, the dust impacted and the shockwaves blew the undead warriors apart. The heat of the friction sending the remaining particles flaming backwards, like a firework display in miniature. The screaming stopped, the wind died. The dust settled. A few flaming embers lay scattered around the ring. The figure took off the goggles. Almost feline eyes regarded the Gods with disgust. The figure removed its headgear. "Although I admit that due to my scientific curiosity, I'm interested in what exactly would happen if the universe ended, I'd much rather you stuck to the theory and left the practical work alone," said the Rani. The Gods looked down. With a scream of anger, the pedestal shot up, the Gods retaking their position high above the audience. Unreachable? Untouchable? "If there's one thing I can't stand it's enthusiastic amateurs," the Rani mumbled dismissively. She looked at the assembled forces of fun peeking out from backstage. "But I suppose this time, it's all we've got." --- She walked outside, into the twilight that was descending over the little patch of forest outside. Grinning. Safely out of eyesight, she removed the rest of her protective gear and revealed a buccaneer outfit underneath. High boots, tight trousers, a tight-fitting velvet jacket with slashed sleeves, a big white shirt underneath... ...and a 1600's corset. With a Cleavage of Evil. After removing the obligatory rubber mask and wig, revealing green eyes under arched eyebrows and a mane of red hair, it was clear that, yes, bloody hell, the Rani's new incarnation had been Auntie Krizu all along!>:) Grinning, she walked back to her torture chamber in the woods and greeted the chained and lightly tortured Masters with an Evil Cackle(TM). "I still have plans for you, my darling guinea pigs," she purred, stroking AinleyDoc's beard gently with a long, purple-painted fingernail. "You boys will help me in defeating the Gods of Ragnarok whether you want it or not. I happen to enjoy pleasure and Pro-Fun is the ultimate force of pleasure in this universe." The Rani licked her lips, resting her eyes on her delicious captives. "And, of course, I'm quite prepared to believe that you boys are *quite* fond of pleasure as well." Smirking evilly, she picked up an ostrich feather and walked across the line of her prisoners, tickling each of them as she went, back and forth, relishing in their "argh"s and "curses, foiled again!"s, chuckling with pleasure. "Yes, you can join me in these... pleasures if you help me defeat the Gods of Ragnarok." Caressing her victims with a riding crop now, she knew she didn't even have to ask them yes or no, the "yes" was quite... evident in the beads of sweat on the Masters' faces and the apparent, shall we say, discomfort in their trouser region. The Rani laughed a bubbling, heartfelt laugh of joy. She went back into the woods and out again, shouting to the Pro-Fun crew: "I'm ready--and so is my army of pantomime villains!" --- Gordon stared at Yokoi. "And exactly how long have you had the Rani's mobile phone number?" "I don't know what you're talking about..." she grinned as she wandered off, singing a little tune to herself. The hostess looked back at the ring, which had returned to its normal size. The audience were beginning to settle back into their seats, still a bit scared, but too caught up in what was happening to even *think* about leaving. "I'd better go out and introduce the next act..." She brushed the last of the zombie dust from the sleeves of her ringmaster's coat, and shook out the Handkerchief of Audience. "For beings who take their name from Norse Mythology," she muttered, "they sure do seem to have a thing for first century Romans." Then she heard the gasps and exclamations from the pro-fun audience -- *happy* gasps and exclamations, and little murmurs, and ooh-look-at-that's. The others standing in the wings must have heard them, too, for they all turned to look at the audience, and then they turned to look where the audience was pointing. Epona's rose petals, like corks floating to the surface of the sea after a storm has passed, were resurfacing in the ring, as brilliant and shining as when they first appeared, trailing behind the goddess. "Of course!" Eloise said. "Why didn't I realize it sooner? The calling of Epona was the first thing we'd done that knocked the Gods of Ragnarok off balance, so ... " "So they wanted to obliterate her influence," Gordon finished for her, " -- get the thorn out of their side, so to speak." Yokoi winced. "Really!" she said with mock disgust, "of all the cliches..." "Appropriate, though," Gordon said, with a wink. "Hmph!" "They may have *tried*," Eloise said, a broad, toothy grin stretching her cheeks, "but they *didn't* succeed. Look!" The ring was filled with rose petals -- even more than when Epona had first arrived. More than bright, they were *luminescent*. The shimmered with every color she had ever seen in a sunset or sunrise. The audience -- the pro-fun audience, at least -- didn't care that no act had yet gone on. They were entranced by the spectacle before them. The Gods of Ragnarok, however, were fuming. They were also cowering -- like a snarling tiger afraid of the trainer's whip. It seemed that they had met their match. Their *match* -- if the circus duel remained a shifting balance of power, it could, quite literally, go on forever. That might be enough to distract the Gods (or whoever was their puppeteer) from sapping any more stories, and killing the omniverse. So the omniverse would be saved. But. But that would be a pretty grim fate indeed to have to do *this* forever. What they needed was something to shift the balance of power in their favor. But what? But Eloise couldn't concentrate on that question. There was no doubt about it. The petals were *multiplying*. Why? She went out into the ring to have a closer look. What she saw made her gasp again. The zombie charioteers *had* succeeded -- but their success was also their failure. The horses' hooves, the chariot wheels, and bits shattered bone had cut the rose petals to shreds. But each shred -- each shred of a shred, was growing into a whole new rose petal -- a truly *new* rose petal, not a simple clone, each with its unique color (or color*s*, in some cases). Like when Heracles cut off the one of Hydra's heads, seven more heads grew in its place. Like how one story can tickle the imagination and spawn a thousand and one more. Even when a story has been forgotten, torn to shreds by war or famine or cultural oppression, there is always something left: a turn of phrase, a striking motif, the memorable quirk of a character, *something* left to inspire a whole new story. She reached down to pick up one of the petals for a closer look. As soon as she touched it, the petal grew into a rosebud, which opened and bloomed. And as it was blossoming, a stem grew from its calyx. "Ow!" she exclaimed, as a thorn grew suddenly and pierced her thumb, drawing a large drop of blood. Without thinking, she stuck her thumb in her mouth to staunch the bleeding. And suddenly, she *knew* how they were to defeat the Gods (for this was a rose of knowledge). Still, the hoedowners couldn't just jump ahead -- they still had to work their way to the finale. But at least, now, she understood what they were building toward. She picked up the rose from where she had dropped it, carefully avoiding the thorns, this time, and breathed deep. The scent was as sweet as honey, as intoxicating as claret, as refreshing as sleep, and as sustaining as dark bread. She smiled. And picked up another petal, which blossomed into another rose. And another. And another. And another. The hoedowners cheered. This was better than any clown act. Soon, her arms were full of roses -- as much as she could carry. She tossed all but two into the audience, and the people laughed and cheered as they leapt to catch them. The last roses, the biggest of them all (a white one and a bluey-pinky one, each with a blossom the size of a dinner plate), she brought to Imran. "One for you," she said, "and one for Allie. I think she'd appreciate it if you brought them to her." ((And so Imran goes to see Allie in the Zero Room...)) * * * 48. Bokman and Zoe's magic act * * * /The avocado troll gives Imran Epona's roses.../ --- The cape swirled again. The roses disappeared. And Imran bowed. 'Thank you.' --- Xeffy covered her eyes. 'Oh no... he's turning into Fanboy Mask now!' 'Hey, it works with Allie's Sailor fuku...' 'Allie's /what/?!' 'Umm... Sailor fuku?' 'Oh /no/...' Xeffy moaned. 'What is this, a twisted episode of Sailor Moon?' 'Well, there's Sailor Gallifrey...' 'Sailor /what/?!' 'Shh! Keep it down! Auntie gets sarky 'round anime references...' 'Okay, okay... So who's next up?' 'Bokman and Zoe,' Anji supplied. 'doing magic with Lego.' 'Oh. For a moment there, I thought you were gonna say something odd.' Xeffy said. --- A universe around you. Stars and galaxies. Nebulae and clusters. Constellations half-imagined, the ones you made when you were a child. Allie sat in the centre of it all, watching it revolve. 'An Infinity Chamber...' the soft voice said. Allie shook her head. 'A Zero Room.' 'Maybe both.' The voice chuckled. 'Yeah, this /would/ appeal to you... How's...' Allie breathed out. 'How's Xeffy?' 'Enjoying herself. The Eighth's companions are keeping an eye on her.' Allie's mouth quirked. 'Love to see that...' 'Mm.' 'Remember when we first met?' Allie said eventually. 'Yes.' 'Short girl, denim jacket and jeans...' 'Mm. And you came up, introduced yourself...' "Well, I'm on work experience." Allie grinned. 'I swear, I've never seen /anyone's/ eyes go that big.' 'I knew there was /something/ up; strange girls don't usually walk up to me and say "Hi, I'm your Muse..."' 'What... You know, I've never asked this of you, but... was there a Muse before me?' She looked up at him. 'No. No, there wasn't. I'd written stuff, stories... and then you showed up.' 'And you weren't even looking for me.' 'Were you looking for... anyone?' '...No,' Allie said eventually. 'No.' Imran reached into his cloak and withdrew something from it. 'Here.' The light cast shadows on Allie's face, first edged with blue, then with pink, as she held it in her hand. 'A dream.' Allie whispered. 'This is a dream...' 'It was one of Epona's roses.' Imran said quietly. 'Whose dream?' Allie's voice was soft. 'Yours? Mine? Maybe even dreams dream...' 'Dream... Dream is watching.' Imran nodded, as if such was not unexpected to him. 'The one who /is/ Dream, who embodies them... who takes in the dreams of all things...' Allie let out a deep breath. 'And he gave Xeffy the path here, gave her the bag of sand.' Imran murmured. Allie nodded. 'It was said once that Morpheus and Calliope were lovers... Perhaps an aspect of her, I heard somewhere. Not the aspect I knew, though.' 'But Dream is no longer Morpheus. And Calliope isn't the same Calliope.' 'Stories still have power,' Allie's voice was quiet, low. 'And so does their Prince.' 'I know.' 'But /why/? Why bring her? She's twelve years old! What the Hades can she do?!' 'She came here...' Imran pointed out. 'That suggests she feels she can do /something/.' '/What?/' 'Ask her.' Imran said. 'She's the only one who can say.' Allie sighed. The dream vanished into the shifting folds of her robe. Then she stood up. 'Are you sure about this?' Imran's voice was still quiet. Allie shook her head. 'No. No, I'm not. But...' 'I know. 'I know.' --- Eloise looked toward the shadows where a woman-planet-spirit was drawing on powers. It nagged at the edge of her mind: quiet, insistent, alarming -- like the whine of a mosquito that wakes you in the middle of the night. Alryssa's / Sailor Gallifrey's desperation, frustration, exhaustion. After all, she had been expending her energies non-stop since midnight (not that she had regained all of her energy since her ordeal on Titan Three, in the first place), and now, it was nearly dawn. She picked up one more rose petal -- silver white like the moon, with veins of pale green the color of a luna moth's wings -- and let it grow into a full rose. This was a simple one, like a wild rose, with only five petals, and small. Its thorns were long and narrow, and the ends of the barbs turned upward into tiny hooks. But the petals were as perfectly balanced as the points of the star inside a pentagram. And its fragrance was the headiest of all. Careful not to break the boundary of the circle Alryssa had drawn around herself, Eloise carefully lay the rose on the floor beside her. She dared not speak, lest she break Alryssa's concentration. And after the catastrophe with Curry, she dared not send her thoughts telepathically. So instead, she sent her thoughts to the air around her -- a sort of silent chant for building strength: "Every thorn protects a treasure. Every lock has its own key. Every nightmare holds the truth, If we but have the will to See." --- Something stepped out of the shadows backstage. Looked around. Stepped over to where Alryssa was sitting in deep concentration. 'You can be hurt.' Shayde said. 'You can be damaged.' The presence that watched Alryssa turned to the shadow construct. 'You are threatening her. Leave, otherwise I will have no recourse but to use force.' Pleasure. Malicious, childish pleasure. 'This is not the place. This is not the time. /Leave/.' Tease. Aggravate. Frustrate. Lose control. As did you. The presence reacted sharply. Would you care to remember? Mnemosyne said. Again? Hurt. Cannot hurt. No, I cannot. Mnemosyne said. I see what you were. I see what you seek to do. I cannot hurt you, for you have passed beyond. But you still know pain, and hurt, and rage, and so you have set on your path. You seek to disrupt this woman's concentration, to break her part of the web here You seek to disrupt those who fight you in /all/ the Fictiverses. But Rassilon's agent has spoken here, in this place, and I stand behind him. You will leave. /Now/. Disappointment. Frustration. A game spoiled. Leave. Mnemosyne said again. The presence hung in the air for a moment - then was gone. 'Thank you, milady.' Shayde said. As ever, Mnemosyne said. I still have much to speak of with the Grey One... 'I'm sure he will be pleased to hear that.' Getting a sense of irony, Shayde? You surprise me... 'I am often surprised at what I do,' Rassilon's troubleshooter remarked. 'As Fey has often observed, surprise is an important part of life...' He crossed his arms, and disappeared into the shadows once again. --- It was several moments before the Scout realised she had been holding her breath for what must have been a long time... ...infinity... Concentrate. Don't lose the balance now. She had felt the other presences, known they were there, but could not communicate with them... now they were gone, and the malicious one with it. A silent acknowledgement of assistance. And... as she held up the 20th card, Judgement, she began to see... See something that would upset the balance forever. Win them the war. Every thorn has its treasure.... ...Like every nightmare has an end. And their end was in sight. Bring them into the light! It was right about then that all hell broke loose... on more than one level. --- ((But meanwhile...)) "Okay, here goes!" Bokman and Zoe walk into the center ring/stage, which is still mysteriously covered with rose petals. Bokman is wearing a Pertwee-esque outfit complete with cape; Zoe is in her catsuit from THE MIND ROBBER. "Not quite a magician or assistant's outfit, but who am I to complain about her dress sense?" Bok observes. He then turns to the audience as Zoe takes out a medium-size box, which rumbles and growls. Chains and a padlock surround it. "Ladies, gentlemen, horses, gods, and zombies! In this box of mystery and illusion we have captured the force that will generate our entire act. This force is so powerful we dare not unleash it at full strength, but must channel it. I give to you..." -he and Zoe make dramatic gestures- "FACTION PARADOX!!!" "Aren't they dead?" a voice from the crowd observes. "The Faction rejects such limiting concepts as death," Zoe replies. "How can they fit in a box?" "The Faction rejects such limiting concepts as size." "How'd you get them in there?" "I promised them punch and pie," Bokman answers. "Now, anyway, we all know that the Faction Paradox used their control over space, time and whatever to cause paradoxes, mess with people's pasts, jumble up timelines and give everyone headaches. However, we decided to take the Paradox's gift of confusion and use it to everyone's benefit! So, we joined their power with all the universe's great sources of mystic, temporal and general creative energy..." Behind the two appear large, impressive replicas of the Pyramids, the Eye of Harmony, the Hollywood sign, the Sydney Opera House, etc. Into the center, after dramatic fanfare, is lowered.... ... a rather unimpressive 18" replica of Stonehenge made out of legos. "I knew we should have doublechecked those measurements," Bok observes. "Maybe if we'd done it in Duplo..." Zoe comments. "Forget that! Anyhow, we've got lots of weird creative and temporal and whatever power at our disposal, and through this we give you our... FEATS OF DISCONTINUITY!" Zoe wheels on the first item, a large ornate globe featuring a mysterious, gray-green planet shrouded in clouds. "This," says Bokman, "is Gallifrey. Home of the Time Lords, most important world in the known universe, inspiration for the Sailor of the same name. For those of you following along at home, sometime last year, this happened." Zoe presses a button, and the planet explodes into a billion pieces of ash and dust. For some reason the actual globe remains intact, but the image it shows is of drifting debris. "Now," Zoe cuts in, "not everyone thought this was a good idea. Some people thought all the stories about Gallifrey had been told, or at least all those in the present tense. But you know, I'd never been there. And Bok swore he had an idea for a Gallifrey story he might do one day, so I thought this up." Zoe flips a switch on the globe. The explosion runs in reverse, and Gallifrey loops back into its old familiar self. "This," Zoe proclaims, "Is the incredible disappearing-reappearing Gallifrey!" "But wait!" Bokman picks up the spiel. "Suppose you think Gallifrey being blown to smithereens is a good idea? Suppose you've got your idea for something that can only be done if the Time Lords aren't around? Well..." He flips a second switch, and Gallifrey explodes again. "The incredible disappearing-reappearing Gallifrey works in any direction! In fact, after some discussion and way too many Pan-Galactic Gargle Blasters, we worked this out..." Zoe flips a third switch, and the dust and debris all vanish, leaving empty space. "You can erase Gallifrey from existence altogether!" she declares. "Make the Doctor a living paradox! Raise bizarre questions!" "Obviously," Bokman notes, flipping the first switch to make Gallifrey re-appear, "this third option might not be used much. Still, we took the time to work it out and all, so it's on the thing whether anyone needs it or not! We've also got a Skaro version, but that's more or less the same thing." "And on to our next feat!" Zoe announces as Bokman wheels the globe off. "Now for this one, we've enlisted the help of someone from Earth." Bokman comes on stage. Trailing behind him is Sergeant Benton. "Front and center, Benton!" he orders. Benton complies and stands at attention. "Okay, now at ease!" Benton slumps. "Attention!" Benton stands rigid again. "At ease! Attention! At ease! Attention! At..." Zoe nudges Bok in the ribs. "Sorry." He then wheels out a bizarre ray on a stand, and aims it at the abused soldier. "Don't worry," Bok says, "this won't hurt him. Much. Now, Sergeant Benton, who do you work for?" "The United Nations Intelligence Taskforce," he answers. "Isn't that supposed to be a top secret group?" Zoe asks. "Oh, damn." "Don't worry, we all know about it here," Bokman says. "Now, what year is it back on Earth?" "1971. Wait, that's not classified too, is it?" "No, no." "Hang on a tic, that's not right. It's 1980. No, wait, 2001! No, hang on, let's see Sarah was born back in '80, the Brig retired in '75- but he's still working with us..." "Ladies and gentleman, the paradox of UNIT dating. It has baffled mathematicians, Whovians, and for some reason the entire parking staff at Trader Vic's. Nobody knows how all this happened, but the Doctor said it might have had something to do with the time he reversed the polarity of the neutron flow while mucking with the dematerialization circuit while at the same time trying to replace the cartridge on his turntable. But let's not assign blame. Let's simply try to fix it!" He goes over to the ray and presses a button. Weird purple energy shoots out, engulfs Benton, and fades off. "Now, then," Bokman says, striding back to Benton's position, "What year is it." "1986, sir." "You sure it's not 2001, or 1972, or the Battle of Waterloo?" Zoe asks. "Absolutely not, Miss." Bokman and Zoe make dramatic gestures. "He's cured!" Bok proclaims. "But say he doesn't like 1986? Suppose he's feeling retro? Well, this Time Shifter ray can make it so he and UNIT are back in 1971, or twenty years in the future, or any time. You see, a few decades are so meaningless to the rhythms of the universe that it's easy to teleport an entire continuity a few decades back or forward in time. So, not only can we set UNIT dating to whatever we want it to be-" "I wish I'd been around to see Woodstock," Benton interjects wistfully. "We can move any bit of the Whoniverse anywhen it needs to be! Skaro back to 1963, then forward three hundred years- a snap. The Cybermen back to 1988 then just in time to meddle with the Earth Empire- entirely do-able. No more elaborate explanations necessary! You need never reference the official history of the Whoniverse again! Unless of course you want to!" "Hey Bok, let's get to the closer!" Zoe suggests. "Good idea, Zoe. Benton, you can have a seat." Benton goes into the audience and is handed some popcorn. "Sgt. Benton, let's give him a hand everyone!" There is applause. Zoe and Bokman rush backstage. A few moments pass. They come back out, pushing a huge lantern-like device in front of them. They finally manage to get it to the center of the ring. "This," Bokman says after getting back his breath, "is something me and Zoe worked on together. Now, you remember, at one point in the history of the Whoniverse, a great and wise people called the Logopolitans opened up CVEs to other universes to prevent entropy of this one. Entropy could have ultimately destroyed this universe through increasing and irreversible decay and disorder." "The same holds true for creativity," Zoe continues. "New blood is needed to get stories going, and new things are needed to use. The Whoniverse is not bounded by space or time, but like any continuity in runs the risk of being too wrapped in itself. To this end, inspired by my brief stay in the Land of Fiction, we've developed what we hope will contribute some much needed outside energy to this Hoedown." "This," Bokman says, "is an aperture to outside the continuity. From here, you can drag anything into or out of the Whoniverse. Now, though the idea of crossovers between continuities is generally regarded as fanwanky.... we don't care. Let's go crazy!" He presses a button, and a humming starts up. A red "flame" appears in the center of the lantern. "The way this device works," Zoe explains, "is much like the CVE. It doesn't pull things into or out of this Whoniverse but rather lets just about anything wander in or out. And judging from the radar panel it looks like two entities are just about to... yes..." Out of the flame step two well-dressed middle-aged men. One is balding, has a ruddy complexion and stocky build. The other is short, lean and blonde. "Niles, I'm sorry, I can't vacate the apartment just so you and Daphne can recreate your first flagrante delicto. I've got a meeting of the opera board to greet, and somehow I don't think we'd be able to hear my TRAVIATA recording over the moans." "If you're using the Met recording, there probably won't be any difference. Besides..." the fair-haired one trails off as he looks around. "Is it just me, or have they redecorated?" "Welcome, travelers!" Bokman declares. "This isn't Chez Henri, is it?" "Nope. You're in the Whoniverse now!" "Sounds like one of those new dance clubs," the larger man cracks. Zoe laughs. "These two should be fun! They're a regular Holmesian double act!" "You see, Frasier, I told you people would talk if we kept going to dinner together. We're like the Collier brothers now..." "Yes, Niles, I heard the story. Listen," he says, turning to Bokman, "what is all of this about?" "You just stepped outside the continuity. It's a disorienting experience, but you'll adjust." "Outside the continuity?" Niles says, astounded. "What does that entail?" "You're not in your universe anymore," Zoe explains. "Well, that won't do! I've got a group of overagressives to meet with tomorrow, and I need to stop by the cafe tonight to pick up some decaf!" "Obviously," Bokman says, turning to the crowd, "not everyone enjoys stepping out of their world. But, of course, the change need never be permanent, and..." he turns, noticing Frasier trying to chat up Zoe. "Hands off!" "Sorry, force of habit," the elder Crane replies. "Okay, now, if you two need to get back, just step right through the flame, we'll pick up somebody else." "Finally, some help!" Niles responds, walking through the flame in a huff. Frasier follows. "That was a bit of a waste," Bokman sighs. "Nonsense, we'll catch them at a better time," Zoe assures him. "Besides, we've got someone else walking in..." "WHAT THIS?!" a great confused bellow rings out. A large green dragon lizard walks out, clad in... unusual garments. "Finn Fang Foom!" Bokman declares. "What were you doing outside the continuity?" "Stepped into continuity of LEATHER CATALOG!" "How'd you manage that?" "Not easy! But WORTH it!" "I see." Bokman thinks for a second- though Foom is normally a dangerous character to be within a mile's radius of, in a Pro-Fun environment he'd be tolerable, even useful. If the GoR ever were to bring out some heavy artillery- "Why don't you have a seat, watch the rest of the show." "Anyone DIE?" "Not yet." "BORING!" "There is however the imminent threat of our defeat and apparent enslavement at the hands of nasty deities from the end or beginning or middle of time." "ENSLAVEMENT?! Why no SAY so?" Finn takes a very large seat, next to the most daring Hoedowners. Zoe turns to Bokman. "I think this is getting unnecessarily dragged out." "That's just his tail. At least I hope it's his tail." "No, I mean- look, let's do one more, and see where that goes, okay?" Bokman's reply is cut short by a sudden rush of sound. Figure after figure steps through the flame- recognized fictional icons and original creations alike, from the most dashing hero to the most nondescript thug. Buck Rogers. Emma Peel. Beanish. Zippy the Pinhead, chanting "Rolykin Dalek! Rolykin Dalek! Rolykin Dalek!" An entire Elizabethan theater troupe. A mysterious robed wizard. A werewolf. A superintelligent cybertank. Godzilla. The Karkus, giving a nod of acknowledgement to Zoe. More creations, almost as many as can be imagined. They file out into the circus, filling all the empty seats. Buck steps over to Bokman and Zoe. "We heard you folks were in a scrap, needed some stories. I'm sure you all are plenty creative on your own, but if you want to use us, any of us, we'll be glad to chip in and fight the good fight. If the Gods of Ragnarok win here, who knows what they'll do to all the other continuities? We'll just sit in the stands for now, but call us if you need anything." "That's great news!" Zoe declared. "With all these creations we can do just about anything!" "I never knew Buck Rogers was so philosophical," Bokman ponders. "Um, okay-" turning to the crowd- "look folks, we've got reinforcements!" Applause rings out. "Even though they came through this gadget, really, Zoe and I didn't do anything that anyone else couldn't. The Whoniverse is not a fixed universe, nor is it isolated! All stories are connected, and that's our strength in this battle." Zoe continues as Bokman brings all the gadgets out together. "We've used science to enhance art, which should show that just about anything can do the same! Life experience, philosophy, religion, anthropology- any area of experience is useful. You've all got a gift- that's why you're all here. Art is composed of ideas and images, so let's hold on to both!" "Perhaps most importantly," Bokman closes (he won the backstage coin toss), "art is composed of life. We've all gotten a pretty good creative fire going so far, and let's remember that crucial spark of life that got the blaze going. Nourish the fire, and we'll win! So everyone- if you've got an act prepared, good luck! If you've already done one, thanks for the help! And if you're in the audience, you can still make a difference when the time comes! Let's all have some fun with this!" They close with a flourish and a bow. As applause is (hopefully) heard, Bok and Zoe continue to bow and curtsey respectively. "Thank you all. Enjoy the punch and pie, order a copy of LIFEDEATH- it's for charity, we're in it and I'm not doing this act without a plug- and prepare for the rest of the show!" Together the two pull their gadgets and props off to the side and then head to their seats, buzzing with excitement over whatever will come next. * * * 49. Kid Curry goes to find Allie's soul * * * /But Kid Curry has been thinking.../ --- As Bokman and Zoe came forward into the pool of light, Kid Curry made his way quietly round the edge of the side-ring to where almost all the seats were empty. Smooth movements, no hurry; nothing to draw attention. Working his way to where he wanted -- he scowled; no, strike that -- where he /needed/ to be. Right next to the Gods of Ragnarok. He could feel the charm at his neck trembling softly, like a living thing. He guessed the Gods couldn't touch him directly. They'd tried, back when they first arrived. Tried to take him out with a lightning strike. Hadn't even singed a hair. Looked like they couldn't kill him, then. But they could sure try to trick him. Take a man's own rage, own hatred, and use it against him... to cut him off from the most precious thing he'd ever held. No need to kill when they knew just how to break his mind. Break his protection. Go straight for Allie. Always Allie. Why her? Why try to steal a Muse? Gods of uncreation. Gods of mockery and hunger. And what was a Muse? He didn't rightly understand -- didn't even know if she was flesh and blood or some kind of spirit-woman -- but from what he'd seen, this last day or two, a Muse *made* stories. Just by existing. Just by being with her Writer. Imran needed his Muse... to *create*. And so maybe that was just what the Gods had in mind. Maybe, to bring down what they had planned, to trigger the final act and open every world to their desiring -- there was something they needed to *create*. Something bad, sure. Something *real* bad... but even for that, they needed more imagination than they'd ever have. So they'd set out to get them a Muse of their own. A mockery of a Muse. Part of a soul. And if what they'd done to /him/ was anything to go by, he had this feeling it wouldn't be the *best* part of Allie's soul they'd hooked into, either. Not parts she'd be proud of... but parts they could use. For what they wanted. And anything *they* wanted -- sure was liable to be bad news. --- Kid Curry stared up at the swirling hatred above. -- Contessa? How'm I gonna crack this one? No answer... guess he still didn't know how to work this thing. Have to wait for *her* to contact *him* -- and by what she'd told him last, maybe things were getting kind of rough in Vortex City. Maybe she didn't have time to spare. He unfastened the rawhide thong one more time, untwisting the knot rubbed smooth and black against his shirt. Cupped in his hand, the lines marked around the center of the blue bead led the eye in... down... maybe he could get to see her, figure out some way to help... No. He pulled himself back with a strength he hadn't known he possessed. A sight of the Contessa was what *he* wanted. But it wasn't what the Hoedown needed. It wasn't what *Allie* needed -- either part of her. He'd let the Gods get to her. Now he was going to steal that soul back. And they'd never even know he was coming... until he was good and ready to leave. Better keep the horses saddled up for *that* getaway, though. One way or another -- win or lose -- he had this feeling they'd be high-tailing it out of town in a *big* way. --- Out in the ring, Bokman grinned and swept his cape in a final, shimmering flourish to open the climax of the act. Zoe stepped back, one hand outstretched dramatically. And the Gods' eagerness and hatred streamed out over the outlaw's head, oblivious to all else. Kid Curry held up the bead. Looked into the charm, let the power flow. Looked *through* the charm. Sank down, down, down... or maybe that was up, up, up... Like drowning. Pale face tossing, slipping away in dark water -- long, dark hair -- He gasped, choking, rolled over and over, battered by the blinding stream. Power all around him. Pulling at him, tearing at his clothes, his limbs, his eyes -- He caught a breath, then another. Not rushing, now. Drifting. Not water, after all. Not even the old nightmare of the river... Drifting in nothing. A wasteland. No 'land' at all. No light. No warmth. Nothing hard. Nothing firm. Nothing real. Where am I? Inside -- but inside of what? Where? A cold thought. Inside the Gods of Ragnarok? Is this, then... what's left -- /after/? --- Floating... for a long time... --- "Kid?" A girl. A ghost. Silver. Powdered hair. Diamonds at her throat, pale on curving milky skin above a low-cut gown. Gloves, white to the elbow. Under the skirt, tiny slippers of silver fur. Oh, she was mighty fine, right enough; dressed for the dance, a real belle... "Kid!" She touched him -- or tried. Her glove slid through his arm with barely a tingle. A catch in her breath. "Kid -- can't you see me? I'm here -- it's me -- it's Allie --" Allie? He stared at the ghost; trying to remember. Something important he'd come here to do -- Allie -- who was Allie? --- ((In Vortex City, Doc Gallifrey is having trouble - but nothing he can't handle...)) He's running now. The storm is hard on his heels. And so are its riders. Vortex City is devastated. They're holdin' on... but barely. They need time to regroup. To pull together. To stop the fading. Away from the city. Take it out of the city. Here. Turn. Face. The contest begins again. All he has - all he's ever had - are his wits and his guns. Can't use the guns 'gainst this storm. But he can use his wits. Against its riders. They want him. He knows why. Coming up to the jump... /now/. He turns, raises the gun, and /fires/. Into one of the riders. The rider holds its shape for a moment- -then dissolves. Not dead, though. Banished, but not dead. Looks like the family guns were just what was needed - or the symbol emblazoned on them, maybe. They'll be running scared now. Running scared and /angry/. They can be hurt here, be banished - and they weren't expecting that. He doesn't have the bullets to drive them all back - that wasn't the plan. But he's got enough to hold them off. For just long enough. For the city. --- ((Meanwhile, back in the ring, the Eighth Doctor's companions are coming up with a few ideas of their own...)) Izzy blinked at the incredible reappearing-disappearing Gallifrey. 'Oh, /that/ explains it...' 'Explains what?' Charley asked. 'Why Fey and me can go to Gallifrey in /our/ continuity, while Fitz and Anji can't - Gallifrey still exists in the comics.' 'Oh... And it lets Neverland happen next year!' Charley realised. 'Mm-hmm. This way, we not only have the cake and eat it too, we can eat it as many times as we want.' 'Mm.' Izzy looked around. 'Hey, you seen the others?' 'The anime guys? Spike, Dawn and Anya? Oh, and Jack?' 'Mm.' 'They've been in the audience.' 'Ah.' Gordon spoke up. "Yeah, luckily the Gods are just concerned with the audience as a whole, not with who's actually *in* the audience... "What do you mean?" asked Imran. Gordon led Imran up to the curtain and pointed towards some audience members. "Well, the most obvious ones are those two." he said, pointing at a moustachioed plumber and a bright blue, anthropomorphic hedgehog.* "And over there in the green top, swapping archaeological anecdotes with Benny?"** "The two women discussing survival horror tactics over there?" he said, indicating the pair, one with bright red hair and grey body armour, the other in a blue police uniform***. "And that's just to name a few. Saville's been busy. Interactive fiction at work..." * Mario and Sonic...obviously :) ** Lara Croft *** Regina from Dino Crisis, Jill Valentine from Resident Evil (where Barry is also from) --- "Interactive fiction?" said a querulous, elderly, female voice from behind them. "I can't be havin' with that kind of thing." 'Can't be having with stories at all...' 'Hello, Mistress Weatherwax.' Imran said, very, *very* politely. 'Mrs Ogg.' 'Wotcha.' Nanny said. 'Miss Nitt.' Agnes bobbed a bow. (Witches never curtsey.) 'Um... Hello.' 'Hold on, didn't she just say-' 'I know.' 'And I can't be havin' with /them/, either,' Granny Weatherwax proclaimed, indicating the Gods. 'Neither can we,' Gordon said. 'Goin' round, treatin' people like things. Do this. Do that, or we will kill you. No, can't be having with that at all.' 'Or anything that treats people like things. That /uses/ people... like stories.' Granny peered at him closely. 'Hmm. And you're fighting to save 'em.' 'It's about working with the stories. Not letting it control you... but directing it, stepping back, watching from outside the story..' 'Mm. And how do you know you're outside the story, hmm?' 'First, you've got to realise you're /in/ a story before you can think about stepping outside.' 'Sharp. Be careful you don't cut yourself, young man.' '/They/ want a story where everything else is theirs to use.' Imran said. 'The last story.' 'It's not about /use/, young man. It's about judging. Judging what you're going to do, each moment of your life.' 'Or choices.' 'You've gotta know what you're doing.' 'Umm...' 'Gytha suggested we have a good, old-fashioned, hoedown. Hah.' 'Well, it is.' Nanny Ogg said. 'People gettin' drunk, singin' rude songs an' forgettin' the words, punchups...' 'You know, she's right.' Gordon said to no-one in particular. --- Izzy's eyes widened. 'Wait a minute... Wait a minute! We've got the /Norns/ with us!' 'The.. You're /right/!' Charley breathed. 'Or at least an /aspect/ of them - most definitely /not/ a traditional one...' 'I was /wondering/ when you'd get around to realising that...' the tall white-haired young woman behind them said, grinning. 'The Gods of Ragnarok draw on aspects of Norse myth. So do we.' 'Urd... Why didn't you mention this before?' 'Because someone - naming no names - managed to overlook us...' Urd gave Imran a dark look. 'He thought we were just here for the side story.' 'We've got a problem, though.' the young girl with long black hair sitting next to her piped up. 'I thought you were gonna say that, Skuld...' 'We're not from /those/ Gods' continuity. Or traditional Norse myth. We're /another/ take on the three Norns.' Urd observed. 'A Japanese one.' 'Still...' Izzy mused. 'We've got you guys, we've got the Creeper... we have Spike, Anya and Dawn, from Buffy's continuity...' 'And as Mr Rogers pointed out, this threatens /all/ the continuities. Luckily, /not/ all the continuities've been attacked by...' 'By whatever's behind the Gods. Whatever's... influencing the Gods - and their counterparts in other multiverses.' 'We will stand with you,' Urd said quietly. 'We, Lum and Ataru, Ryoga, Ukyo, Kuno... Tenchi, Ayeka, Ryoko, Mihoshi, Sasami... all of us will stand with you.' 'And the guys who just popped in.' Skuld said. 'Evangelion, Slayers, El-Hazard... hey, Buck /said/ they'd be /more/ than happy to help.' 'Hmm...' Urd looked over at the Gods of Ragnarok.'In letting /us/ in... Hm.' 'Keep away from Auntie, though.' Charley advised. 'Not keen on anime or manga.' 'This /does/ affect us,' Urd observed. 'All of us - even those of us from genres others hate. /All/ the stories are threatened. Without us... there's nothing to judge what they like against. And nothing for those who do like us. This encompasses /all/ of us.' Izzy blinked. 'Wait a minute... Wait a minute. Norse myth. Norse myth. Adaptations...' 'She gets like this,' Charley apologised. Izzy turned to Urd and Skuld. 'Hey, guys... could you work out how the Gods were bound in the first place?' 'Maybe. Our mythology and the Gods' do share a few elements. If we had a few details to work back from...' 'Then let's go find that Master... if Auntie's done with him yet.' --- ((In a nothing place...)) What she did for him... Give it up. Give it all up. And, oh, how she'd wanted to, how she'd /wanted/ it. She'd gone to the ball. And the clock struck midnight. Then the prince had unmasked. And she'd realised. Not a ball. A Masque. '...And the Red Death shall have dominion over all.' Run to the window. Run. But... Someone must be out there, in the darkness. Someone to hear her call. 'Please...' And then- nothing. No Masque, no ball. Nothing. A wasteland, devoid of anything. Life. Love. Fiction. Reality. A void. An endless, barren waste. And now she understood. 'You need never do anything again.' For there was nothing. Had been nothing. Would be nothing. Nothing. Then something. A presence. Something that is /not/ the Gods, for the Gods are Nothing. 'Kid?' Her hand passes through his arm. Is she a ghost? Or is he? She can see him... 'Kid... can't you see me? I'm /here/... It's me, it's Allie...' He looks at her blankly. Doesn't recognise her. Doesn't know her. Doesn't know anything. 'Who's Allie?' 'I am.' 'No...' Kid's face twists in thought. 'Who's Allie?' 'I am. I'm... a character. An incarnation. A personification. The creative impulse. The inspiration to set down and complete a story. I give inspiration - my author's inspiration - face and form.' 'That don't tell me who she is.' 'She's the one who had to look after her baby sister when her mother started fading. She's the one who's always getting irritated because her sister just won't stop acting like a baby. She enjoys tormenting the little brat - hell, she deserves it sometimes. She wants to give it all up, to never have to do anything again. 'She's the one who failed in college - it wasn't telling her anything, not anything important. She's the one Calliope placed on work experience - /work/ experience. She's gone through /hell/ for her bloody writer, and they /still/ won't make her a full muse. 'She saw her mother /die/. And she said to herself 'I'm not going like that'. She doesn't want to die - wants to hold on to her author as long as she can. 'Sometimes... sometimes, she wishes she could just have been someone else, someone who never had to /deal/ with all of this.' 'You're not Allie.' 'I am.' 'Then why you talking about her as if she's a different person?' 'Because...' She hesitates. 'Because it doesn't feel like /me/. It feels like it happened to someone else.' 'Maybe it did.' 'THEN HOW DO I REMEMBER?!' 'Maybe that's a question you should be asking yourself, lady.' 'Lady?' She looks down at herself, at her silver gown, at her tiny slippers. 'Am I a lady? Allie isn't a lady...' she says hesitantly. 'Then who are you?' 'I'm...' She doesn't know. She doesn't know, anymore. --- 'Now, as I was sayin'... can't be having with stories. Or with gods. And what we've got over there's worst of both of them. Entertain and die. Obey and die. Die for me. Hah. It's all they know - themselves.' 'You should know what story you're getting into. Otherwise, you can't decide where it goes.' 'Exactly. /Exactly/, young feller-me-lad. /People/ decide, not stories.' 'But we need stories, otherwise we wouldn't be us.' 'Stories need you, too. Don't forget that. They need players - jus' as much as we need to imagine. So don't be lettin' it get away from you, let it turn someone into a thing.' 'We're /all/ people, Mistress Weatherwax.' 'And don't you forget that. 'Cause when you do... that's when the story makes /you/ a thing. /You're/ in charge. And so are those inside - know what you're decidin', an' what /they're/ decidin'. Watch, don' meddle. It's /their/ choice.' Granny sighed. 'But gods always want to meddle. Do this. Do that. Can't go believing in gods. Can believe in people, sometimes - but you can't believe in gods.' 'That's why we're here, Mistress Weatherwax. They're treating people like things. They want to have /everything/ as their thing, deciding what it does.' 'And what do /you/ want?' Imran hesitated. 'To try and treat people like people. To remember, no matter where I am, that I'm dealing with people - not obstacles, not aids, not characters - but people.' 'Hmm.' Granny said. 'That's why. So we don't end up like them, that we get to choose what happens.' Granny slowly smiled. 'Well, then. Let's see what we can do, eh? Now...' 'Umm... We were thinking of asking someone about how the Gods were bound.' 'Good. Good. You're /thinking/.' 'Hn?' 'Now then...You,' Granny indicated Izzy and Charley. 'And you two,' She turned to point at Urd and Skuld. 'Let's get movin'. Can't wait all night, you know. People to do, things to see - so why don't we get started?' The others blinked. 'Well?' 'Where're we going?' 'We're goin' to see a man about some Gods...' And so the little group - Charley, Izzy, Urd, Skuld, Granny, Nanny and Agnes - set off. --- As Imran and Gordon watched them go a voice cried out. "Good grief! Archchancellor, come and have a look at these readings." "What is it, young Stibbons?" Ridcully asked. "Odd results on that dratted thaumometer again?" "This isn't a thaumometer, Archchancellor." explained Ponder Stibbons patiently. "Or rather, it *is*, but it was redesigned by Hex..." "Ook!" "...by Hex and the Librarian to detect high concentrations of narrativium. And this place, wherever it is, is *packed* with the stuff!" "Meanin'?" "Well, I'm, I'm not sure, sir." "Capital. Anyway, wherever we are, it sounds like Cruel And Unusual Geography to me. Where's the fella with the box?" During this discussion Daibhid had been picking his way through the crowd towards them. He quickly filled them in on the situation, and was about to go into greater depth when Imran pulled him aside. "Just for reference, did you pick up any other Discworlders?" "Well, I think I saw you chatting to the Lancre Coven -" Imran nodded - "and Rincewind should be around somewhere. I *think* Susan might be coming later. I asked her to find Lobsang." "Do we really need an Incarnation of Time at this point?" asked Imran. "Couldn't hurt," shrugged Daibhid. "There's so much narrativium/potential story energy/whatever around here that if we don't need him, he won't turn up. Oh, I also visited some other fictiverses I thought might be useful." Imran glanced over to where Ponder was discussing magic theory with two young teenagers who strongly resembled smaller versions of the nerdy wizard. One was wearing a T-shirt and jeans, while the one with the scar wore a strange school uniform and a wizard's hat. Both had owls perched on their shoulders. "You mentioned Susan. What about..." "Oh *he's* here." responded Daibhid with inappropriate cheerfulness. "Talking shop with the others." "Others?" Daibhid pointed to where a tall, dark, indistinct figure was grouped with several similar figures, two pale young women in black and a plump woman in a pink sweater, leaning incongrously on a Flymo. The figure at which Daibhid had pointed, distunguished from the others by the smaller version perched on its shoulder turned. DON'T WORRY. WE'RE NOT HERE ON BUSINESS. He paused. MOST OF US. Imran would have pressed that point, but the Gods seemed to have decided how to respond to Bokman's act... --- Idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot. Where's he gone? Where's he gone? She'd said Allie had had her soul stolen... said maybe she hadn't got all of it back... and the suspicion in him hit. She /saw/ it. The moment she'd said that, she'd /seen/ the thought occur to him - maybe it hasn't. If it hasn't... He'd gone. And she could guess where he'd gone. To get Allie's soul back. But what if she'd been wrong? What if Allie's soul hadn't been stolen...? She looked over at the darkness on the other side of the ring. She knew where he'd gone. But what- 'Xephanya?' The shadowman sat down next to her. 'Umm... Shayde?' The shadowman nodded. 'Yes. And I think you are correct. I think part of Allie's soul has been stolen.' 'How-' 'A simple guess.' Shayde turned the black sphere of his head towards the Gods. 'And you believe Kid has gone to retrieve it.' 'How did you know-' 'It is what I think he would do as well - use his talents as an outlaw to steal it back.' Shayde said. 'And he hasn't come back. And the Gods're just about to put on /their/ act.' 'Yes.' Shayde said. 'So what can /we/ do?' 'We are...' Shayde paused. 'We are going to wait for the Gods' act. And then... we shall see what we can do.' The little ringmaster stepped out into the ring. 'And this is where we begin,' Shayde added softly. ((Next up was the Gods' magic act...)) * * * 50. The Gods' magic act * * * /The avocado troll prepared to announce the next act.../ --- The ringmaster cleared her throat somewhat nervously. The ring felt uncomfortably empty. She glanced up at the tiered seats on the far side of the Big Top, shrouded beneath the coiling darkness of the Gods' presence; but there was still no sign of their next act. The silence stretched out. At the back of her mind she could have sworn she heard high, snickering mockery from somewhere far off and yet horribly close... ::All right, then::: The hostess straightened her shoulders -- at least, as far as her round little shape was capable of doing so, which to be honest was not very far. From the bleachers came a soft hoot of encouragement as the Librarian recognized a fellow creature with similar morphic problems. The orang-utan threw her a bananana. ~~~ "Banana skins!" Waiting in the wings for their own act to go on, Gordon and Saville nudged each other, as the same idea sprang into both Pro-Fun minds. Gordon grinned. "Hey, I wonder if that ape's got any more handy fruit?" ~~~ Down in the ring, the ripple of laughter from the audience had broken the tension. The avocado troll skipped a few steps and bowed, flourishing her spangled whip in one hand and newly-acquired snack in the other. "Ladies, gentlemen, Trolls and Other Entities --" a bow towards the section of the bleachers which held some of the odder new arrivals; another, deeper, in acknowledgment towards the unseen aura of the Goddesses who looked on -- "in the second part of their latest and most audacious act, I present to you... the Magic of the Gods of Ragnarok!" And with a final florid gesture, she tossed the banana high into the spotlight beam, and stripped the peel from it with a swift flick of her ringmaster's whip and a sparkle of private Pro-Fun magic. The pale fruit flew off into the audience, where the Librarian fielded it with both feet and muffled sounds of enjoyment. The skin descended with a loud splat straight into the middle of her forehead, and plastered itself across her ringmaster's hat like a yellow, slippery cockade. This time, the ripples of laughter had swelled to a roar. The avocado troll trotted off, waving. :::Let's see them top that!::: she thought, smiling all over her broad face, as she took her seat among the happy, excited crowd. For a moment, as the ring remained empty, she even nursed hopes that the Gods were going to forfeit; that the build-up at the start had been a last desperate attempt to intimidate their way out of the fact that they had no performance prepared. But even as the thought crossed her mind, there came a sudden collective gasp from the audience... and the Gods' magician became visible in the very center of the Big Top with a purple flash. Somehow, by the self-satisfied expression on the blond perfection of his face, she *knew* that he had been there all along... watching her antics with that same patronising sneer. Our Hostess bit her lip, the warm bubble of anticipation almost all gone. :::I won't let them get to me::: she vowed, glancing round to see if she could glimpse Imran anywhere. She couldn't; and Curry didn't seem to be in his place either... ~~~ There was another gasp from the audience. With a single sweep of his cape, the magician had revealed the beautiful robot assistant at his side... a perfect replica of Zoe. Up in the second tier, Bokman jumped to his feet. Zoe's hand flew to her mouth. "Have ye no sense, man?" Jamie caught hold of Bokman and pulled him back down, with the aid of the Second Doctor. ~~~ "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen." Magician and assistant bowed, as if the ripple of disquiet had been applause. "And for our next trick... the Jumping Jack of Spades!" Another pass of his cloak, and the assistant was holding a giant deck of cards. She riffled through them in an expert shuffle, displaying the faces of the whole deck; then, one by one, the location of each Jack. "Ladies and gentlemen, may we have a volunteer from the audience to inspect the cards... please!" A shuffling in the bleachers. No-one had bargained for this. On the other hand... it was definitely required by the classic rules of the act. And after the gruesome turn of the Gods' last two performances, the clean-cut blond magician and his lovely accomplice -- however robotic -- seemed almost harmless. The magician spread his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen... would one of you care to assure himself that absolutely no trickery is involved?" In the front row, Jim Vowles got up slowly to his full height of six feet two inches. "I missed my act - I'll go." There was a squeak of dismay from the little deputy, who'd been sitting next to him. "It's okay," he reassured her, bending almost double. "I don't think they're going to try anything that obvious..." And with that, he walked out rather gingerly into the ring. "Ladies and gentlemen -- " the robot Zoe spoke for the first time -- "a big hand of applause for our volunteer!" As the clapping died away, a bemused Jim inspected every card before pronouncing the deck complete and apparently tamper-free, and being sent back to his seat with a distinctly unrobotic kiss. "I don't get it," he murmured to his other neighbor and fellow cat-herder, the shy lurker Ninni Petterssen. "How are they doing it? This isn't like their other acts. It's more creative. It's almost human!" Ninni shook her head helplessly. ~~~ The magician held out a hand. "And now... for your amazement... the Jumping Jack of Spades!" The assistant fanned out the deck, face down. With a flourish, the magician picked out one card between finger and thumb. Held it up. The Jack of Spades. And the little figure painted in the center of the court card was visibly leaping up and down, just like a live image on a tiny television set. Genuine applause. Nyctolops nudged the hostess, excited. "Maybe we've actually done it?" she whispered, glancing into the wings. "Maybe Sailor Gallifrey's channeled enough energy to slip under the Gods' guard for some real, honest entertainment..." Holding the Jack in one hand, the magician signaled for silence. With his other hand, he reached over to the fan of cards... and pulled out another Jack. Another Jack of Spades, identical in every way, right down to the rounded leaf-shape of the spear in the animated figure's hand. This time the clapping was tumultuous. Jim Vowles, grinning, spread his hands in disbelief, shrugging off laughing accusations of connivance. Meanwhile, the performer in the ring was pulling out and tossing up more and more cards at increasing speed -- every one a Jack. Every one leaping as if in St Vitus' Dance. And a shower of blank bordered cards fell to the sawdust... as the little figures freed themselves and began to dance across the ring, posing and jabbing with their little spears like a horde of goblins. There were laughs from the audience; then screams. The Jacks had reached the edge of the ring; but they hadn't stopped there. They had begun to climb up into the bleachers, scrambling like spiders. And instead of prodding at each other, they were dancing in and out amongst the spectators... stabbing with blades whose bite itched and swelled like the sting of a horsefly. Everyone was standing up, trying to get away at once. The benches rocked. Those higher up began to scream in earnest. Each Jack had vanished after delivering its single sting -- but now the audience was in real danger from its own panic. "Sit *still*!" the Sixth Doctor bellowed, and, scattered throughout the crowd, the other Doctors added their authority to the command. "They can't do this!" Nyctolops gasped, frantically clinging, monkey-fashion, to the back of her seat. The avocado troll shook her head. "They can. It's legitimate audience participation... and we already agreed to that at the start of the act." As the stands finally began to quieten down, disaster for the moment averted, she spared a hand to rub at the swollen bite on her tail, which had already almost subsided. "They didn't do us any real damage; and if we'd all gotten crushed when the bleachers collapsed, well, I guess that would just have been an unfortunate accident..." She had no doubt at all that it had been planned as a deliberate attempt at murder; but there was no way she could could cry forfeit. It was clever. Much too clever for what they'd seen of the Gods so far. The magician was openly laughing, the high snickering sound she'd heard before. "Ladies and gentlemen -- the incredible Jumping Jacks. And no harm done, I hope..." :::Oh no, you don't::: the avocado troll thought bitterly. She steeled herself. What next -- more attacks on the audience? Where, oh where, was Kid Curry? ~~~ "And for our next trick I give you -- the Cloths of Heaven." The magician turned to the robot-Zoe, who had produced a large top hat. She displayed it round the ring, tugging at the red silk lining to demonstrate that there were no concealed compartments, and held it out as her confederate produced a wand and made a few magic passes. "Hey presto!" He reached into the hat. The audience winced... but out of the hat came a great length of shimmering gold, followed by a filmy cerulean blue, a floating swath of sunset crimson, a deep midnight-blue banner spangled with silver, and others in turn. Despite herself, Ninni gasped in pleasure. As each cloth was drawn out, the magician flung it up into the air, where they seemed to rise and cling against the canvas of the roof. All the shimmering colors of the sky mingled and blended, seeming to glow with their own light. Every face was turned upward; every mouth ajar in wonder. The magician drew out one final wisp of fabric, and bowed. "The Cloths of Heaven, presented for your delight..." "I don't get it," Jim said softly again, shaking his head. "How anyone as empty as the Gods comes out with anything this beautiful..." ~~~ And then the magician tossed up the final piece he had been holding in his hand. A filthy bandage, smeared yellow and rusty brown. It clung against the rest; and like wildfire the taint began to spread. Colors wept pus and foul matter... died... grew putrid and began to rot. In a matter of seconds, the whole canopy of the Big Top was a mass of stench and decay. The magician laughed again, high and hateful. "Unfortunately the Cloths seem to have gotten a little tarnished over their long wait... but then isn't that just like Heaven?" He looked up in mock-innocence. "I'm so sorry. I really must do something to clear this mess up." He gestured, and all around the tent the weeping sores began to dry up and flake off, leaving the canvas as clear as before. A rain of powdery fragments spattered upturned mouths and open eyes. Only Finn Fang Foom seemed immune from the writhing revulsion all around. The tongue of the fifty-foot lizard slurped greedily across the faces of his unfortunate neighbors. "Foom LIKE! Want MORE!" This enthusiasm seemed to take the magician aback. He gestured again, and the putrid rain abruptly cut off. "See, I *knew* Foomy'd come in useful," Bokman whispered to Cameron in the row behind. The big cat was too busy clawing dried pus from his whiskers to give him more than a dirty look. ~~~ "Ahem... and now, with the aid of my beautiful assistant --" for the first time, the magician had sounded somewhat rattled -- "I shall proceed to saw the lovely lady in half." A large wooden box had appeared in mid-ring, floating apparently unsupported two feet above the ground. Robot-Zoe dropped gracefully to her knees and proceeded to roll underneath it, then to climb over the top. She smiled. "Ladies and gentlemen -- as you see, no tricks." From the recesses of her tight costume she somehow produced a three-foot saw blade and handed it to the magician, before opening the lid of the coffin-like container and lying down inside. Her head hung over one end; after some wriggling, a pair of feet appeared at the other. The magician reached down and tickled the sole of one foot. Zoe giggled. A wide gesture up towards the silent Gods. The magician's face was very solemn. "Music... if you please." A drum roll started, apparently from nowhere, joined by a slow funeral march. "Lights!" For a moment the Big Top was shrouded in darkness, with only the tingling anticipation of the drums. Then the single spotlight shone out, bathing the center of the ring in crimson light. The saw blade gleamed. Swooped down. The girl in the coffin flashed a smile. Then the teeth began to cut. ~~~ A thin patter of sawdust trickled down to join the scuffed coating already on the floor. The magician was breathing hard, muscles standing out on his bared arm like those of a carpenter. The Third Doctor frowned. "Hang on a minute... he's really cutting into that box. That isn't supposed to happen..." A scream interrupted him. From the ring. ~~~ Zoe writhed, trapped inside the box. Water was pooling at the magician's feet. His teeth were bared in effort. And with every stroke of the saw, the girl screamed. "Lights!" The magician never missed a stroke. The spotlight changed... from crimson to white. Liquid smeared the saw, soaked into the sawdust, stained the hem of the performer's long robe. Not water. Blood. Behind Nyctolops, someone was sick. In the ring Zoe had fallen silent, eyes half-open, blood trailing from the corner of her mouth; now, the screams were coming from the audience. As the magician worked, the girl's head jerked limply on its lolling neck. "It's an act..." Nyctolops said out loud uncertainly, unable to tear her eyes away. "It has to be an act. They're robots..." Someone else had begun to retch, helplessly and continuously, on an empty stomach. ~~ Down in the ring, the magician made his final cut. Dropped the saw. Bowed. "Ladies and gentlemen, as never shown before -- the Lady Sawn in Half!" At his gesture, the two ends of the coffin swung apart. Displaying the entrails of a butchered body. In the bleachers the other Zoe screamed and screamed again, unable to stop herself, on her feet without knowing it. "No. No. No!" "Fear not, gentle lady." The magician's courtesy dripped contempt. "For in the next part of our incredible show... I shall perform a feat without precedent. I shall bring my assistant back to life!" From beneath his robes he swept out a heavy length of cloth and draped it over the two halves of the box, hiding what lay within. On one bloody hand he held the wand; in the other, a small phial had magically appeared. He gestured, and the crimson light and drum roll began again. The incantation that followed seemed to involve tufts of white feathers and a brown, smeary substance as well as drops of liquid from the phial. The whisper of the drum roll grew louder and louder. None of the words in the incantation could be made out clearly; but they all sounded unpleasant. Zoe's screams had subsided to whimpers. She was clinging to Bokman, shivering as hard as if she herself were next to be sawn in half. The Second Doctor, at her side, was muttering under his breath. If the tone he was using had held any magical power, the figure down in the ring would have been incinerated on the spot. ~~~ A final gesture. The lights came up. "Ladies and gentlemen... the severed halves reunited!" The magician flung back the cloth. Opened the miraculously-restored coffin. Held out his hand to the figure that stepped from within, moving like a jerky puppet -- The girl had been reanimated. Inside out. The magician was smiling. "I have to admit, ladies and gentlemen this trick doesn't always work exactly right -- and I'm afraid tonight is just one of those times." He put his mouth next to the bloody, earless head of the monstrosity that once had been a lovely girl. "But why don't you take your bow anyway, my dear? I'm sure the audience will give you a big hand..." The creature lurched to the edge of the ring blindly, and reached out, dripping fluid, before stumbling off. Nyctolops was sobbing. "Oh, how can they do such a thing -- even to one of their own?" :::But because it was one of their own, there is *still* no way to call forfeit::: the avocado troll realized unhappily. She looked round at the drained Hoedowners and their guests, pasty-faced and sickened by what they had been forced to witness. The Gods had played them out to perfection -- catching them unguarded with excitement and beauty, then using surprise to twist the pro-Fun reaction into something they could use to build their own power. She could feel them now, almost bloated with it. A theatrical cough from down in the ring. "If I may have your attention, ladies and gentlemen..." ::Oh no::: the hostess realized. :::The act still isn't over. And if those were their idea of appetisers... what in the name of Deity are they going to do for a finale?!::: ~~~ The magician waved an airy hand, apparently oblivious of the butcher's litter scattered about his feet. "For our finale, I'd like to thank our esteemed rivals for the precedent they set tonight," he began smoothly. "Their Continuity Lantern was a blatant breach of the rules --" Bokman stiffened indignantly -- "contrived in order to bring in outside assistance. We are sure that they will acknowledge that it is only fair we should have the chance to do the same --" "As if they knew or cared what 'fair' meant!" Jim muttered savagely under his breath. The turquoise deputy hushed him. "And so, in homage to Bokman, Zoe and their Legos Legerdemain --" the magician was announcing when she could next make out the false humility dripping from every syllable of his words -- "the Gods of Ragnarok present a magic act entitled... the Cave of Annwn." The mist-wreathed shape of a cave-mouth began to solidify beyond him. Deep within the darkness, there seemed to be the sound of a sighing wind. The hairs on the back of Jim's neck began to rise instinctively. From higher up in the bleachers, he heard a gasp of "Sacrilege!" ~~~ In front of the yawning cave-mouth, the magician cut a slim and almost fragile figure. The tawdry fairground patter was more than ever grotesque in its incongruity. He held up a glass ball almost two feet in diameter with exaggerated care, still smiling. "In this sphere of mystery and illusion we have captured the force that has powered our entire act. A force so powerful we could never have obtained it for ourselves but had to wait for it to drop into our lap. I give to you... a fictive paradox!" Two faces came slowly into view as he passed his wand across the surface of the globe. One silver-pale. One dark. One young and female. The other, male and wary. "Oh no." The hostess couldn't believe her eyes. "No. Allie... Kid Curry... no. No!" For a moment, she could have sworn that the magician's mocking smile was directed to her alone. "A failed Muse who wanted to be a princess... and an outlaw from a land of legend who thinks he's still alive. Paradox. Creativity. Power. Everything we needed to invoke the potential of human imagination... now brought together in our final magical presentation. Ladies and gentlemen, in my last act of the evening -- and thanks to your generous aid -- I bring to the Psychic Circus... the Cave of Annwn!" He stepped aside. The faces in the glass were swirling, unclear, from one angle set and defiant, from another seeming frozen in despair. Beyond them, the great cave lay silent yet breathing. A cold wind had begun to blow. The little deputy could have sworn the the mouth was getting wider. ~~~ "Allie..." On TYA's stage, Philip Cotterell stared at the vocalists in dismay. "All that gross stuff came out of *Allie's* imagination?" "Not this Allie." Yokoi sprang to the defense of her friend. "*That* Allie," Tessa nodded, pointing. "The weak one. The selfish one, who went to the ball --" "That's not true!" Allie was gazing at her shadowy counterpart, silent tears running down her cheeks. "She's part of me. She's as good and as bad as I am -- and Kid went to save her, and now they've got him too --" ~~~ Allie. Kid. She should have known. The hostess bit her lip, hard. She *had* known. That last act -- the beauty and the horror both -- she'd sensed all along that it didn't belong. It was human, all too human, where the Gods of Ragnarok were sterile and empty. They'd been drawing on a human mind -- human weakness, human nightmares -- channeling it all through the power of a Muse. Even a partial Muse... And now they had the power. Now they were swollen with it like oozing venom, ready to strike... What would come out of the cave? Then she remembered. Too late, as the Gods unleashed their stolen power at last, and the cave-mouth came rushing up towards them all. Nothing -- and no-one -- ever came *out* of the Cave of Annwn. Not when they had once gone *in*... --- "Lady, we got to stick together!" Kid Curry watched with clenched teeth as the ghost girl tried to scramble to her feet for the dozenth time. That gown and slippers of hers might be fine-looking maybe, but she couldn't run in them worth a dime. "Where /you/ are, there's dirt to stand on and some kind of direction to go. Seems you fix things for us, least enough so as we can travel. "Out there on my own I got nothing. No firm ground, nothing to see. Can't even remember who I am. No way I can make it through alone -- we both got to go together or not at all. And we got to move *fast* --" "Kid, I can't keep this up much longer." She was half-sobbing. "What's the good, anyhow? What makes you so certain we can get out? Maybe this place just goes on for ever..." He nodded. "Guess it does. But there's a way out, sure enough -- the way I got in. There's a bridge there'll take us back -- thing is, it's *closing*..." He could feel it, like an ache in his throat. Didn't know what was missing there; but he knew where it was. Could feel the power calling. But he'd drifted far -- so far -- before Allie'd found him. If they didn't make it soon, he reckoned there wouldn't *be* a way back no more. ((Meanwhile, the Hoedown is in /real/ trouble...)) * * * 51. Escape from the Cave of Annwn * * * /But as the mouth of the one-way gate to the Underworld comes rushing up towards them.../ --- 'No... you... /don't/. Lobsang... 'NOW!!' -- 'Oh my Goddess...' The cave mouth hung, impossibly, below them. But went no further. 'Wh... What...?' 'Sliced time,' the young man in black, tattered robes said. 'We are now outside time. Inbetween moments.' 'Lobsang Ludd,' Daibhid realised. 'The Disc's personification of Time.' Lobsang nodded. 'Once we drop back into time, the cave will continue its journey.' 'And we won't get out.' Daibhid looked around. The Gods - and their servants - were frozen, still within time. The Hoedowners, however, were alive, and moving around. Xeffy jumped down into the stage and grabbed the glass sphere from the magician. '/I'll/ take that, if you don't mind!' She staggered under the weight. 'Excuse me,' Shayde said, lifting the sphere effortlessly from her hands. Allie looked into the glass sphere, into her silver shadow. Horrified. Fascinated. 'My shadow...' Allie whispered. 'Archetypes 101. Everything I denied in myself - good and bad both. Not my weaker side - the side I denied...' 'No one would expect anything other... Eeerrggg,' Philip murmured. 'How do we get them out?' our hostess asked, desperation fueling her voice. 'How...?' 'Maybe... Imran?' 'I know.' Imran turned to the ball. Dreamweaver, granddaughter Child of tragedy, whispered in the night Shadow and silver, outlined by moonlight Child of the epics, told so long ago The skein of Fate has not told your story I call you back, from that sunless land. Child of memory, child of inspiration I call you back from those black shores When the night falls upon you, I am here When sadness and grief claim you, we are there. Siren's sister, knight of ghosts and shadows... --- 'Imran...?' she whispered. Come back to me. Come back to us... 'But... I'm /not/ Allie. Why...?' You are, the girl's voice whispered. You are... Silver shadow, my dream, my nightmare. My grief, my pain, my hurt... You are me and I am you 'Who are you?' Who am I? '...Mum was so /proud/ when I was accepted into the Collegium, remember? Carrying on the family tradition, like her and Dad and Grandma... Oh, and Xeffy bragged about it for /weeks/ at school... 'And then I met him. My author. And ...oh, I remember how /shocked/, how happy, how /surprised/ he was when he saw he'd been nominated for the newsgroup awards, how pleased he was when someone commented on his work - that someone, somewhere had /responded/ to what he'd written... 'And rocking Xeffy's crib... I always thought of her as my baby sister, you know, watching her when she was a baby, so often. Wondering. Fascinated. /Happy/, that she was there, that she was sleeping...' She took Kid's hand as the outlaw stepped onto the bridge. 'I learned. I discovered... so many things. About myself. About people.' She brought one foot to rest on the bridge. 'I did fail, yes. I did dream of being a princess, yes. 'But that is a part - and /only/ a part - of who I am. 'I am the shadow that walks behind you, that is always with you. I am the silver one, the one you dreamed of being. I am the one you denied - and the one you thought you could never be.' She brought her other foot alongside. 'I am Alisandra. 'And I am-' -falling- --- 'Wait, did they say "Siren's sister"? /I'm/ her sister!' 'Okay. What's a siren?' 'Greek mythology. Creatures with the ability to sing captivating songs... songs so captivating that sailors would throw themselves off boats, or deliberately wreck the boats, to follow that song - and, by the by, let the sirens feast.' 'Are you-' 'No, I'm /not/!' 'Have you tried?' '/Allie's/ the singer in the family!' 'Mm. Have /you/ tried?' 'Um... not when there was anyone else around....' --- The sphere was a globe of solid silver. 'What happened?' our hostess asked. Allie looked pained. 'I don't know. I don't know...' '/When/ did it happen - having part of you split off?' 'The vision,' our hostess said. 'It must have been in the vision... part of you stayed, but part of you came back.' 'So we've got the 'nice' Allie?' 'No. No. You've got the parts of me I /don't/ shut away, that I don't deny. You've got the Psyche - the conscious Allie. That's the Shadow - the Allie in my unconscious,' Allie said quietly. 'We're both the real Allie - we're different /aspects/ of her, but we're both real.' --- 'What the-' The ghost girl had been /solid/. Solid, touching his arm. And- He'd felt something, some connection - a connection /back/ to something, an answer to the power's call - firm ground under his feet. And it had dropped away from under him- -falling- - a sparkle, a tiny thing out of the corner of his eye. He didn't focus on it, let it pass, and... -there. A tiny silver thing. A pearl? 'Kid...' Pearls catching the light in the room. Her pearls. The Contessa. The /Contessa/. He remembered. He /remembered/. The key. The bridge. The charm had acted as a bridge, bringing him to this nowhere land... His nightmares. His dreams. There was an ache in his throat- They - whoever /they/ were - had stolen his dreams. Taken part of /him/ with them. No. No. He'd lost /enough/, these years, lost near everything a man could lose - a home, his family... No. No more. What can you take from a man who's lost everything? You can steal his dreams. But what if that man's a thief? Then he goes steals those dreams of his /back/. They're /his/. There was a hand on his arm- -falling faster, even though there was no wind- -the silver light, closer now, closer still- -filling his vision until it was all he could see- -and then- --- The sphere in Shayde's hands trembled- And cleared. A sigh. A gentle sigh. Imran breathed out. 'They're free.' 'But where did they go?' Allie asked. 'Where'd they go?' 'I thought part of you was in there-' our hostess began. 'But I didn't /know/ that. I don't /have/ a supernatural connection to her...' Allie's voice nearly broke. 'They /took/ me, they took a part of me, and I didn't even realise...' 'They've pushed us to the limit.' Jim's voice was dark. 'They pushed us as far as we would go. They want bloody, mindless revenge - for what they did to us, and what they do to their servants.' 'I call battle,' Allie said quietly. 'What?' 'I call battle. For the final challenge, I call battle. A battle of words - of creativity and power, of rhythm and feeling. 'I call a song battle for the final challenge. So let it be done.' ANSWERED. THE CALL HAS BEEN ANSWERED - AND ACCEPTED. SOME THINGS MUST END. THESE ARE /NOT/ THE ONES WE SET IN PLACE IN THIS COSMOS. THEY DO /NOT/ BELONG. SO END THEIR PLAYTHING'S SUFFERING - NOW. The Other-Zoe disappeared. THE TERMS OF THE CHALLENGE STILL ABIDE - THREE MORE CHALLENGES TO BE PLAYED OUT, THE LAST TO BE THE SONG BATTLE. 'You can't-' THEY GO TOO FAR, DARE TOO MUCH OF US. NO MORE. YOU ARE CONFINED, GODS OF RAGNAROK. ONLY THAT POWER WHICH YOU HAVE HOARDED IS YOURS TO COMMAND, SO LONG AS THIS CHALLENGE SHALL LAST. YOU INFLICT NIGHTMARE - HUMAN NIGHTMARE - AGAINST YOUR CHALLENGERS. VERY WELL. LET HUMAN DREAM BE THE KEY TO YOUR CHAINING ONCE AGAIN. NO LONGER SHALL YOU INFLICT THEIR NIGHTMARES UPON THEM. NO LONGER SHALL YOU FEED OFF THEIR SUFFERING AND ANGUISH. THEY HAVE BEEN TAXED TO THEIR LIMITS. LET THAT BE ENDED. NOW! WE ARE WATCHING, FALSE GODS. YOU WERE SET FREE BEFORE YOUR TIME. YOU DEVASTATED YOUR MULTIVERSE. YOU SHALL NOT DO SO HERE. REST. ALL OF YOU. YOU MAY TAKE THIS CHANCE TO REST, AND RECOVER. THE ATROCITY THEY HAVE INFLICTED UPON THEIR SERVANT... SHE SHALL KNOW RESTORATION, AND SUCH REST AS WE MAY OFFER. AND THE MEMORY IN YOUR MINDS WILL ALSO KNOW SUCH REST AS MAY BE OFFERED. LET IT BE DONE. --- 'You know,' Daibhid remarked, a few moments later, 'we /really/ should have asked the Powers That Be to deal with that...' He gestured to Annwn's Cave, still resting in the ring. 'I think they thought we could deal with it...' Philip observed. 'Right...' our hostess said. 'Gordon's panto's next up, then Nyctolops and Cameron's big cat act, then TYA's song battle will end this.' 'What /is/ a song battle, anyway?' 'Both sides trade songs back and forth until one scores a decisive victory over the other,' Tessa explained. 'Ah.' 'Right. The Lancre Coven, Izzy, Charley and the Norns are off to...' The deputy frowned. ' "See a man about some Gods", whatever that means, Kid and ShadowAllie-' 'Call her Sandra,' Allie said quietly. 'Okay... Kid and Sandra have been freed from the Gods - but we don't know /where/ they were released - and we've got an influx of reinforcements, including Harry Potter, Unseen University's Faculty (and the Luggage), Tim Hunter, a number of versions of Death, Death's granddaughter Susan...' The deputy frowned. 'That sounds familiar, for some reason... and Lobsang, the Disc's personification of Time.' 'And we've got this stonking great /cave/ to deal with...' Yokoi said, jerking a finger at Annwn's Cave. 'Well, when we drop out of sliced time, anyway.' 'Right then,' Ridcully said. 'Who's up for sorting /that/ one out?' 'I might have an idea...' Everyone turned to Lobsang. "He's turning into a right /deus ex machina/," muttered Daibhid "Ow!" He hadn't realised he was that close to Susan Sto Helit. "Don't worry, Daibhid," smiled Lobsang, "I can't snap my fingers and remove it from time; not here, anyway. But the rules the Gods were using in that last act, they were the rules of stage magic. Conjuring, as we call it in Ankh-Morpork, to distinguish it from what Ridcully's people get up to." Everyone waited patiently for him to get to the point. "So, even using real magic, how do you make something like *that* appear according to the rules of stage magic?" "Mirrors?" suggested Bokman. "Exactly. And mirrors need light. If our hostess could get ready to douse the lights as soon as I drop us back into time?" The avocado troll bustled over to the lighting rig. "And... NOW!" Time rushed back. Everything went black. There was a sudden smash. "Lights back, please." The lights came on, revealing a stage covered in broken glass, and no sign of Lobsang. "The Gods don't look too happy," observed Cameron. "Should we be worried?" "Not after that telling off the PTB gave them." smiled the Eighth Doctor. "At least, not more than we would be anyway." "Fair enough," said Daibhid. "We should sweep this up before the panto starts, though." --- ((But Kid and his companion are /falling/...)) Impact. ~~~ Every ounce of breath driven out of his body. Too stunned at first even to feel the pain... Then it hit, with the first gasp of air. He groaned -- even that hurt -- would have screamed, but a fog was pulling at his senses, dragging him down... ~~~ Silver. A great low globe swimming in front of his eyes. Drifting back into consciousness, Kid Curry blinked, trying to focus. Everything was silver, bleached bone-white -- silver and black -- There was a fierce pain in the small of his back, somewhere down the left side. He sat up cautiously in the moonlight, wincing at assorted other aches. He'd landed *hard*, sprawled across a ledge of rock in the floor of the gully. No rain down here for a long time, and even the dirt was iron-hard. He could have broken a leg -- could have broken his *neck* -- A small voice from up above him, as his shadow stirred. "Kid? Oh Kid, please wake up..." For a moment he couldn't place her; then the bushes at the brink of the gully began to thrash and he got a glimpse of white between the tangled branches. He rolled to his feet. Almost fell, as the pounding in his head caught up with him. No crippling drop for *her*. She'd had a soft landing in the dry brush. It figured. He glared up at her, one hand straying to his hip. "What the *hell* did you think you were doing back there?" "Wha..?" All indignation. "What do you mean, what was *I* doing? You think I got myself stuck in here on purpose? Sitting here wondering if you were ever going to wake up, or if I'd starve to death beside a stinking corpse --" "Listen, lady -- I almost had us out of there. Out of the Gods' reach and back to the Circus. Back where you belong. Then something kicks in and snatches the ground from under us and everything goes silver -- so just what am I supposed to think? That maybe you don't *want* to go back? Maybe you're planning on being more than just a part of Allie -- ghost girl?" "I'm *not* a ghost -- ouch. Kid -- ow! -- I'm stuck -- get me out of here --" The branches were threshing wildly now, and there was a soft patter of soil down the side of the gully. "Quit that!" Kid Curry's eyes narrowed suddenly. He could make her out now, a pale shape in the black shadow of thorn-scrub leaning out over the edge. "Quit what?" She stopped struggling for a moment to yell back at him. "Look, I don't have any more idea what happened than you do -- but it wasn't me, OK? I didn't do it and I don't like it -- and shouting at me isn't going to make any difference --" The words broke off in a strangled scream as a branch broke and she slid abruptly downwards. "Quit wriggling that way." His voice was harsh and level. "Else you'll come down the way I did. Guess it's all of fifteen foot to the bottom under them bushes you're in..." He set his teeth, ignoring stiffening muscles, and began the steep scramble up the side of the rocks. --- The girl perched on a boulder beside him, hugging arms around her knees. "I'm sorry I yelled." She didn't look much like a ghost now, with brown hair tangled round a scratched face, the powder long since lost along with the elaborate style. She'd left most of her foam of skirts behind too, one way or another, in ragged banners of surrender that tracked the path they'd fought to get her to solid ground. The flesh that showed through the rents in what remained -- a good deal more than was decent to his way of thinking -- was still indoors-pale, like the hands of a clerk; but it was all too solid, dirty and scored with thin trickles of blood from the thorns. Only the diamonds were as fine as before. They were in his pocket. "I'm sorry I yelled. I was scared. I thought you were dead..." Kid Curry nodded, accepting the truce. "Yeah. I wasn't feeling too good myself." He shifted slightly, trying to find an easier position. The pain in his side had settled down to a steady, nagging ache. "Sure wouldn't mind knowing what did get us here, though -- and why." "Where is 'here', anyway?" She stood up, looking out over the moonlit landscape. "It doesn't have enough moons to be anywhere back on Jubilganzia, for a start." Automatically Kid Curry glanced up, following her gaze -- then froze, staring. No. It couldn't be. But those stars sure did look mighty familiar... "Well, I guess I know where we are after all." He turned, slowly, looking for landmarks. Pointed. "Them mountains on the skyline -- see? That hooked one, like some guy took a knife-slice down the peak? That's Two-Mile Pass, through to Ruby and the north. Back that way --" he climbed to his feet, wincing -- "the river loops round some, and there's homesteads down in the bottoms. And, maybe a matter of six-seven miles West of here... there's a road. And a sign. Town limits. Been shot up a time or two, but they like to keep it fresh. Care to take a guess at the name?" "Vortex...City?" Eyes wide, she read the answer in his face. "You mean... this is your *home*?" His mouth twisted. "Wouldn't quite put it that way myself... but yeah, I've ridden this country. Ridden it blind with fever, and mad with thirst, and with bullets round my ears more times than I care to count. Broken down a few horses, and left a partner or two lying where they fell for the posse to pick up, hot on my trail. "Yeah, I know where we are. I know the sky and the hills and the bones of the country... and I know where we're headed right now." "What do you mean? Kid --" Hurried footsteps behind him as she tried to catch up, pulling at his arm. "Kid, I don't understand --" "I don't care how we got here." He didn't look round. Didn't even slacken the pace. "But I sure as hell know what we're going to do." Silence, broken only by her gasping breath as she scrambled after him. A sigh. "Okay. What?" "First, transportation -- and get you some clothes." He grabbed her arm as she slipped, ignoring her yelp at the fierce grip. "And then... we go West. To the City. I got a score to settle with some Gods -- and there's a lady that just might know a way to get you back together with your other half..." His voice was level as ever; but he was glad of the moonlight that bleached the sudden warmth from his cheeks. * * * 52. Riding the outlaw trail * * * /Somehow, instead of getting back to the Circus, Kid Curry and ShadowAllie have ended up in the Wild West Fictiverse of Vortex City.../ --- Something happened. She doesn't know what it was. Or... She does. When she realised who she was. When she realised... A step closer to reality. When you name something, you give it that little more hold on reality. But moving closer to reality means coming that bit closer to rejoining. And she knows what's happening. The Shadow and Psyche are aspects of the same person. They /are/ the same person. But they're /aspects/, too. Different parts of the complete person. As both of them - she and Allie - get a stronger hold on reality, their sense of /individuality/ gets stronger too. Ow. Tired. Developing blister. Yep. Sense of reality definitely there. Try not to complain too much... She knows this place. As a part of Alisandra, she knows this place - because Alisandra knew it too. Knew it because her writer had known it. 'Heading for the homesteads?' she says. 'Looking for transport... And I know where to get it.' He considers for a moment. 'Just makin' sure. You know anything 'bout riding?' 'I remember how to ride on a gryphon,' she offers. His eyebrow raises. 'Ah. So you got that part.' 'We /both/ got that part...' she says. 'Well, what we're looking for don't go off the ground. Not too much, at any rate. Think you'll be able to handle it?' 'I should be.' Her mouth curves. 'So are we gonna rob anyone, or are we just going to take what's there?' 'Hopin' they'll be asleep, this time of night. I'll send 'em the money later. Right now, time ain't on our side...' He frowns. She follows his gaze. A little to the north west, darker than the night sky... 'They're here,' he murmurs. 'Movin' away from town. Wonder... No.' She can guess what he's thinking. Have they already passed through? Sucked the city dry? Has he come all this way, only to find he's lost what he was fighting for? She's a muse. A partial one, but still... She feels the stories. In her bones. She /feels/ them, moving, coiling around... slowly, listlessly. But not dead. They're not dead. The twisters have been drawn away from the city. Drawn away before they could finish draining it dry. Who - or what - managed it, she doesn't know. But they still have a chance. 'It's still there.' she says quietly. 'Say what?' 'I... I can... I can /feel/ the stories here, that there /are/ still stories here... We're not too late. If we were, there'd have been only /one/ story to come back to.' 'Then let's go rustle up that transport,' Kid says. 'Either way, I'm guessin' we don' have much time...' She knows there's a good chance whoever it is /won't/ be asleep, that the twisters will have woken them. They've got to take the chance, though. They /have/ a chance. And they /can't/ afford to waste it. Separation. That's the problem, really. She knows this story - and understands why. The Shadow is the part of the Self denied. The part the Self thinks it could never be - good /and/ evil. Given independence - in effect, becoming conscious in its own right - will it want to go back? To sacrifice the two new identities that are developing to create a new one? And will that new one be the same as the old one, having known separation - having known what it was like to be two different people? Like what happened to Alryssa, but... not. They were two /different/ people joined together; she and Allie are the same person separated. That's the dilemma. Rejoining means one identity will come to an end. Remaining separate means that Alisandra will cease to exist as a single person... Either way, /someone/ will no longer exist. And right now, she's not at all sure she wants that. 'Nearly there.' Kid says. She follows Kid's finger, sees where he's pointing. Suddenly, she gets a /very/ clear idea of what he's going to do for transportation. And she grins. --- 'Stay in the barn.' '-What?' 'Stay.' And then he's gone, headed across the yard. She frowns. Huh? Why does he want her to stay behind? Then she covers her eyes. Idiot. Idiot. /Far/ too romantic for your own good. Well, that's what got her into this in the first place. Thinking far too romantically. Doing the horse thief thing, and slipping away while they're asleep. All well and good if you're doing a western- -and the stories in her bones were whispering it to her, reminding, showing- -but Kid's never played by the stories. And she can see the flickering light in a downstairs window, what Kid must have seen. Because the people here /are/ awake. And the homestead's small enough that they'll hear any attempt- He turns, scowling, his face dark. Mouths 'Get in the barn!' She sees his face, moonlight-pale. Angry. Afraid. And she slips into the barn. --- The straw prickled. After a while she couldn't stand it any more. She jumped to her feet, pulling the rags of the ball-dress around her, and began to pace up and down the cramped barn. Every movement was followed by the wondering eyes of the two horses, a cow and calf, and a coop of chickens in the corner. The place was like Eloise's TARDIS-barn -- only it was tiny, barely more than a shack. And it smelt. How much longer was Kid Curry going to be? Just how long did it take to ask to borrow a pair of horses, for goodness' sake? And she still couldn't see why he'd insisted she stay behind -- She looked down at herself, ruefully. Well, all right, maybe she could. If she turned up on someone's doorstep at this time of night looking like Miss Havisham dragged through a hedge backwards, they'd probably assume she'd escaped from the local lunatic asylum. Not that Kid Curry was exactly a picture postcard himself. But then in his case it probably counted as local color -- Raised voices from across the yard. Oh no. Something's gone wrong. --- She had the barn door open and was starting towards the lighted window when she heard the scream. A woman sobbing. An older female voice raised in a scolding torrent. A bass snarl that silenced her, from the man. Kid Curry. Giving orders. Repeated, louder. The woman cried out again. Mum -- Xeffy -- What have I gotten into? What am I going to do? Back inside the barn. Hands over her ears. Can't just sit here -- I've got to do something -- but what? -- When the door crashed open, she almost screamed. --- The outlaw had both hands full, and his burden seemed to be struggling. His eyes were furious. Folds of musty clothing hit her in the face. She clawed her way free, gasping. "Get those on." There was a raw edge of tension in his voice. "Get the horses. Hurry!" She thought of asking him to look the other way. Decided to save her breath. Retreated behind the scanty shelter of the straw, and dressed in what should have been stiff-backed dignity. Heavy, unfamiliar garments made it more of a hopping scramble. If this was what counted as 'decent clothing' for women in this Fictiverse -- give her Allie's Sailor fuku any day. She scowled. Or just a bikini. "Get them horses saddled." Kid was watching the door. He barely glanced round as she backed out into the open. "That skirt wants to be higher. You'll never ride like that. Here --" Rough hands at her belt. The blanket-wrapped bundle slipped. A loud and unmistakable wail, before the muffling hand descended. "You... *BASTARD*." She stared at him in disbelief. At the long kitchen knife in his other hand. "That's a *baby*!" "All of five years old. Weighs a ton. It's a girl. And it bites." He was speaking through gritted teeth. "You going to do that saddling... or you going to hold the kid?" And as she stood, frozen, there was a sudden warmth of wailing child in her arms and a long blade clutched in one hand. The outlaw was lifting down saddles; untying sleepy beasts. "Are you out of your *mind*?" For a moment she could hardly speak. The child was screaming enough for both of them. Across the yard, the mother's own wails redoubled in terror. She stared at her burden; at the outlaw; started for the door. In a second, Kid was in front of her, eyes blazing. Despite herself she shrank back. "You out of *yours*?" The words were spat out. "We ride out of here without a knife at that kid's throat, and Grandma and her scattergun'll blast away like there's no tomorrow. She'll get off one shot for sure -- maybe two. You want to lay odds which of us gets it in the neck?" He turned away. Left her standing there. "For Christ's sake -- you think I *want* the child?" he flung over his shoulder, tightening a girth. "You think I eat them for breakfast or something?" --- Standing at the door with the little girl -- the hostage -- howling in her arms. Remembering Xeffy in a red-faced fury, back before Mum died. Screaming, because she'd found a crab and run away, and fallen flat on her face in the pool behind the dam Allie had built... and everyone had laughed. She'd *hated* being laughed at, even when she was dripping wet with sand in her hair and wisps of seaweed on her nose. She'd been *so* angry; and Allie shouldn't have laughed at her baby sister, but she'd been so funny when she was cross... And then it was too late to do anything. "Get out there. Slowly. Let them see the knife." Kid Curry thrust her forward into the yard. She could feel the tension in his arm... waiting for something to go wrong? She climbed onto the horse. Let him grab the child. Watched as he mounted up. Looked at the family, silent now, staring at them from the house doorway in a triangle of light spilling across the yard. Two young women, one clinging as if for dear life onto fierce old Grandma. A ten-year-old in a nightdress, doll dangling from one hand, and her teenage brother, his lip quivering with humiliation and fury. She tried to picture herself through their eyes, wincing. Calamity Jane, here I come... "Now, we don't want to hurt this little girl none." Somehow, Kid Curry's tone managed to suggest the opposite. "So why don't you just stick around quiet till we've gone -- and then take a look out by the far corner of the beanfield? Maybe you'll find that little girl all safe and sound..." "And what about the horses?" Finally shaking off her daughter's restraining grasp, Grandma took a pace forward, arms akimbo. "What about our horses?" "Well... since you're acting so unreasonable, guess we'll just have to keep those," Kid retorted, swinging his mount round. He glanced back, caught his reluctant partner's eye, and gestured. "Get going!" The startled horse leapt forward under her, and she had to grab for the front of the saddle. For a moment it was all she could do to keep her seat; and by the time she caught up with Kid, they were already halfway to the beanfield. --- "I thought you were going to *ask* for *help*?" She tried for sarcasm. Almost bit her tongue, as the horse stumbled. "Or was that too much to expect, Mr Outlaw? Is this some kind of Cosa Nostra thing? Do people like you have to steal a horse now and then just to keep up /face/?" "It didn't work out," Kid snapped. "They knew my face. They knew my name. Grandma wouldn't have *sold* them horses to Kid Curry, let alone made us a loan of them. And right now we happen to need transportation real bad -- that is, if you're planning on making it back to the Circus before your other half has to face the Gods of Ragnarok without you, Miss Allie!" The last two words might as well have been an insult. Her hackles rose. "Don't call me that." A shrug. "Then you quit lecturing like a schoolmarm, lady -- and any time you come up with a name of your own, just let me know." Frosty silence, for a while. Who *am* I? 'You are me and I am you...' Allie. Alisandra... 'Lisandra... 'Sandra... I am Sandra... Sandra. Dream... shadow denied... She winced: kidnapper and horse thief... --- "Kid, can't we at least *pay* for these horses?" The outlaw reined up at the far end of the beanfield. Dismounted. "Sure." He set down the child, exhausted now finally into silence, and pulled a glittering tangle from his vest pocket. He tossed it to her. "So why don't you break up your necklace, lady? Give 'em a diamond or two? Because every penny I got right now wouldn't buy their *bits*, even two broke-down old plow-horses like these..." Sandra stared at him, turning the necklace over and over in her hands. It was all she had. The only thing that was *hers*... and it was beautiful. She looked down at the child, almost too sleepy now to be scared. At the shabby little log-house in the distance. At the straggle of hand-tilled fields around them that was the homestead. Bit her lip, and got off the horse. "Okay. Give me the knife." The silver was surprisingly soft. Easy to twist. It didn't take long to wreck the necklace. She yanked off a sprig -- two diamonds -- and pressed it into the child's hot little fist. "Listen, little one: you tell Mum this is for the horses. Understand? The pretty stones are to pay for the horses -- and we're really sorry about what happened. Tell her the lady says sorry..." She jammed the knife, blade first, into the ground at the corner of the field. It was blunt. Had been blunt all along. --- She met Kid's eyes defiantly. He was shaking his head as if in disbelief, but she thought she caught the ghost of a smile. "Guess you're *not* Allie, at that..." She mounted. Settled her skirts. Picked up the reins. Returned him a level gaze. "I'm Sandra. Everything Allie was afraid to become... yes, and everything she never dared. Everything she never knew she could do... "I'm not luggage, Kid. I'm not some stupid schoolgirl you've been sent to fetch home. I'm in this just as much as you are. I've got just as much to lose. We're partners -- OK?" Kid said nothing... just held out his hand. After a moment she leaned down and held out her own. Felt it gripped, hard. "Better keep that necklace safe." It wasn't -- quite -- an apology. He swung up into the saddle, glancing back. "Allie's sure going to need your help, back in the Circus -- and the Contessa don't come cheap..." --- Wondering at herself now. Why had she been so... so /angry/ with him? That he'd resorted to stealing the horse. But wasn't that what she'd thought he would do? But not like that. Not like that. Tension, and danger, and threat... Aggression. The aggression had been /real/. But then... this was a place of stories. She'd been listening to the stories - saying that when /this/ happens, they get away before the others realise who - and what - they are. Even if he asks for the use of their horses, it still applies. The stories were slow and listless, yes... But something was happening. They were responding to her - or she was responding to them. Like when the stories had started to stagnate, back in the barn. She'd felt it, felt the draining... ...and it had drained her nearly dry, battling it, fighting the stagnation, nearly fading away... Here... the stories aren't stagnant. There's still a spark of life left in them. And she's attuned to them, listens to them. The /reality/, however... Kid's reputation is dark. Not 'stylishly' dark, but 'this is a dangerous man'. And so that's how they treat him. As a dangerous man. And he doesn't have money - very few outlaws did. Enough to hang on, by the skin of their teeth, at best... Reality. Not imagination, reality. She got a grip on herself. And on the horse. Think reality. Think imagination. Kid is a real person - in a universe of imagination. And so his reality has become a part of this place... Listen to that. Remember that. Remember that... 'Guess you're not Allie, at that...' Allie would have done what she'd done, wouldn't she? Would she? Would she have carried through on Kid's jibe? You have the money - /you/ pay. Allie wouldn't have had the necklace. Wouldn't have been able to pay. Sandra did. And she had. Differentiation. Separation. 'Guess you're not Allie, at that...' Could he guess what was happening? To her, and to Allie? More and more separate. More and more /distinct/. And all Sandra had had of her own was the necklace... Someone would have to end. However this turned out, someone would have to end. To stop existing as a distinct personality. But who? Alisandra? Or Sandra? She didn't know. She didn't want to end... but she remembered what - who - she'd been. Alisandra wouldn't want to end, either... A short, brief life. A few hours, then back together. And what had she /had/ of that life, anyway? No. If this was all she had, then she was taking it for all it was worth. Then she saw the sign. 'Vortex City'. For what few /minutes/ it was worth, she amended. ((Meanwhile, back in the Circus the pantomime is starting...)) * * * 53. Gordon's pantomime * * * /The pantomime is about to start.../ --- The hostess watched curiously as Gordon took four shiny spheres out of his cardboard box. "Oooh, what are they?" she asked. "Erm....virtual projector things...I thought well, we can't really erect a stage and everything, with all the changes of scenery, so we'll use these. They'll project the scenery and stuff. We didn't have quite enough volunteers to play the red-shirted disposable guards, so it'll do some of them as well." He carried the spheres out into the ring. Placing each at the corner of a non-existent square. As he put the last one in place, light streamed from the top of each one, coalescing to form a small woodland clearing between them. Gordon stepped into the clearing. "Ladies and gentleman and other peeps. The Pro-Fun Players are proud to present a performance full of adventure, fun, puns, laughter and more bad jokes than you can shake a pointy stick at. We present to you, a play what I have wrote, called... ...Crouching Nyder, Hidden Nimon." --- Once upon a time, there was a land called Barnarnia... It was your normal, average kingdom, until the day the kind of evil but devastatingly attractive Queen Krizu arrived. She stole the major villains from all eight counties, the Master, the Master, the Master, the Master, the Master, the Master, the Master and the Magistrate and locked them all up in the dungeon beneath her castle. The land was left with only the lackeys, the henchmen, the enthusiastic amateurs. This just wasn't on, as you need to have balance and stuff, y'know. High atop a mountain lay Castle Krizu. Shrouded in fog, covered in gargoyles and with the traditional lightning striking around the turrets. --- "I'm bored," cried Queen Krizu. "Mr Claypole?" A bearded man in a jester's outfit ran up the stairs to her throne. "Yes Mistress Krizu?" "Hmm, Mistress Krizu? I like the sound of that..." From the heavy sighs she could hear, so did many members of the audience. "Mr. Claypole, I wish to be entertained. Send one of the Masters up will you?" "Certainly, it is as good as done..." The jester swept down the stairs and out a side door. Krizu turned to the small cat sitting on the arm of her throne. "And what do you have to say for yourself?" "I'm hungry." Jones complained ("Exactly how long has our cat been able to speak?" asked Saville. "Since about ten seconds ago..." replied Gordon.) Suddenly a large area of the floor parted, revealing a large pit. A strange noise was coming from down below... Krizu's eyes grew wide as from the pit rose AinleyMaster, naked and playing with his enormous organ. "Look at the size of that knob!" observed Jones, as AinleyMaster pulled it vigorously. He began to play "Oh I Do Like To Be Beside The Seaside" on the mighty Wurlitzer. A man in a military uniform ran into the ring. "Right, that's enough!" he shouted. "This is getting far too sill..." A black clad figure ran up and smacked the Brigadier in the face with a custard flan. "Bllghghffflll !" "Have that military man picked up by the guardoliers!" ordered Krizu. "Oh, that is going to *hurt*," Jones cringed. "We can't have anyone spoiling our fun can we?" "No, serves him right for ignoring the sign outside the castle." Krizu looked puzzled. "What sign?" "The one saying 'No people from secret military organisations allowed'." "Aah. Now," Krizu looked around the room. "Where did I leave my feather duster?" --- In the audience, Cardinal Zorak was confused. He looked at the stage. He looked at the seat beside him. The stage. The seat. "But if she's onstage, how can she be sitting next to me?" A squeaking hiss of escaping air alerted Zorak to the fact the Krizu in the seat was deflating rapidly. "Ooh, it's terrible when an inflatable goes down on you..." said Nanny Ogg from behind. --- Meanwhile, somewhere in the kingdom, two adventurers walked into a shop. One of them was Barry, a large, red-headed man with a beard. The other was Igor, a cheerful hunchback. The shop was filled with the usual cheap swords and leather armour. Igor looked over a display of Six Demon Bags, while Barry browsed through the Castle Krizu postcards and commemorative snowglobes. He was just about to pick one up when he felt someone watching him. As his hand drew near to one of the globes, the figure who was hiding behind the counter let out a scream. Hurried footsteps came from the back of the shop and a strange looking man with glasses appeared. "What's all this shouting? We'll have no trouble here!" "They were looking at the precious things!" The bespectacled man glared at Barry and Igor. "Are you local?" He asked. Barry started to answer. "Well, no actually, we're fro..." "This is a local shop for local people, there's nothing for you here!" The man grabbed hold of Barry and Igor and forced them out of the shop. "And take your scruffy little box with you!" He threw a small wooden box at them, which hit Barry in the lower abdominal area. Pausing to wipe the tears from his eyes and wait until his voice fell down from the falsetto, Barry picked up the box. The lid opened. A small red demon with bright yellow eyes stared at him. "Good morning Mr. Burton. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to gather up a bunch of likely rescuers and infiltrate Castle Krizu to rescue the eight Masters held captive within. Should you or any of your deranged compatriots be captured, eaten or poked repeatedly with a pointy stick, the secretary will disavow any knowledge of your actions." "Well, that's very magnanimous of him..." "This demon will self-destruct in five seconds..." The little demon's eyes boggled. "EH?!?!?!?" Now inside the box stood a black, rather frazzled and crispy looking demon, with pathetic big white sad puppy eyes. "So," said Igor. "We have to gather a bunch of people, raid the castle and rescue the Masters, yeah?" "Looks like it." "Shouldn't be too difficult." "Yeah, riiiiiiiiiiiiiight..." --- Princess Justine sighed as she plonked herself back down on the beanbag. Technically this was a prison cell, although it looked rather nice. There was satellite TV and a broadband connection, but it didn't make up for the fact she couldn't go out partying all night with the nymphs and dryads anymore. "I'm sorry, but it's traditional to lock the princess up in the castle," Krizu had said. "I'm sure some handsome prince will come and rescue you or something." She heard a noise from the window. Could it be? If so, she really hoped it was Prince Russell of Crowe, or Prince Dougray of Scott. Knowing her luck, it'd be Prince James of Saville. The window flew open and someone swooped into the cell. Princess Justine looked at the figure who had just flown in and found it desperately difficult to keep a straight face. "So you're (snigger) my Fairy (chuckle) Godmother then? (guffaw)" Swinging from a cable and wearing a sparkly pink tutu with wings, Sergeant Benton did not look chuffed. He couldn't have looked more unhappy if you'd stuck a Christmas tree up him... "Yes." he stated matter-of-factly in a gruff voice. "And you're here to (hehe) save me?" "Well, not exactly." Justine humphed. "I was sent to give you this." He handed her a something wrapped up in bright wrapping paper. "Ooh, what is it?" "Well, it's big and long and expands and glows red when you stroke it." Justine looked at Benton for several seconds before slowly shaking her head and removing the wrapping. "The Master's tissue compression eliminator?" "You sound disappointed." "Well, it's not actually what I was expecting..." "What *were* you expecting?" "Er....never mind..." "And now I must go, for duty calls!" "It does?" "Yes, The Pink Dragon have ordered a fairy-gram." "Ahhh..." Benton flew out of the window with all the grace of a brick thrown by a small child. Justine looked at the TCE. "Well, I suppose it *might* come in useful." --- The sign outside the pub said. "Help Wanted - for daring rescue mission. Please apply inside." Inside, Barry and Igor sat at a table. there were already a dozen or so empty flagons on the table. Things had *not* been going well. So far they had two beavers, John Peel (the Radio 1 DJ, not the author) and a man who sold what he referred to as a "sausage inna bun" but Igor had suspicions. One of the beavers was dressed in a ninja suit and was making quiet Bruce Lee-type noises when he thought nobody was looking. "Dag, stoppit!" "No, Norbert, I am *NinjaDag*!!!" Dag promptly tried a roundhouse kick and fell on his arse. The current applicant was large, bearded, loud, had a large pair of wings on his back and was wearing a dress... "I'M DAME VULTAN! ME AND MY HAWKME......ERR....I'M HERE ABOUT THE JOB!" "Yes, okay...what can you do?" "I CAN SHOUT VERY LOUDLY!!!" "Anything else?" "I CAN SHOUT EXTREMELY LOUDLY!!!!!" Igor and Barry looked at each other. Barry shrugged non-committally. "Ok, you're in." "THANK YOU! YOU WON'T REGRET IT YOU KNOW!!!" "You got any paracetamol?" Barry asked Igor. Igor handed him a large tub of pills. "Help yerself." --- Meanwhile, back in the dungeon... Krizu stood over the eight Masters, who were all stripped to the waist, oiled and on racks. In one hand she held a feather duster, in the other a rubber chicken. "I AM THE POTT AND YOU WILL OBEY ME!!!!!" *grouse jig to the tune of "Stayin' Alive"* (:>)" "()' (:>)= "()()" "Can I play with your maracas?" asked Mr. Claypole.. "You don't waste any time do you? Of course you can. Give them a good shake." Claypole reached over to the rack and picked up a pair of maracas which he shook in time with the Bee Gees. "Now," she said, addressing the Masters. "I want your help in capturing the fifth Doctor, because he's so cute and innocent looking. You *will* help me won't you?" Eight heads shook in agreement. "Good, because if you don't I'll have to bring out...the thingy." A look of abject terror appeared on all eight faces at once. Crying and pleading echoed through the castle. "Bwa-hah-haha-hah-haha-HAH-HAHA-HAH-HAHA!!!" --- Barry and Igor steered the cart toward the Central Banarnian border patrol checkpoint. "Do you really think we should have sent Vultan up ahead?" asked Barry. "Well, he can fly, so he can have a little scout round the back..." "He'll get arrested if he tries that." Two border patrol guards, with ponchos, sombreros and those tacky big moustaches walked up to the cart. "These aren't the droids you're looking for." said Igor, waving his hand in a mysterious way. "Bugger off." said the guard. "Oh well, it was worth a try..." The second guard opened the lid of the cardboard to find a Nimon hidden inside. "Do you have a licence to import this Nimon?" "Do you realise I have an anti-Dalek fluid neutraliser aimed at your bollocks?" said a cheerful voice from behind them. The guard shook in terror, it could only be... "Professor Bernice Summerfield and her band of stealth archaeologists?!?!" Barry boggled. "I didn't expect *you*!" "Nobody expects the stealth archaeologists!" Meanwhile, John Peel had managed to knock the first guard unconscious by talking about African rhythmic punk bass players for five minutes. Benny and her band tied the two guards together and left them sitting in the checkpoint booth. "And now," Benny said enthusiastically, "We'll take you to our secret forest base, where we can plan how to rescue the eight Masters!" Benny slapped her thigh, because, well, it's traditional in a panto.. "Ooh, can I do that too?" asked Igor. "If you want." Igor slapped Benny's thigh. Benny punched Igor in the bollocks. The falsetto cries of anguish could be heard all around the forest as they rode off... --- "HELLO PRINCESS JUSTINE!!!!!!" "Oh, bloody hell, it's you..." "WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?!?!" "Krizu locked me up in here, it's traditional she said." "A SIMPLE LOCK?!?!?! ME AND MY HAW....ERR, THAT SHOULDN'T BE TOO DIFFICULT TO BREAK!!!" "The lock's not the problem. There's a phased tachyon pulsewall keeping me in here as well." "EH?!?!" "It's a magic barrier." "AAAAAAHHH!!!" Dame Vultan turned to the audience. "NOW BOYS AND GIRLS!!!" whispered Dame Vultan. "HOW ARE WE GOING TO GET THE PRINCESS OUT? OH LOOOOOOOOK! HERE'S A LOVELY, SUAVE, SOPHISTICATED GENTLEMAN TO HELP US ALL OOOOOOOOOOOOOUT!!!!!" A bald, dark-skinned man in a dark red velvet suit, with a neatly trimmed goatee and a cuban cigar in his hand walked up to the cell door and addressed the audience. "I am the Master, and you will obey me!" . . . . . "Oh no we won't!" "Oh yes you will!" "OH NO WE WON'T!!!" "Would you do it for a Scooby Snack?" "NO!!!" "Two Scooby Snacks?" "No!" "Threeeeeee Scooby Snacks," he smiled. "Oh, alright then..." said the audience. "Now, to undo the enchantment around Princess Justine's cell, we need to harness the power of music!" "OH I THINK WE CAN MANAGE THAAAAAAAAAT!!!" Dame Vultan said, quietly as he threw Scooby Snacks into the audience from a bucket. "Ok," said the Master. "We'll split you into four groups. I take it you all know the words for 'Row, Row, Row Your Boat?" "YES!!!" chorused the audience. "Wonderful! Now, this section will start off, then after they finish the first line, the next section start and so on, alright!" "ALRIGHT!!!" said the audience. "1, 2, 1, 2, 3, 4!" "Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream, "Row, row, row your boat. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, "Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream, Life is but a dream!" "Row, row, row your boat. Gently down the stream, Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Gently down the stream, Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is but a dream!" Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, Life is but a dream!" Life is but a dream!" The magic barrier flickered, then collapsed in a fountain of static. "Whay! Now I can meet up with the girls and party!" cried Justine as she ran off. "BUT WHAT ABOUT SAVING THE MASTERS AND RESTORING BALANCE TO THE KINGDOM?!?!?!" "Bollocks to that!" she shouted, as she disappeared around the corner. "Ah, now we may have a slight problem here..." said the Nth Master. "Bwa-hah-hah! You're right there, you lovely, evil bearded man you!" They turned round to see Krizu, standing beside a large crocodile on a leash, being held by a slightly loopy looking Australian. "Irwin, release your croc!" "Eh? If you insist..." said the Aussie, beginning to unzip his trousers. "I said *CROC*!!!" "Oh," said Irwin, looking very disappointed. He pressed a small button on the handle and the croc was unleashed. "Go get them Bruce!" he shouted. Krizu laughed. BWA-HAH-HAH-HAHA-HAH-HAH-HAHA!!!!! [end of act one] "Well, that went pretty well didn't it?" said Yokoi. "Yeah, now for the musical intermission, then act two." Gordon smiled. --- [authoritorial aside - there's a tune to go with this, it's a zip file at - http://www.bhfh.fsnet.co.uk/inter.zip . It's 344K, about 6m40s long and will play on WinAmp or any other player that supports MOD/XM files.] "Ok, time for the musical intermission, you all ready?" Everyone checked they had their instruments, the dancing zombies were already grooving on the spot, desperate to get out there. I took the lead and led them out through the curtains. I felt something was wrong as soon as I walked out. I heard the bumps as the others walked straight into some invisible barrier. I looked back and saw the concerned faces of Saville and Yokoi. I was on my own. The Gods had chosen the moment carefully. They knew I worked better with other people. Bouncing concepts and ideas off them, catching them as they flew back. Not this time... I concentrated, I visualised. I was going to pull something out of each pocket, something that would help me get through the intermission. I took my hands out of my pockets and looked. Two stylophones... This wasn't going to be easy. I looked up at the audience. "Where did armadillos come from? There is an ancient Maya legend, concerning two minor gods. These were a pair of unruly deities, who had somehow crossed or offended the other gods in some way. The legend doesn't tell us what they did to offend the others, but it does tell of the day when the Maya Sun God, Hachakyum, ordered the two minor gods to sit down on a small bench before all the other gods. All of a sudden, the bench transformed into two armadillos, both of whom jumped up in the air, dislodging the two gods onto their arses, disgracing and humiliating them in front of the assembled group." "All of which has absolutely nothing to do with what I'm about to do, but it gave me time to think..." I placed the stylophones on the ground and sat down. I picked up the styluses and started playing a tune, one which was familiar to many of the people there... The audience sat and watched in silence. ...I managed to get through it, short as it was, but I could at least hear a few clapping hands in the audience. I could almost feel the displeasure of the Gods above me, as their power weakened slightly, I'd managed to do something. Maybe I'd distracted them enough to pull one, small trick out of my sleeve... I closed my eyes. In my mind, the instruments in front of me were no longer mere stylophones, but something else...it only took a moment, but then I played... ...it was a variation on the previous tune redone in the style of a particularly favourite song of mine, but now the sound filled the tent. Rather than a couple of buzzy noises, a full wave of rhythm, bass and melody resounded around the circus. I kept my eyes closed as I continued, lost in music...then I reached the end, and opened them again. All I could see was the audience, applauding. I stood up bowed, picked up the stylophones and walked backstage, giving a cheery little wave to the Gods as I went. I'd made it. ((Meanwhile, the others have just reached the outskirts of Vortex City...)) * * * 54. Interview with the Contessa * * * /Arrival in the outskirts of Vortex City.../ --- City limits. Automatically Kid Curry glanced up at the stars, gauging what remained of the night. Half an hour's ride maybe, since they'd left the river bottoms. They'd made good time -- best he could've hoped for, with these sluggish beasts, and a greenhorn rider into the bargain. But how long since they'd first come down here? How long'd he been out after the fall? How long, back in the nowhere-land? He'd been going half-crazy, back in the Circus, trying to figure out how time was running here in the City. How much time they had left. Now -- now, with the first lighted windows up ahead, with the life of the City stirring round him -- he'd have given a deal all of a sudden to know how the Hoedowners were doing. The horses's pace slackened, as if sensing his uncertainty. Kid Curry cursed and urged it back into a lumbering trot. Buildings on both sides, now. He could see Allie -- Sandra -- staring. Not the way he'd guessed she might -- the way he'd caught the others staring at him a time or two, as if he was some walking, breathing picture in a story-book. No, she looked like she'd been here before... and was trying to work out what was different. What was wrong. He could feel it himself. Knew what to look for. No-one in the street. No-one sitting out on the boardwalks. Lights in the windows, yeah -- but not enough. The saloons were dark... save one or two they'd passed -- and those were full. Full and quiet, like everyone'd huddled together, waiting. Faces turned at the sound of riders in the street. But no-one called out. No-one came to see. He'd seen tornado-blight, down south. This wasn't it. Not yet. Those folks acted like nothing had happened... like they didn't even know what they'd lost. Dead inside. Just going through the motions. These folks in town, they were scared, and scared bad. More than that. /Faded/. And the guys that didn't scare easy -- the big names -- he didn't see them at all. Like something had been *feeding*... feeding on heroes. Feeding on legend... The horse shied as his hand tightened, viciously, on the reins. "Ouf!" Sandra broke the silence suddenly, shaking out her hair as if coming up from deep water. "It's as if the whole place is waiting for the bad guys to ride in. Creepy." He snorted. "Have to be one hell of a bunch to scare a town this big... Know what you mean, though. It's been here -- the storm -- coming back soon, maybe -- but right now it's gone. And the city's holding its breath." A nod. "It must have been pretty bad. You can't *fight* something like that... all your schemes and all your courage just attract it more and more..." She shivered. "About all you can do is lead it away. Offer it something it wants more than all the stories here. /Bait/... and someone tried..." Someone tried. Stories as bait, to defend the city. The knowledge was like a cold band, tightening. The question dried in his throat. Sandra caught his thought in his eyes, and gasped. "Oh no, Kid. No! Not her -- not the Contessa --" "Yeah? You sure?" She'd have been out, he knew, out in the thick of it, like a cougar snarling and desperate over the mouth of the den that holds her cubs -- Sandra shook her head, insistent. "She's here. I can feel her... all through the stories. Her power like a thread..." The Muse's voice was barely more than a whisper. "All that's holding them together, some of them. Oh Kid, they're so faded I can hardly even make out their names..." She looked across at him, frowning suddenly. "Hang on -- I thought... the charm... Can't *you* feel her --" her finger pointed, wavering, up ahead, settled at last on a certain quiet corner of Main Street -- "there?" Kid Curry let the reins fall, shrugging. "No charm, lady." He bared his throat; let her see the thong fastened there dark and empty, the way he'd found it when he'd woken up. Last thing *he* remembered was taking it off, back in the Circus... "Used it to get to you, over in that nowhere-place. Guess if we'd come back the way I went, I'd have it back -- but we ended up here... and the way I see it, that charm is still in the Circus, doing its job, shielding the ring." An idea occurred to him. His mouth tightened. "Maybe *I'm* still there... maybe this is some kind of dream..." He swung down from the saddle in front of the Grand Hotel, leading the horse to the empty hitching-rail. Every muscle ached. Mighty convincing kind of dream, if that was true. But say he *was* asleep back there, in some kind of trance. When a shaman went spirit-walking and his spirit died... why then, the body died. The same hour, the same instant. Better not count on this being a dream. Either way, you'd wind up just as dead. One thing he was sure of -- the charm was safe. The shield was still unbroken. If not... he'd know. Somehow, he'd know. A cold touch on his spine. That didn't go for the Contessa, though. He was cut off from her, sure enough -- same way he'd been all his life -- and anything could have happened. He watched the girl dismount. Stiffly; guess she was sore. Hitched the horse for her, when she fumbled. Scanning her face, looking for doubt. "You can feel her? You sure?" A nod. "Certain. Absolutely... Kid, I'm a Muse, and she's... she's..." Sandra spread her hands helplessly. "She's like a light in the darkness, round here. She's /alive/. I could see her a mile off with my eyes shut. She *breathes* stories, almost. She needs them to live... but then they grow and spin out round her like a garden. She takes power and gives it back. "This whole *place* is full of stories. It's like every Western ever made all rolled up in one -- I can feel them in my bones, telling me how it's going to happen, whispering how it's bound to be... "The stories are going stagnant everywhere, Kid. But this... this is the front line. This is where they started the attack. This should be the worst-hit, and in a way it is... but it's not. The stories are weak, they're slow, but here they're still working. Ever since we got here I've felt it, but I didn't know why." Their eyes met, across the hitching rail. Hers were grave; wise. Still the same pale-faced kid in rough, ill-fitting clothes -- but for a moment he could have sworn they were the shimmering robes of a Muse. "It's her." Her voice was absolute. "I don't /know/... but I'm sure. Just a thread, here and there. Never enough to show. Never enough to matter, until the whole world is threadbare... then the threads from outside are all that's left to hold it together." She was leading the way ahead of him like a blind man towards the light of the sun on his empty lids. "The Contessa needed the City," she said softly, "but it never needed her. Not till now. Now she pays back everything she owes; and more, and more. It will last until her power is gone. But even the Storyteller cannot stand forever." ~~~ She raises a hand, moving like a sleepwalker, to knock. Not the front door, with its little flight of steps. The side door. How had she known? The stories... the stories are pulling her along. The Contessa's story. Her own, new-born. They are about to meet. In resolving her story may many others be aided. In aiding others' stories will hers be resolved. The words well up slowly out of memory. 'But that was *the sister*!' some part of Kid Curry thinks in the last moment, protesting... And then the door opens. And the Contessa is there. --- Weariness colours her features; she seems much older, so much older, bearing her true age in every step she takes. But there is relief there, too - a burden, a pain, lifted off her shoulders at their arrival. 'Come inside,' she says. Quietly, Sandra leads Kid into the house. --- Sandra explains what happened, how they came to be here - the Gods' trap, the separation of Allie's soul; Xeffy's arrival, answering Sandra's plea, as Sandra tried to break free; Xeffy explaining why she'd come, and Kid's decision to follow, to retrieve the stolen part of Allie's soul. Then, hesitantly, she moves on: the other Hoedowners' attempt to free them from the Gods' trap - and how, when they followed the way out, they found themselves here. Kid says nothing. Watches the Contessa as she listens to Sandra's story, her movements, her gestures, the age that now weighs upon her. -- So small, she is. He had forgotten how small. Curved and dainty like a china lady on a shelf. Barely to his own shoulder -- when half the Hoedowners overtop him by a head or more... He watches her almost painfully, trying to fix every movement, every gesture in his mind. Laying in store, against the barren times ahead. He's been here a dozen times, two dozen -- more -- and never known to look. Never thought to see. For a moment it is all he can do not to reach out to touch her gown, to brush the soft curve of her throat and trace the dark shining wings of her hair... A catch in his breath. He says nothing. Does nothing. Watches her... /not watching/ him. -- Finally, the Contessa nods. 'Thank you.' Sandra nods in return. 'I had felt the other web,' the Contessa says quietly. 'Your web. The Muses' web. Still strong, but beginning to fray...' 'I wondered why I wasn't fading,' Sandra says, equally softly. 'You're holding this together, supplying the stories with as much as you can.' 'And the disconnection... the charm was still active, but I could no longer feel Curry there. Not dead... but I didn't know what might have happened.' For a moment, her expression is serious. 'I would... I think I understand why you were drawn here. Feeling the story - this universe's story. Like calls to like... it recognised something similar in you... and drew you here.' 'Is there anything we can do?' Sandra asks. 'You can feel it,' the Contessa says. 'I am giving as much of myself as I can, holding the web together... but I do not have the energy to create a reverse conduit, a way to return the energy lost, as you have with your Hoedown. All I can do is hold this together.' 'While someone gives you enough time to regroup.' Kid says finally. The Contessa nods. 'Doc Gallifrey had guessed what was happening, too. He left town before the storm approached - I believe it is /him/ the storm follows. He is buying time for us... and, I think, doing what he can to weaken the storm - or those who ride it. If he's lucky, he may succeed.' 'Anything we could do to stop this?' Kid says. The Contessa's sigh can barely be heard. 'To do so... to stop the storm... you would have to end it at the source. Stop those whose... influence... has led to this. Without them, the storm would play itself out - and those who ride the storm, the Monitors, returned where they came.' 'Stop the Gods, right?' The Contessa shakes her head. 'They are another group influenced by those behind this. But they are /willing/ players, enjoying the destruction of another multiverse. I think the battle with the Gods comes close to the end... it was nearly dawn when you left.' 'It's a matter of time,' Sandra says quietly. 'The Storyteller can only tell a story for so long, can only give of herself up to a point.' 'It... It needed someone,' the Contessa says finally. 'It needed an outsider - someone who would care. And I needed... I was looking for... somewhere I was free, somewhere where I could choose to belong. I found it - or it found me.' 'Symbiosis. You needed it - and it needed you.' 'Yes.' 'And you became its Storyteller. Bound your life to its.' Sandra catches Kid's eye. 'Even Muses have myths and legends. The Storyteller is one of them: someone - character or creator, never a Muse - who binds themselves to a Fictiverse. Who moves through the stories, guides, nudges. Who... who, in a very real way, has become a part of it, as it becomes a part of them. The stories suggest a long life... no one knows /how/ long.' Kid closes his eyes. 'All right. Is there any way - any way at all - we can stop whoever's behind all this in time?' 'Yes. If you're quick enough. If you're fast enough.' 'And...' It hurts to say this, hurts to leave so soon - but another loyalty calls, and he knows when he can do something, and when there is nothing to be done. 'We need to know if we can get back.' Sandra says, her face downturned. 'There is, if what you've told me is correct. One of the oldest, if not the oldest, forms of magic. The Law of Contagion. Once together, always together. You were once a part of someone else - and that can be used to bring you back to them.' Sandra nods, as if she suspected this. 'Here.' She reaches in and hands the Contessa the necklace. The Contessa nods in return. 'One thing. Your story is /not/ over, not yet. You will be drawn back to your other, but not rejoined - this magic does not have the power to answer that dilemma. That choice rests with you.' Sandra looks at her, her eyes widening in realisation. The Contessa closes her eyes, not seeming to notice. 'For now... for now, we have other concerns.' --- The Contessa sighs. She has not told them everything -- everything that she knows, least of all everything that she guesses... Old habit? she asks herself ruefully for a moment. Do you drive so hard a bargain, weave such a tangled web that you forget to deal straight with those whom you must trust, Contessa? Another tiny sigh. It is not that simple, and she knows it. For if she has guessed aright -- for her sake and for theirs, she /dare/ not tell them. Not while the false Gods of Ragnarok are still uncaged. And once that is done... *when* that is done... they will know already, better perhaps than she, just what they face. What lies in wait in the still, small center where the worlds meet. But these two must go back. The shreds of Vortex City cannot bear them much longer. Over the girl... the stories have too much power. Like calls to like; but by the terms of this world, by *these* rules -- she rides now not with the hero but with the villain. And such the stories do not easily forgive. For Kid Curry the Contessa does not fear; not in that way at least. He has long since found his feet here, learned how to survive -- she smiles -- never dreamed of playing by the rules. But he carries deep within him the bones of lost reality. The memory of a time that was more -- as well as less -- than story would make of it. She laid her hope in that strength when she chose to send him South when the fading began; trusted him to win through where dash and daring alone could not hold. He has learned to fight the stories to survive. Learned to fight and win. And so now -- now, with the City itself under siege, shaken and weak -- she can feel the threads pulling apart around him. Where the shadow of reality falls, Fiction changes. And every change drains more of the strength she can no longer spare. A sudden, desperate weariness. She gathers together what remains of her power; and prepares to open her eyes. --- Dark stains below the lowered lashes... an ugly gray tinge under the clear color of her skin. Proud bones lie stark beneath the weary face. Years beyond counting... beyond all bearing... etched cruelly across the mask in a single snatched moment of rest. 'The stories suggest a long life --' Sandra's voice, in memory -- 'no-one knows /how/ long...' She has never been young, since he had first known her. She has never -- until this night -- been old. How long? A cold touch between his shoulder-blades; and then another, slow-dawning. Since he had first known her... how many years? Christ in hell... how old... how old am /I/? --- "Contessa." She looks round sharply, catching the unsteady note in his voice. "Been doing some reckoning -- all the times I've been in here." His eyes are haunted; white-edged. "Can't seem to make it add up anyhow -- not with what I remember." Her heart twists; but she keeps all knowledge from her face. Watches him gravely. "How long, then, does it seem it should be -- to you?" He shakes his head, staring down at the backs of his hands as if they are not his own. "Two years -- three, maybe, since I came here. Since I first hit the City. Couple of winters. No more." The fists have tightened, knuckles white. "But it don't add up that way. Don't add up at all. Has to be twenty years -- /more/ --" He looks up. And reads the truth, finally, in her face. "More..." It is barely a whisper. "How long, Contessa? /How long/?" There is no gentle way to say it. Nothing she can tell him. Nothing she can do. "The children of the children of those you once knew have grown old and died in the years between... and the towns are empty or changed beyond all knowing." She gives him the truth. "You cannot go home, Curry. It is too late. It has been too late for almost a hundred years." ((Meanwhile, the second half of the pantomime is over...)) * * * 55. Conclusion of the pantomime * * * /"Oh," said Irwin, looking very disappointed. He pressed a small button on the handle and the croc was unleashed./ --- [act two] The crocodile just stood there, staring at the Master and Dame Vultan. It then spun round and bit Irwin. "He's got me by the testicles Krizu!" he said calmly. "Did you get that on camera?" Krizu ran her hand over her face, shaking her head slowly as the Master and Vultan scarpered. "Right, this calls for severe measures! Bring out the Darkguard!" Fog seeped into the corridor, from it emerged six large figures in black armour, with beards of evil(TM) painted onto their helmets. "Go get 'em boys!" cried Krizu, as the Darkguard stomped off after the two miscreants. --- Barry, Igor, John, Norbert and Dagget followed Benny deep into the forest. "Oh look, there's a bear wearing a silly hat!" cried Norbert. "Ooh, ooh!" said Dagget, "Look Norbie, there's the Pope shi.....eeeeeeeek!" "Shield your eyes young Dagget, a thing like that could warp your mind!" Benny walked up to a tree and pressed a knot of wood on its trunk. Several dozen trees flipped down to reveal the ruins of an old monastary. "Welcome to our secret base!" Benny grinned. "Our?" asked Igor suspiciously. "This is Lara, she's helping out over the summer." Benny indicated a tall woman in a green top and shorts. "Hello," said Lara Barry's eyes grew wide. "I love your jugs, they're huge!" "Thanks, would you like to hold them for me?" "Wow, these are really heavy!" "Old too, the monks used to keep fermenting beer in them." Barry put the jugs down on the table and had a look around. "That's a very impressive rack." "Sadly there were no bottles of wine left when we got here..." Benny muttered. --- Meanwhile, back in the dungeon... Krizu sat above a large pit, filled with custard. She held out a fishing rod, with a Murray Mint attached to the end of a piece of string. Splashing could be heard from within the custard. She'd left the Darkguards stomping around the castle after the Master and Vultan. "So, you're fishing for Masters then?" said Jones. "Oh yes!" Krizu smiled. "Using a Murray Mint as bait?" "Mmm hmm." "You're just an incorrigible Master baiter aren't you?" Krizu just stared at Jones. Jones looked in every direction except at Krizu. "Oh look!" he said "My coat's come to get me!" He ran off quickly. --- The ramshackle group of would-be rescuers sat in front of Benny and Lara, who were going over the route through the Tomb Of Doom, to the secret underground entrance to Castle Krizu. "After all, we both have *oodles* of experience raiding tombs, don't we Lara?" "True Bernice, very true." "So," Benny said, looking at the rescuers. "We all know what we're doing?" Muttering and mumbling emanated from the assorted individuals, most of which consisted of "I think so.", "Can we just go over it once more?" and "You know, they don't look as big in real life..." Benny sighed, "Alright, but this is the *last* time, I'm almost out of vodka." --- The guard stood at the tomb entrance. Despite it being eminently sensible to put a big locked door and a garrison at the entrance to stop people getting in, there was just the one guard because it's traditional. A nondescript figure with a tray appeared. "Sausage inna bun! Get your sausage inna bun!" "What kind of sausage?" asked the guard. "Just a normal, every day sausage. When it all comes down to it, a sausage is a sausage my friend." "Hmmm." "Being a guard's hungry work innit?" "Well, of course it is, being stuck out here all day, on me own. I'd love a sausage inna bun, but I don't have any grotzits or drogna on me..." "I'll tell you what mate, I'll give you a free sample, but I'm cutting my own throat here, I'm telling you." "Thanks mate!" The guard took a sausage inna bun. "I *do* hope this isn't an attempt to distract me so you can go into the Tomb Of Doom?" "Would I do something like that? Look at this face. Isn't this the face of an honest man?" While the guard thought this over, sniggering could be heard from behind the bushes. The guard took a bite of the sausage. His pupils dilated. His face turned a virulent green and he began to judder randomly. He spun around for a while, before collapsing on a conveniently placed bean bag. The rest of the team popped up from behind the bushes and sneaked into the Tomb. "Good work Dibbler..." said Barry as he walked in. The team walked down the ancient corridors, looking out for anything suspicious. "Look out for trouser snakes," whispered Igor. "I *beg* your pardon?" "They're snakes that like to run up your trouser legs, once they get in there, you can't get them out again." "Ah," said Benny, somewhat relieved. "I was getting bizarre images." They came to a large room, the only other exit was a small door, ten feet up the opposite wall. "Don't worry!" shouted Dag. "NinjaDag will run up the wall and open it!" The small beaver in the ninja suit took a run up, accelerated toward the wall and... KERSPLATCH!!! ...ran right into it. Barry walked up to the wall, carrying a ladder. "Where did you keep that?" "None of your damn business, Igor," Barry replied. Barry struggled with the ladder for a while. "Benny! I can't get it up!" "That's always been your problem..." she muttered. With a little help they got it up and Igor worked his way up it. Lara handed him a pole, with a symbol carved into one end. "Well, what you need to do," explained Lara, "is grab hold of your pole and stick it in the slot. You may have to wiggle it about a bit." "I can't get it in!" cried Igor. "Push it in slowly and gently...don't force it." "I think it's too big!" "Nonsense, just position yourself carefully and it'll slide right in." With a grunt of effort, Igor managed to slide the pole into the slot in the door, which opened with a click. Igor loped through the door as the rest of the team began to climb the ladder. Igor showed a remarkable turn of speed for a man who walked like his arse was broken. The rest had trouble keeping up. After more and more corridors, they found themselves in another large room. Barry turned to Lara. "Look at those amazing knockers!" Barry exclaimed. "Barry I've warned you already..." Lara began. "No, the ones on the doors, they're huge!" "He's not wrong!" said Benny. "What a wonderful pair of knockers they are..." said Barry, awestruck. John Peel walked forward and grabbed the knockers, clattering them down. The huge doors began to open slowly, scraping along the floor. "Lovely." he said as he walked into the darkness beyond. The rest of the team ran in after him... ...to find themselves in the dungeon, surrounded by 213 Darkguards. "Oh bugger!" said the entire team simultaneously. "Ha ha! You're too late!" screamed Krizu, "I've captured the other Master and his crossdressing friend and now I've got all of you! Resistance is useless!!! There's no escape!!! Nothink in ze vorld can shtop me now!!!!!!" BWA-HAH-HAH-HAHA-HAH-HAH-HAHA!!!!! --- Sadly, the tape of the last part of the panto was burned by a dopey BBC employee/buried in the Blue Peter garden/is down the back of Ian Levine's sofa, so to describe what happened, we got Rowley Birkin Q.C. to do a narration for us on the basis that he once shared a taxi with Stephen Dartnell... "Castle Krizu......eeeeeeeeeeeee...interesting selection of devices.... ...armadillos....stick it right up......zombies....cheese board...all over the walls...dripping was....and he was completely starkers!!!....rubber gloves....albino squirrels.....went after his nuts...tables, ladder and chairs....pebble dashed....errrrr.....remarkable accuracy for a Clanger... ....Masters released.....day saved....everybody happy.....yessssssss... ............of course, they were all, very....very drunk..." We now take you back to the closing moments of the story, which survive due to John Craven's Newsround using the clip to illustrate a news item about Maboza Ritchie, who played the third Darkguard from the left, after he was caught smuggling pinatas over the Mexican border... --- "So, you'll get the Masters on a daily rotational basis, getting a different one each day, yeah?" said Igor. "Ooh, that'll be *perfect*!" enthused Krizu. And everyone cheered and everyone laughed and they all lived daftly ever after... --- The audience applauded as all the people who'd played parts in the panto got together in the ring for the curtain call. As everybody else walked backstage, Gordon, Saville and Yokoi remained to pick up the projection spheres and put them back in Gordon's cardboard box. But as Gordon reached for the first sphere, there was a flash of light and a shadow fell over him. He looked up to see six Darkguards standing before them. "Oops, must have left the program running," he said as he pressed the button to switch the sphere off. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. Two of the guards were slowly walking over to him. He stood up to move back and backed into a solid barrier. He looked over at Saville and Yokoi and saw that they too were pressing their hands against a barrier. "The Gods, somehow they've accessed the spheres." He looked up. "You're cheating! You're beginning to realise you can't win so you have to turn to underhand tactics to win. You bampots!" Saville and Yokoi both ran over to the corner with Gordon. He was muttering away to himself. "Sam Neill won't be happy, I said I'd get them back to him before he does the episode on black holes..." The six Darkguards surrounded them. There was no way out. The Gods had somehow interfered with the spheres. They couldn't get out. No-one could come and help them. Or could they... Gordon looked at Yokoi and Saville then at the small cardboard box. He placed the box on the ground and pulled the Sword Of Authorial Freedom out of his pocket. He touched the hilt and it lit up, crackling in the air. "It's time..." he said. Yokoi and Saville just nodded. Gordon threw the blazing sword up in the air, it rose as if in slow-motion, tumbling. Everyone was watching the sword, so nobody was exactly certain about what happened next. There was certainly some kind of flash of light involved somewhere. What *was* obvious was that when the sword came back down, it wasn't a sword, but a wooden walking stick. What was also obvious was that the man who grabbed the stick out of the air as it fell, *wasn't* Gordon. Where the cardboard box had been stood the reassuring blue shape of a 1960s London Police Box. Where Saville had stood, there was a young woman, short, with shoulder-length dark hair framing a delicate face. She had somewhat of a piercing gaze, which was only accentuated by her striking eyebrows. Instead of Yokoi, stood a tall and pale figure, with short, almost white hair. She somehow looked like a stalking animal, waiting to strike. The last figure, who had caught the stick was quite tall, with a high forehead, striking nose and angular face. He looked somewhat stern, but then he smiled, and it was the smile you remember from your favourite elder relative as a child, the one who told stories. But his eyes, you could see galaxies in those eyes. The tall, pale woman suddenly ran forward, kicking the nearest Darkguard in the head before jumping over it as it fell, grabbing the sword out of its hands and neatly separating the head from the body before it had even hit the ground. She whirled round and kicked another one of them back, relieving it of its sword as she did so. She lunged forward and skewered two more of the undead soldiers. One Darkguard advanced on her, trying to trap her within the corner of the invisible barrier, but the woman turned round, ran up to it and jumped up, rebounding backward off the barrier and somersaulting over the guards head, stabbing it in the back as she landed. One guard to go. The last Darkguard threw a knife, but the newcomer actually caught it and spinning round, threw it back where it came, catching the Darkguard right between the eyes. The man with the stick shook his head gently. "While I am rather pleased that you managed to deal with these individuals quickly and without any harm to yourself or us, I do wish you had at least given me a chance to talk our way out of the situation..." The woman shrugged. He smiled and turned to look at the audience. "I should perhaps introduce ourselves. This," he said, indicating the woman who had just taken out half-a-dozen soldiers of darkness, "is Silence, she causes things, and this," he indicated the other, "is Katherine, I promised to show her wondrous places and peoples." He spread his arms wide... "Ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages!" He brought his hands back down, resting them on the stick. "I am the Doctor. I'm here to make things better." ((Meanwhile, Kid Curry has just received a very unwelcome shock...)) * * * 56. A hundred lost years * * * /Kid Curry has learned that he has been in Vortex City for almost 100 years - long past his natural lifetime.../ --- 'The Otherworld.' Sandra whispers. 'It's Otherworld time... a day here, a /century/ there.' The Contessa nods. 'You cannot go home, for home is long gone. You could go /back/...' 'And crumble into dust?' 'No,' the Contessa says. 'No. But you would age again, from the moment you returned... there is enough reality in you for that.' He looks up then. 'Why?' 'Because that is...' She pauses. 'The endless adventure. The story continues, containing more adventures than any normal life could ever contain. And during it all-' 'During it all, the hero never ages.' Sandra whispers. 'Not once. No one bothered with it - it got in the way of the story.' He rounds on her. 'And how old are /you/, lady?!' 'Which one of me?' Sandra asks quietly. '/I'm/ only a few hours old. Alisandra was around twenty.' She hesitates. 'But... but some Muses can live a long time. My grandmother lived to be about three thousand.' He turns to the Contessa. She reads his question before he speaks. 'I've lived here longer than I care to remember. My people... my people can live almost forever, barring accidents.' She breathes out. 'And...' His face darkens. "Don't say it. Don't say it." He is coiled in on himself. Desperate. Ready to lash out. "I never once saw... Never thought to count the times I'd been here -- all the months between --" The eyes are wild. Not safe -- not sane. "What did you do to me, Contessa? What the hell did you do to my mind?" "I did nothing." The Contessa's accent bites like a whiplash. Like a dash of cold water to the face. "I did not make this world, nor its rules. I fled here in unthinking escape, even as you did -- and stayed." Her eyes meet his once more, cool and dark. "Even as you did." Sandra lets out a shaky breath. Makes a guess. "And now the stories are weakening..." The Contessa nods. "And those who had, once, another life... begin perforce to remember. For a while." Kid Curry makes a sudden movement; and gold flashes in the lamplight as she holds up one slender hand. "And if I had told you sooner...?" Her expression is pained for a brief moment. 'There was no gentle way to say it, no easy way. How would you tell a man he has outlived everything he ever knew?' His features remain hard. 'You could have warned, could have said /something/, anything...' 'And would you have believed me, Curry?' she asks. 'You, who believed that in a few short years he would be dangling from the end of a noose, or lying dead in an alley - what would it mean to you, even if you had believed it?' He cannot speak. 'A hundred years.' she repeats quietly. He says nothing. Stands, turns, and walks out. 'He's not okay.' Sandra says, finally. 'I know.' the Contessa says. 'I know. But he /will/ return.' 'But... but what /is/ he, now? A creator or a character?' 'He is... Kid Curry.' the Contessa says eventually. 'Himself, always himself. Always breaking the rules. And around here, those who break the rules... admired, honoured, feared... it always catches up with them. Always.' Sandra pales. 'There is a way your story is supposed to go - but as a Muse, you know that. And you know the dilemma that underlies it. 'And there is your story here - a lost or kidnapped woman, rescued by the villain, slowly understanding him. But /this/ 'villain' breaks the rules." She sighs. "Can you understand, little Muse -- or is the call of this place already too strong? There are the rules of the City, the rules of the preachers; thou shalt not kill, thou shalt not lie, thou shalt not steal --" a sudden dancing smile -- "nor gamble at cards, nor drink, nor swear, nor ride out of a Sunday, save to prayers..." "But those are the kind of rules that characters in the stories break all the time -- right?" Sandra's own smile breaks out in response. The Contessa laughs; but soon sobers. "But there are the other rules. The rules of story. The rules the characters live even as they breathe..." "Like... not aging?" The other woman nods. "Good over evil. The hero rides off into the sunset. The bad girl never gets the man. More than six shots in one gun, where it really matters." "Robbing the rich and giving to the poor," Sandra says slowly. "The stolen horses are clear of the stable before the owner wakes up..." "So. You /have/ felt it. I wondered... And you were with him?" Him? Sandra wonders for a moment. No need, of course, to ask. "Yes. I could feel the stories -- feel the way it ought to go --" She catches her breath, remembering. "And it went wrong. I was stupid... romantic..." "Kid Curry does not play by those rules." The Contessa's voice is almost too low to hear. "He plays as he has always played -- for real. It catches up with him -- and with those around him. For at the end of the story, by all the rules the villain must die... and he is no hero, child. Not in this world; not in any world --" Sandra's eyes spark in sudden challenge; but she bites her tongue. "But this place is held together by the rules," she says instead at last, unhappily. 'We're breaking them - and we're worsening things.' 'Not /yet/.' the Contessa says. 'There is... an equilibrium. He breaks it - but the presence of your web holds it together. But it can only hold for so long.' A cold feeling settles in the pit of Sandra's stomach. 'You said... catches up with him. Isn't /that/ a story too? He steps outside after learning a terrible secret... and something /else/ catches up to him.' - Or with you. '/You/...' the Contessa hisses. The Monitor steps out of the shadows. - You will not stop this, Contessa. Doc Gallifrey will fall - and then Vortex City, soon after. There /will/ be an end. 'There'll be /nothing/!' Sandra snaps. 'Nothing at /all/!' - You are a very long way from your self, little Shadow. Do /not/ forget that. 'I get it...' Sandra murmurs. 'You're doing this while the PTB - and Sailor Gallifrey - focus on the Hoedown. Attacking on one front, while they're looking the other way.' - As I said. An end. Stasis. Quiet and cold. The balance finally reached. 'You mean /oblivion/.' Sandra returns. - Do I? The Monitor steps forward. - Then allow me to demonstrate. --- A hundred years... A wind whips down the darkened street, stinging his face with flying dust. Outside the Grand Hotel, the horses huddle together. One snorts, uneasily. Overhead the clouds are building, racing in on the rising gale. One by one the stars are going out. A hundred years. Kid Curry stares into the night. There is an aching hollow somewhere deep within him; no, not a hollow, but a solid fist of emptiness, opening out, spreading... The Gods had taken his dreams -- but the City has taken the world where he was born. And given him a hundred years. A hundred empty years. Everyone he'd ever known. Firm-fleshed women and sullen men -- the ranchers who'd thieved the open range, and the rustlers who'd thieved their maverick steers in return -- that little featherhead Elfie who'd been fool enough to let Lonie sweet-talk her into bed -- or, knowing Lonie, into the barn -- Bare bones, now. Dark and crumbling in the dirt. The cabins bleached and splintered in the long grass where the logs had slipped away. Shutters rattling in the towns, the sounds echoing across empty lots between the last few standing store-fronts... Empty -- or changed beyond all knowing, the Contessa had said. He remembers barren, close-cropped lawns, paved roads, endless square houses and fences for mile on mile on mile. Remembers being lost in that world, where the Hoedown was the only spark left of human life. Changed... beyond all knowing. 'You cannot go home, for home is long gone. You could go /back/...' The old preacher had wanted him out of the way; and had fixed to send him back. Back to a world he'd no longer even known. Back to a world where he had no place and no chance. No choice, there. No choice at all. The wind is icy. He shivers, turning up his collar. Stares once again at his hands, long scarred fingers like dry bones in the dark. A hundred years. And what -- what am I? Dead man walking? --- Knives under Corcovado, when the bullets were spent. Thorns and fleshy creepers that clung and sliced in the dusk of that last pursuit, as he fled, blind and beaten, through the tropical night. He'd suspected nothing -- let his guard down, made camp like always -- They'd meant murder. No pretence at a fight. They'd had it all figured out real neat, his so-called partners. Planned to knife him in his sleep like an old dog turned savage on them. Crazy, they'd called him. Screamed it after him, as the knives plunged. Loco bastard -- crazy killer -- get us all lynched -- And he'd twisted free and run. Run into the steaming forest without hope, without a thought, blind, animal fear sobbing at his heels. Those tearing thorns could have been knives. Could have been the memory of death, as they caught him. He'd never known different. Never known where and when he'd crossed, that night, let alone how. Known nothing, for a long time, and little enough for the weeks of fever at the ranch-house that followed. Knew only that, when he was well enough to leave -- to make a run for it, with no way to pay back the debt he owed -- he was back in range country again. And Vortex City... had been waiting. The life he knew. A world that had all but slipped away, back home, driving him south, and further south -- He'd learned the country. Learned the routes. Clawed out enough to live on, as he'd always done. He'd *known* -- known deep inside that this wasn't home, maybe wasn't even real. Felt the pulses of the stories, tugging. And let himself forget, living from day to day. All dead. All gone. All changing, even then. And all that was left of the old life was dreams. Stolen dreams. --- Eloise stood at the edge of the ring, her weight on one foot, the other poised to step forward, but not quite ready, watching the new Doctor and his two companions take over the juggling/intermission duties for a while. It was time to announce the Gods' next act -- the only problem was, she wasn't sure what that act was. Back at the start of the circus, when they were oh-so-sure that the Gods would be predictible, they assumed that they would put on a standard, fill-in-the-blank trapeze act, but now that the Gods were echoing the Hoedowners, and Gordon had changed his act to a Panto at the last minute, how were they going to answer? The Panto. Where had Gordon, Saville and Yokoi gone, she wondered, and who were the trio that had arrived in their place: The Doctor (Which Doctor?), Katherine, and Silence?! One third of TYA had vanished suddenly, to who-knows-where, and another third was only half there. She stared at the now-opaque sphere, and fought down the desire to smash it open to pull Curry and Allie's shadow out. :::They're not *really* inside, she reminded herself, any more than the characters of a sitcom were inside the TV::: *Why* had it suddenly gone opaque? Had Imran's song worked, and pulled the two of them out of that void-space they'd been in? And if so, were they in a place they needed or wanted to be, or had the Gods succeeded in taking them further away from them? Bits of Imran's song echoed in her memory: "The skein of Fate has not told your story". That should have worked. Allie's Shadow's story was Allie's story -- wasn't it? :::Oh, Mother Goose! What if it *wasn't*? What if her shadow stayed away until her story was complete? The way things have been going lately, that could be *Forever*, and we are running out of time...::: She squinted against darkness on the Gods' side of the tent, hoping to discern some sign of what they were preparing, so that she would know what to say when she annouced them. Nothing. And then she saw it: the unmistakable blue, still shining brightly: Curry's Eye charm -- without Curry. Had he left it behind on purpose, or had he lost it? Eloise didn't want to risk finding out the answer by accident. Quietly and stealthily as possible, she hurried over and slipped it into her pocket; it may not have been much, but it might be enough to protect it from the Gods' malicious power. Unbeknownst to her, as the charm settled in her pocket, it slipped over a thorn of the Dream rose Eloise had put there, as easily as a ring slips onto a finger. And when the power of Dream passes through a Gateway of the omniverse, anything can happen. ... --- A tingling in his hands, cold from the night air. Dead man walking. A past long forgotten. There was no place, no place left for him, no place to return to. A man from a dead past. A knight of ghosts and shadows. Now... now he began to understand. Empty. So empty. The endless, desperate life - always running, always fighting, always surviving... There could have been something more. Empty years. A hundred empty years. But who had made them empty? The City? Or himself? He could not blame the Gods for this, he knew that much. This was long, long before them. His life had been an endless quest to survive, to carry on... 'Would it have mattered to you?' The question echoing in his mind. Would it have mattered that he had lived a hundred years.? Yes, he wanted to say, yes it /did/ matter. But had it mattered? Would the man he had been look back on his life, see nothing but emptiness? Or would he have shrugged it off? Accepted, accommodated it, as he'd accommodated everything else? He knew the answer to that. He wished he didn't. The man he was now - he looked back on a hundred years and saw emptiness. Time squandered. Why? 'I'm only a few hours old... but Allie was twenty years old.' He saw them trying to make a life, to hold on to something - all they had, maybe. Fighting for something more than survival - for others, for their causes, for their /dreams/. They /fought/. They won, they lost... and then picked themselves up and tried again. And what was there for him to fight for? This broken, barren City, where he'd lost a hundred years? No. The Contessa? Oh, he'd seen there was no way /he/ could fight what was happening... Sandra? The Hoedowners? That's what he'd been struggling for, why he'd come here. Because he wanted to get back, to help them any way he could. Had a /score/ to settle, with those who'd stolen his dreams. Fighting for something /more/. A hundred empty years, the wind whispers. A hundred empty years. And do you think that can be redeemed in a few short hours? 'The candle that burns twice as bright burns half as long. And you have burned so very, very brightly...' And she - even separated, part of what she was - she wanted to live, to live her last few hours as best she could. Then... His hands tingled. Not from the cold. Wary, he looked around. Something wrong. Dark presence. A storm about to break A presence that sneered and mocked. Nothing, and less than nothing. The end is all. 'No.' he whispered. Something slipping in, past his guard. No. /No/. He knew what would happen when it broke. Final end. An ending to this place, to those within. And oh, he would have welcomed that, accepted... ...but there were those who did not. Those fighting for their last few hours. And so, too, would he fight. To /give/ them that time, give them their lives. He turned and raced. Racing the storm, before it ever broke. For the side door. For the Contessa's parlour. To face the darkness that waited. For him, and for all of them. ((And as the Monitor strikes within the Contessa's very parlour...)) * * * 57. Siren's sister * * * /"You will not stop this, Contessa. There *will* be an end."/ --- ..And the air /moved/. Rolled over, sucking, in greasy half-seen colors like polluted sludge in an old chemical plant. She almost choked on the sudden heavy taste of it. It was like a bad dream -- like some kind of cheap dubbed horror video -- only it was right there, right in the room between them, blurring her sight of the Contessa's gray face into an icy, aching smear as it gathered strength... And, as if in nightmare, she couldn't move. The hungry cold touched her. Flowed into her. Oblivion. --- Greasy, like the ghost of static in the air. Dragging down and under like a drowning current in deep water. Mindless and empty, and so, so close... And then, as the gray sucking threads erupted over the house above him, he /knew/. And knew where, and knew why, and knew *who* had to be trapped there at the heart of it... and, faced with the blind urgency of her need, stopped thinking altogether; for a while. --- No more fear. The cold no longer bites. Sandra feels... nothing. She can move, if she wishes. It is just that there seems no particular reason to do so. She looks across the still gray room with no great interest, no longer judging but merely observing. The Contessa hangs in the thick air like a drift of weed stirring in the current, her face slack and colorless, all the warm ripeness of her flesh shrunken in on itself. One hand is curled, tinder-dry, like a withered leaf. Sandra observes, calmly. Vaguely approves. All that vulgar, fecund life, heedless of the Balance, creating without thought or care for the consequences -- is snuffed out now at last into silence. Like the wasteful heat of the kerosene flames. At the edge of her sight she can glimpse the last colors draining, as the ripples reach out past the walls of the room. As the last troublesome shreds of self-awareness begin to slip away, she knows that soon the world will be quiet and cool. In Balance at last. Her body moves, of its own volition, to grasp the Contessa's arm. To tidy away the dwindling husk. And the door slams inwards, with sudden alien violence. Crude, painful light from out in the hall -- and then a dark shape, diving. Something hits the Contessa -- hits Sandra, as a flash of raw, hot sensation leaps from body to body -- For a moment she is choking, male, human, unthinking, desperate, /alive/ -- Sandra gasps as the explosion rips through her. After the blankness, it is almost pain. Almost too much to bear. The first breath sears into her lungs, and she is suddenly sobbing for air, swaying on her feet, in the joyous jewelled brightness of the little room. "What --" Her voice is cracked. She doubles over, coughing. Even those spasms are pleasure, as every muscle moves at her body's bidding. She has never been so aware of the animal miracle of her own existence. For a crazy moment she can almost hear the blood cells rushing in her veins, feel the lightning pulse of her nerves as the tip of one finger brushes against the table... "What... happened?" A half-voiced breath of sound that is not an answer. Sandra looks up. Meets the Contessa's eyes. Wide and dark and very still, like a leopard-cub carried in its mother's jaws. Kid Curry's arms are locked around her, holding her achingly close as if to shield her with his own life, every line of her body molded against his. Sandra cannot see his face, buried against the shining darkness of the other woman's hair -- but in the angle of his jaw a pulse is hammering. The Contessa makes no move, either to respond or to free herself; but after a moment she closes her eyes. Sandra looks away, awkwardly. And catches sight of the box. --- She knows what it is. Even without Alisandra's memories, Kid's description, she would have known. Monitor technology... and there is a greasy sheen to the smooth stone that she has tasted of late all too intimately. She crouches down to get a better look, the heavy skirts spilling around her. Off-balance, she puts out a hand to save herself. "Do not touch it -- even in passing!" A sudden swift sound of silk behind her, as the Contessa catches her by the shoulders. The slender fingers hold an unexpected strength. Sandra steadies herself, and leans over again as the other woman sinks down at her side. "But... shouldn't we do something? Maybe it's still working..." "It *is* still working." The Contessa's eyes are intent on the hand with which she is tracing the outline of the box, but she spares Sandra a brief glance. In that single moment her hand strays slightly. There is a queer hot scent, and the air shifts almost imperceptibly around them. The Contessa's outstretched fingers have stiffened, and a breath hisses sharply between her teeth. After a minute she resumes her exploration with even more care. Sandra shivers and sits back on her heels, glancing up at Kid Curry, who has not moved. "What *happened* back there -- did you knock against that thing on the way in or something?" A shrug. "I guess not. Guess it wouldn't be here now if I had." His voice is slow, and still not quite steady. "Don't rightly know what happened, lady. I wasn't thinking too clear -- just knew I had to get her... get the both of you out. "And I got a hold of her waist --" he shakes his head helplessly, dull color ebbing in his face -- "and it was like all hell broke loose. Or all heaven, maybe." Sandra remembers those moments; remembers the electric awareness; and feels her own cheeks warm. "And the Monitor vanished?" she rushes on. "Just like that?" "He thought to take the two of us alone." The Contessa's head is still bent, a tiny tendril of hair escaping at the nape of her neck. "Against fear -- against anger -- he was shielded." She does not look round. "For other human... feelings ... he was unprepared. He was taken by surprise -- and his control slipped." A tiny sound of satisfaction. She sits back; and Sandra blinks. The box has unfolded into an intricate blurring design that looks suddenly like very sophisticated technology indeed. "And that mistake will cost them more dearly than they could ever have dreamed." The Contessa's eyes meet the outlaw's for the first time, clear and dark with delight. "You do not know just what you have done, Curry! With this one box in our hands we can hold the City for ever -- undo all the harm that has been worked --" She is laughing up into his face; and for a moment Kid Curry makes a movement as if to reach out to her. Then, with a queer stifled intake of breath, he turns away. --- Sandra looks from one to the other. There is a fresh story growing between them -- she can feel it -- *smell* it, as warm and rich as a kitchen full of baking. By the cliched rules of Vortex City, that story was bound to be a romance -- that's how it went: the gypsy queen and the cunning outlaw, both marginalized by the city they fight to protect, find solace and society in each other's company. But, as a muse, as a *person*, she knew that such a story could not be a happy one for them, for long. One of them immortal, or nearly so, able to live outside time, if she chose, the other, someone for whom a mere hundred years was an impossibility. One or both of them would have to give up their identity. She turned her mind away from that thought the way she would avert her eyes from someone being sick to focus on the problem immediately at hand. "You sound like you know what this thing is," she said to the Contessa. "I do ... Well ... sort of. I haven't seen anything exactly like it, but nearly. The layout of the mechanics: it's designed to create a sort of grid of energy --" "Of course!" Sandra said, the excitement of understanding surging through her the way the excitement of feeling had, moments earlier. "The Matrix -- back on Gallifrey -- a device for storing and encoding memories, knowledge --*stories* of a whole culture. Only this -- this is --" "Inside out," the Contessa said, nodding. "The Matrix was designed to hold patterns of information *within* itself. This is designed to affect the patterns *around* itself." (Curry only half listened to what they were saying -- couldn't understand it, anyway. It was their tones of voice he latched onto, now. There was hope, there, and energy.) "Only it's running in reverse," Sandra was saying. "--instead of holding the patterns together, it's *unweaving* them." The Contessa nodded. "Right." "So can you turn it around?" "I think so..." Her hand hovered over the device for a moment, like a chess player deciding which piece to move next. There was a shift. A ripple of light, perhaps, over the surfaces of the inner workings. Or maybe it was a change in the tone of the machine's hum. The Contessa pulled her hand away. "What ... ?" "Could it be responding to your thoughts?" Sandra asked. 'Hold it.' Kid said. 'They left the thing causin' all this behind?' 'Could be booby trapped,' Sandra realised. 'Keyed to the Monitors alone.' 'That will not be a problem.' the Contessa said. 'They have owed me a debt for long enough. Now it comes due.' She laid her hands on the device. I am the Storyteller, guardian of this place. You were created to serve the Balance, so long ago. Now I ask that you do so again, for me and mine For this place, ancient, tired... I ask for its renewal For the realm to be reborn. Let the blight be played out. Let the storm break Let the fallen strands be rewoven once more Storyteller, Muse, Medium. We ask that the story begin anew For those forgotten, for those cast aside, I make this plea As long as I remember, they shall not be lost or denied I ask this of you, in the name of memory and shadow For ghosts and dreams long abandoned in the dust Let the cycle begin once more. The box trembled. And then- --- Eloise straightened and brushed a stray bit of sawdust from her jacket. She was sure the Gods of Ragnarok were planning something. She could feel it. But she could not yet pierce the veil they had draped around themselves to see what it was. Imran and Allie were both staring at the sphere, as if through sheer will they could turn the opaque surface clear again, to allow them to see, to be reunited with, what had been stolen from them. :::Perhaps, she thought, with an inner smile, they could::: She could feel the weight of the charm in her pocket -- amazing that something so small could be so weighty. Where had Curry gone? and how had he gotten there. She'd understand it if he had gone comatose, if his mind had traveled and left his body behind, for the mind is simply patterns of energy, while the body is bound by the stricter laws of gravity and mass. If those *physical* laws were breaking down, then maybe the disintegration of the omniverse was past the point of no return. Unless his disappearance was not accidental -- unless he had teleported himself on purpose... But if he had done that... She shook her head, that would mean there was more to the man than any of them could have imagined. Gordon, Saville and Yokoi were gone, too, and she was sure *That* had been deliberate. She was fairly certain Yokoi, at least, would be back for the finale. But what would they do in the meantime? Could Allie find the power to sing without her Shadow? Would one and a half muses be able to provide enough power to support the Pro-Fun performers? They may *have* to find out if Zephy was a siren, after all... A squeal from Allie and an exclamation from Imran broke through her thoughts. She ran over to them. "Something's happening!" Imran said, but he didn't have to -- Eloise could see that for herself. Subtly, almost imperceptibly, the silver in the sphere was shifting -- as if it were a dense fog being stirred by a breeze. Then, like fog, it dissipated. When it cleared, they perceived a vast, deep blackness -- deeper and more vibrant than the night sky of the Cloak of Audience. And somehow, Eloise (and she sensed, the others, too) understood -- this was the Chasm -- the Space To Be Bridged, the space across which Curry and Allie's Shadow would travel to return to them. But where was the bridge? --- The trembling became a vibration, and the vibration, a strong, clear tone -- a thread of sound that pierced the air and their minds. Sandra's diamonds, still where the Contessa had left them on her table, began to rattle, then to resonate with sympathetic vibration. And the air was filled with sound as each stone sang out with its own voice. Sandra wondered if the diamonds she had given as payment for the horses were singing, too. The thread of sound became a cord (chord?), the cord, a rope, the rope, a cable -- solid enough to hold on to, to pull them out, whether they were willing to go, or not. The sound wound around her as tightly as a rope, keeping her as immobile as if she were bound. It filled her brain, blotting out all other senses: sight, smell, touch, taste -- even the sense that her body existed at all. Then came -- The explosion? the what? Just as everything had been darkness when they first entered the voidspace, everything was light, now -- as sudden and brief as the flash of a camera bulb, only infinitely more. ::: [Big Top] It began so tiny as to be nearly invisible: a tiny point of light in the center of the infinity of the darkness of the sphere. But it grew with the speed and intensity of lightning, and Shayde, who'd been holding it, dropped the sphere as if he had been shocked. And they all cringed away from the blinding light that enveloped them. ::: Sandra's senses came back to her slowly -- smell first: of buttered popcorn, cotton candy, sawdust and horses. Then she felt the ground under her feet, and her body felt itself come back together. Slowly, she opened her eyes. And before her, eyes and mouth wide in a mask of astonishment, was Allie. They remained there, staring at each other, for what seemed like ages (but it was probably only a minute), before they were aware of the others. All turned toward Xeffy, staring, caught in their own astonishment. Little sister was trembling, eyes still closed, mouth still open. Though she was silent now, the air around her still buzzed with energy, and it was clear exactly what had happened: The siren had used the power of her song to bring Curry, and her sister's Shadow back by force. ((Meanwhile... in another place...)) * * * 58. Gordon's return * * * /Somewhere else.../ --- "Bloody 'ell it's dark in here..." "Saville, that's an understatement..." "Yokoi?" Gordon stumbled about in the darkness and tripped over something. He pulled a glowstick out of a pocket, snapped it and shook it. "Oh bugger..." "Is she alright?" asked Saville. "She'll be fine (I hope) the shift must have taken a lot out of her (I think). Give her a few minutes rest and she'll be okay (please let her be okay...)" He stood up and looked around. "Now this....this is *not* good. "Every story is an escape of some sort. Whether you're a civil servant, a fast food cook, a janitor or a king. Just that little spark of imagination is enough to create lands, kingdoms, people, worlds... "...even universes. This is what happens when there's no escape, when the last story's been told." He shivered. "And this is what will happen in our universe if we don't win." "Okay, I may be getting ahead of myself here, but how do we get back?" "Er....well...." "Can't we use the box to get back?" asked Saville. "I mean, it's obviously a TARDIS disguised as a box innit?" "No, it's *not* a TARDIS, it's just a cardboard box. When you're a kid, a cardboard box can be anything. A car, a bunker, a helmet, a suit of armour, a spaceship, a transmogrifier. If you can hold onto a bit of that childhood power then you can accomplish all *sorts* of things. "It may have switched place with a TARDIS, but it was just a symbol, a representation for the shift I initiated to focus on." A thought came to Saville, a thought that in another, happier place would have had a lightbulb appearing above his head. "That Doctor, those companions. They're *yours* aren't they?" Gordon spun round sharply. "Who knows? Do we create these things, or do we just get glimpses into other existing universes now and then?" A groan came from the floor as Yokoi woke up. "Where are we?" she mumbled. She took one look and swore quietly. "I don't know what language that was in and I don't think I want to hear the translation..." "That's it man, game over man, game over!" "Saville...." "What are we going to do now?" "SAVILLE!!! Stop channeling Hudson from Aliens..." Saville grinned. "Sorry, it just seemed like one of those situations." "Will the Doctor and his friends help?" asked Yokoi. "I hate to think we've done all this for nothing." "Maybe, maybe not. If we can get back there's one or two things we can try." "*If* we get back. From where I am there's no chance of that happening anytime soon," moaned Saville despondently. Gordon gave Saville one of those looks. One of those looks that says shut yer face or bad things will happen to you. "There is *always* a chance..." Gordon took the small, blue dice out of a pocket and gently rolled it along the, for want of a better word, "ground". A tall figure walked out of the darkness and picked it up. "Ah, my dear fellows, it seems we've gotten ourselves into a bit of trouble now doesn't it?" Gordon smiled. "It's good to see we still have a chance..." "Well, as the Minister For Chance I naturally take a deep interest in this sort of thing. Last chances, infinite possibilities. A great man once said million-to-one chances happen nine times out of ten. I believe the fellow was joking, but he was right." He handed the dice back. "I hereby give you a chance. Be a good chap and don't waste it will you?" he smiled. "I'm sure we'll find a good use for it, at least *somebody* will." "Good, I hope to see you after this is all finished, at Munden's, World's End or the Wild Planet?" "None of those, I've found this little place called This Time Round. We'll meet up there okay?" "Ah, splendid!" the Minister clapped his hands together. "Farewell then, and may the Lady who shall not be named forever smile upon you." And with that he stepped back and vanished into the darkness. Something glowed in Gordon's pocket, the bladeless Sword of Authority blazed. "Now we're going to see *exactly* what we can do with this..." He sliced the air, reality parted and to the sound of 'Spybreak' by The Propellorheads, all three walked back into the circus... --- 'Allie...?' 'Sandra...?' 'You... knew?' Allie looked at her hands blankly. 'I did?' The others looked back and forth between the two. One in luminescent robes, glowing with a pale light of their own. The other in second hand clothing, worn clothes of the West. But completely identical. They were completely identical. Twins. Allie and Sandra. 'Allie...?' The two turned towards the voice. Their sister. Their summoner. Looking at them, eyes open wide. They looked at each other. Nodded. And hugged her - their - little sister. 'Getting /weird/, guys...' Xeffy managed to get out. 'This /is/ weird,' Allie said. 'Don't blame us,' Sandra said. 'A song so captivating, sailors would throw themselves off boats to follow it...' Eloise murmured. 'A siren. A /true/ siren. How did you know?' 'I didn't.' Imran said quietly. 'It... it felt /right/. Part of the magic. It felt /right/ to describe Allie as the siren's sister.' 'Is this normal? Siren and Muse in the same family?' 'Not that I know of,' Imran said. 'You can be trained to be a Muse... but a siren? I don't know.' 'Back.' Kid said quietly. 'We're back.' 'Thanks to her,' Imran said, nodding at Xeffy, who was by now going a rather interesting shade under her sister(s) mutual hugs. 'I wonder...' Kid said. 'Seemed to me, when we left, the Contessa'd got that box of hers workin'.' 'What box?' 'Thing we got off the Monitors while we were in Vortex City. Said it would weave the stories back together again.' Imran nodded. 'I'm thinkin'... maybe she got told when to do it. Got a /feeling/ when to do it.' 'When the box started working.' Imran guessed. 'Yeah. 'Cause /then/, we'd done what we came there for. And then she got this feeling - a song in her mind, maybe? The Contessa was hummin', just 'fore the box started workin'. And I'm willing to lay odds that the kid there was singing exactly the same song. Things got put back. We got put back here - and the City started bein' pulled back together itself.' 'Restoration.' Eloise reached into her pocket for the charm - to give it back to Kid, now he'd returned. She pulled it out. And gasped. The others turned to see why. And drew in their breaths. --- "Wait a minute," Tessa said, "is that --" "'Spybreak' by The Propellorheads!" Allie and Sandra answered together. "Are you gonna keep doing that?" Xeffy asked. "'Cause if you are, it'll get annoying real fast!" "Gordon!" Eloise said, trotting up to him. "You're back!" She was grinning from ear to ear. "The way things have been going, lately, one would think that the gryphons were guarding a revolving door!" She sobered up. "I'm glad you're here," she said, "...sort of. It's time for the Gods' next act. But none of us know what it will be. So I can't announce it. I think they've been refusing to show their hand because you lot weren't here. ...Not that I'm looking forward to it," she added quickly, "but we need to get out of this stasis." While she was explaining this, Yokoi stared from Allie to Sandra and back again -- twice. "Oka-a-ay," she said. "Things have gotten weird around here, haven't they? More than usual, I mean." "That's not the half --" Allie and Sandra said together. They glanced at each other, and Allie finished: "Turns out, Xeffy is a siren." Yokoi shook her head. "Oy," she said. --- Up in the stands, sections of the audience were getting restless. The Faculty of Unseen University was having some trouble dissuading the Archchancellor from taking experimental pot-shots with his crossbow across the ring. None of the wizards were quite sure what would happen if one of Ridcully's bolts actually hit the black cloud that appeared to have emerged from somewhere akin to the Dungeon Dimensions, but they had come to an unspoken and unanimous decision that it would be better to avoid finding out. Finally, the Lecturer in Recent Runes had found himself volunteered to avert possible mayhem by nobly contriving to get his hat entwined in the firing mechanism in a manner that rendered both temporarily useless. "Why don't they get on with it, hey?" Ridcully grumbled, thrusting the tangled contraption over in the direction of Ponder Stibbons with the loudly-expressed comment that the man was mechanically-minded, blast it, wasn't he. "Er, Archchancellor, I believe they *are* getting on with it," Ponder volunteered, gesturing upwards into the higher regions of the Big Top where a framework of poles and ropes appeared to be rising into position. It was at that moment that the crossbow went off in his hand. Wizards on all sides dived instinctively for cover. "You seem to have lost your hat, Runes," Ridcully pointed out cheerfully as assorted members of his faculty regained their seats around him, reassuring themselves by means of furtive pats and pinches that vital parts of their anatomy were in fact still present. He gestured towards the crown of the tent where a vague flutter, as of a heavy object pinned to canvas by a wayward crossbow bolt, could just be discerned. "Very careless of you, young Stibbons, makin' off with another wizard's hat like that. Can't imagine what you had in mind." The Lecturer in Recent Runes glared at the Dean, whose elbows had volunteered his neighbor the hardest. But the Dean's attention was elsewhere. "Look! They're warming-up," he said almost wistfully, watching the distant figures flipping gracefully over and over on the swinging bars. "Those daring young men on the flying trapeze --" He broke off as one acrobat released his hold on the bar and went flying through the air, spinning almost lazily, to clasp the secure forearms of his catcher fifty feet away on the other side of the ring. "I say, wasn't that a triple somersault?" The Archchancellor, not normally a perceptive man, recognised that note in his junior's voice all too well. He looked at the Dean's portly figure. Looked at the distant bars. From long experience, the wizards recognised the symptoms of a rapidly-approaching explosion. "Um, maybe we ought to leave that part of it to the, um, simian part of the faculty?" Ponder suggested hastily. Ridcully blinked. "What?" --- Down in the ring, the hostess looked up -- and gasped. Up on the lower trapeze there was the unmistakable long-armed shape of an orang-utan, dangling from one capacious black-leather foot. As she watched, he began to turn a series of expert one-armed somersaults. She didn't think the Gods had noticed him -- yet. But how were they going to react to this interference before their act had even started? The others looked up, too. 'O-/kay/...' Yokoi said, after a while. 'That's breaking the stasis...' 'We'd better get him down,' Eloise said. 'How the Gods're going to react...' 'He's the Librarian,' Allie said. 'After dealing with the books in Unseen's Library... a few Gods ought to be a snap.' 'Prediction came true, then...' Imran murmured. 'It /is/ a trapeze act.' 'Which means we can prepare for it,' Eloise realised. 'Anyone got any bananas?' 'Bananas?' 'He likes bananas. Or peanuts. This's a circus, we've got to have peanuts around here somewhere...' Sandra clapped a hand over Xeffy's mouth. 'No singing - we don't want to draw their attention.' 'Do sirens run in the family?' Sandra and Allie looked at each other. 'Not that we know...' Sandra said. 'I mean, one Grandma was a... well, a wanderer. Epic poems - so she travelled with poets who created them.' 'What about Dad's Mum?' Sandra said. 'She's not. She would've mentioned it by now, right?' 'What about your Granddads?' 'Our... Granddads?' 'Mum never mentioned her Dad, did she?' Sandra said. 'And Dad's Dad... great guy, at least I /think/ he is.' 'You think?' 'He's an active Muse,' Allie said. 'We don't see him all that often.' 'Just how similar /are/ you?' Yokoi wondered. 'Um... other big problem?' Saville pointed up. The ape - *not* monkey - was now moving to one-armed double somersaults. And then, as they watched, pulled a one-armed triple somersault. 'Why...?' 'Could /you/ get an orangutan off a hanging bar?' Yokoi asked rhetorically. The Librarian hung on one of the trapezes, apparently oblivious to everything around him. He considered the other trapeze thoughtfully. Then, he started to swing back and forth, building his momentum. The drum roll began. 'Okay, who's doing that?' Gordon demanded. '...Igor?!' And jumped. 'One...' Eloise said. 'Two...' Saville counted. 'Three...' Yokoi whispered. '/Four/!' Allie gasped. 'A quadruple somersault...' Sandra breathed. The Librarian pulled himself up to his full height, looked over to the Gods' side of the Top... ...and said '/Ook/.' Allie winced. 'Ooh, why'd he have to say that? That's only going to make them mad...' 'I think that's what he wants,' Sandra said. 'I'd better get out there...' Eloise said. 'Wish me luck...' ((But they have another problem backstage...)) * * * 59. Sailor Gallifrey goes missing * * * /The Gods' act is due to start, the Librarian is on the trapeze, but.../ --- "Has anyone checked on Sailor Gallifrey?" Imran suddenly wondered aloud, his mind still reeling with the recent events. Eloise gasped. "Oh my gosh... " Xeffy looked at Imran. "Is she that Senshi you were telling me about?" A nod. "Things here are just getting weirder and weirder..." she said, shaking her head. Eloise broke into a run as she headed for the backstage area, looking desperately for her friend, looking for that familiar glow that would tell her that she was still in her circle, protected from the chaos that ruled without. The closer she got, the more fraught she became. There was no noise, no sense of power, nothing. Oh, please, let the Gods not have found a way to get to her while we were all distracted... she thought, panic teasing at the edges of her mind. She found the spot where the Sailor had been, sitting in her circle, surrounded by the Major Arcana cards. She was gone. The cards lay scattered around, in disarray. The energy was gone, and Sailor Gallifrey with them. "No!" Frantic, Eloise ran past the circle, looking for clues, anything that might tell her where she had gone. As she passed through the stage props and sets that lay backstage, she spotted something. A white glove. She bent down, picked it up. It was hers, all right. Oblivious to the commotion going on in the rings, she stumbled on, and almost missed it. The senshi's wand. She frowned, picking it up, feeling its vibrant energy humming within it. Where is she? she asked the wand. The wand had no answers. She went further. A second glove. A bit further. Her tiara. Her choker. Her boots. And, finally... her fuku. Then she made the connection. Seven things, discarded before the Seven Gates. Like Inanna, descending into the Underworld to rescue her beloved. --- ((But there was no time to investigate. The Gods were waiting...)) As she reached the center of the main ring, the lights came up. One column of light gilding the sawdust at her feet, waiting for her to step into it. And a web of spotlights far above, picking out the swinging bars and the acrobats. Poised and waiting now on the two high platforms; inhumanly still, inhumanly sculpted, inhumanly perfect. Revealed for all to see on the lower trapeze -- the hostess almost groaned -- was a large ginger ape. Scratching, vigorously. A few wisps of hair detached themselves and floated down into the light. The Librarian bared his teeth in a wide grin of approval. "He's doing it on purpose!" Allie whispered behind her in despair. "What happened to Granny Weatherwax? She's good with animals --" "Off with the Norns -- wherever *they* went," Imran whispered back. "Anyway, he's not an animal --" He broke off. In a quite different tone: "Wait a minute. Allie --" But the hostess couldn't wait to hear any farther. She stepped into the central spotlight, turned to the audience, and took her bow. She tried to take heart from the sea of half-glimpsed faces, row upon row, all turned upward. Friends from across the universe, across the Multiverse... the audience almost filled the Big Top, now. That counted for something, surely... didn't it? She made her other, punctilious, bow. To the one empty section of the bleachers. The one part everyone, as if by instinct, had kept clear. The malevolence of the Gods beat down upon her, muted now, but waiting its turn. High above her, the trapeze still swung. To and fro... to and fro. The towers and trail-lines were rigged; but there was no safety-net strung between them. No safety-net above the ring at all. "/Ook/!" A throat was loudly cleared in the audience. "Well said, that man." The avocado troll sighed. She could take a hint. She cleared her own throat, and raised her whip. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you -- the Daredevil Duo on the Flying Trapeze!" An insistent correction drifted down from above. "Ook ook OOOOK." As the spotlight snapped off, the hostess put one hand over her eyes. This time she really did allow herself to groan. Softly. --- "All we need to do is get the Librarian's attention, right?" Imran's words were tumbling over each other. "And there's one sure way of doing that..." "Oh, no. Oh no..." Allie backed off, hands held out defensively in front of her. "It was your idea, Mister Man. You have the bright ideas -- you take the consequences." Author and Muse looked at each other. Imran took a deep breath. "Okay -- okay. But you'd better be around to pick up the pieces and calm him down afterwards..." Allie grinned. "Sure. Tender loving care guaranteed --" she glanced across at Sandra -- "isn't that right, Shadow?" Sandra squinted at her. "Have I got this straight? You're going to call him a --" "No, *Imran's* going to!" Allie removed the hand she had hurriedly slapped over Sandra's mouth. "Get it?" "Got it," her twin shot back. "Good!" Xeffy looked from one big sister to the other and made a disgusted noise. "Honestly, that one's so old, it's got whiskers on..." "Well, time for something even older, I think," Imran said ruefully. He swept the three of them his best seventeenth-century bow. The cape swirled. "Ladies, have mercy... /morituri te salutant/." --- "Ouf!" The avocado troll, making her way off to the wings, almost ran into Imran coming in the other direction at a dead run. "What --" "No time to talk. Tell you later." He was pushing his way along the front rows of the audience. As TYA and their backing guitarist began to segue into a fast rock number for the start of the trapeze act, he stepped backwards, over the barrier, and held up his arms to signal silence. "Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry for this interruption -- but before we start the act, please could the Archchancellor have the goodness to remove his monkey from the ring?" Sudden, ashen quiet, broken only by an inexplicable spasm of shuffling among the wizards. The Librarian, who had been performing complicated evolutions around his bar with all four hands, had gone ominously still. "Er... I don't think he meant that quite the way it sounded," the Chair of Unseen Studies said nervously into the lengthening pause. "Did you, son?" If Imran swallowed, only the avocado troll saw it. "It's quite simple," he said loudly. "Just get rid of that monkey..." She was never quite sure what happened next. But when the sawdust cleared, the lower trapeze was hanging empty, just in time for the Gods' acrobats to flip down onto it for the opening sequence of their act. The trail-rope beside the edge of the ring was still quivering, as if someone had slid down it *very* fast. And Imran was being bounced, head-first, against the ground by an angry-looking orang-utan who had him firmly by both ankles. --- Nyctolops had been so enthralled watching the Librarian's antics that she had forgotten that she was on next. Nyctolops turned to the turquoise troll. "I better get back to the wings and get ready for my act with Cameron," she said. She took off her Cloak of Audience and touched it to the troll's cloak, which reabsorbed it. As she made her way back to the wings, she realized that her courage milkshake had worn off, but it didn't worry her. She shouldn't need it anymore. Cameron had said that he would be gentle with her. She put her red vest back on and collected Cameron's leash. --- 'He knew it going in,' Xeffy said. Sandra nodded. 'You do /not/ call the Librarian a monkey.' 'But it /was/ the only thing that was going to get his attention,' Xeffy said. The Librarian paused. '...Ook? OOK!' 'Sorry,' Sandra apologised. 'Why did you want to get them mad, anyway?' 'Ook ook.' 'Oh. That makes sense.' 'Um...' Imran said, upside down. It was about all he /could/ say, having been nearly concussed by the Librarian. 'Ook.' The Librarian let Imran go. 'Unk.' 'We've got a problem,' Eloise said, huffing as she ran up. 'Apart from the fact that my big sis's - /both/ of them - author was having his head beaten against the ground by an enraged orangutan?' Xeffy asked. 'Much bigger,' Eloise said quietly. 'Sailor Gallifrey has disappeared.' '...What?' 'Disappeared. Alryssa has disappeared.' 'Where?' Eloise took a deep breath. 'If I understand the symbols... She's gone into the Underworld.' 'A regular revolving door...' Sandra murmured. She frowned. 'I wonder... The Norns and the Lancre Coven have disappeared off somewhere too. Seeing a man about some Gods... I /thought/ they meant the Master. Hmm... At the place all roads lead...' 'Sorry?' 'I /think/ I know where they've gone. In symbol and reality,' Sandra said. 'Alryssa has gone there in symbol - the others are there in reality. For different reasons... but all roads lead to the same point.' 'You think?' Sandra nodded. 'Tessa would /know/ - but they're busy at the moment.' Eloise nodded. 'Can we leave them?' Sandra indicated the act. 'Kid and Gordon are out there. They should be able to take on whatever comes up.' I hope, Eloise added to herself. 'Okay. Remember back on Titan 3, and the Monitors' cave?' 'Yes...?' 'Imran mentioned the Rule of the Odd Trio. When two of them are together, the third usually turns up.' 'And when one sets out looking for one of the others...' Eloise began. '...They'll usually succeed,' Sandra completed. 'It's their own weird set of rules.' 'Why?' 'They're the Odd Trio. They /have/ to be a Trio, it wouldn't work as the Odd Duo - so they stick together.' Sandra grinned. 'And we formed the Odd /Muses/ - we stick together, too...' She trailed off. 'Wait. Gone into the Underworld? How? Orpheus?' Eloise shook her head. 'Inanna.' 'The Seven Gates. Leave something behind at each gate... until you're left with nothing,' Sandra breathed. 'Oh no...' 'Unnnggg....' Imran said. 'Woaw. That's one hell of a ride...' 'Feeling better?' 'Sure... Wow, how many of you /are/ there?' Imran said. 'Um, I think we'd better let him rest...' Xeffy suggested. 'We may not have time,' Eloise said. 'The climax is coming up, /fast/.' She took a deep breath. 'Kid didn't want this back. Not yet. 'And I could see why.' Sandra stepped back. 'Do it.' Eloise took it out of her pocket. Blue on blue. A blue eye set in a blue crystal sphere. Dream surrounding, encasing the charm, burning brightly within. Carefully, she placed it in Imran's hand. His hand tightened around it, clenching it. For a moment, the stars in his cape shone blue. And then his eyes opened. He breathed out. 'Thank you,' he said, returning the crystal to Eloise. 'Ook.' 'No worries,' Imran said. He grinned. 'It was for a good reason, after all... Now... What's happening?' Eloise explained what had happened to Alryssa. 'Right,' Imran said. 'And you need me to be sure we find her.' 'That was the idea...' Sandra murmured. 'Then let's get going. To the place where all roads lead. To the crossroads.' Xeffy turned to look behind them, into the ring, where the Gods' acrobats continued their act. 'Daredevil Duo. Hah,' Xeffy muttered, turning back to the others. 'I'd like to see Batman and Robin take care of /them/...' 'Which one?' Imran asked. 'Which Robin? Well, both Dick and Tim would be hacked off... hmm. Maybe Batman, Robin and Nightwing?' Xeffy mused. Eloise blinked. 'Comic menks,' Imran explained. 'Sorry about this...' Eloise shook her head, grinning. 'Well, here we go... You coming?' Imran asked. Eloise shook her head. 'No. I...' She shook her head. 'I haven't eaten since you gave me that milkshake. My stomach's /really/ grumbling at me now... I'm going to pop back to Sweetheart, see if I can pick up a bite to eat. Hopefully, I /should/ be back in time for the end of the act. Gordon, could you and Kid keep an eye on things while we're gone?' Gordon nodded. 'No problem.' 'Will Kid be okay?' Sandra asked. Eloise nodded. 'He's found something he can use against them. At least, that was what he said...' 'Here's hoping,' Sandra said quietly. As they set off, behind them, the acrobats continued their graceful, emotionless movements. * * * 60. The trapeze act * * * /As the others go off, in search of Sailor Gallifrey and breakfast respectively.../ --- From where he stood at the edge of the side ring, out of the corner of his eye Kid Curry saw the little party slip off into the shadows. In the last moment before she followed the others, the little ringmaster turned back. She got a cheerful grin from Gordon, and a wave of the hand over at the new Doctor and the two females he'd brought with him. Then her eyes met his own, their unspoken message the same: up to you now, friend -- reckon you'll be okay? He nodded in return, hitching one hand into his belt. Sure, lady -- we'll handle it. You just get going... And then they were gone. No more than a handful, but somehow the big tent seemed emptier already without them there. The leaders of the bunch had made their move, started in on what had to be done -- and he'd been left to guard the street and hold the horses. To wait, and watch, and keep an eye out where it mattered... He reached up as if to touch the charm; and then remembered. His hand fell away, carefully casual. Not a charm, any more. Not a little bead you could wear. More like a jewel, a glowing coal -- and no longer his. He'd known that, the moment he laid eyes on it again -- before, almost -- maybe the moment he'd come back, tugged across to the Circus on a bridge of song, with the charm still dark and snug in the green troll's pocket. It had grown; and changed. He'd used it, unthinking, as weapon and shield, channeling the power in the only ways he knew. But when he'd gone *into* it -- held within its grasp, as he'd held it before within his own -- somehow, seemingly, he'd set it free. No longer chained to one master; free to heal as well as to guard... and to take on dreams. There was something of himself there still. Always would be, he guessed -- whatever power was in there, however it worked, his had been the shape to mold it, at its waking, and when the Gods' bolt had struck home. Like that winter colt John had brought up on the bottle one year when the old mare died. How they'd laughed, to see the colt follow the husky boy round the kitchen, small hoofs sliding on the tiles. Come spring thaw, Lonie'd sworn blind that little horse had even gotten to look like his brother, the same worried squint from under the cowlick of long hair... They'd broken and schooled the colt for old times' sake, though he'd never made out as half the cow-pony his dam had been. Fool horse had put his foot in a gopher hole in the end, one dry summer. Broke his own neck and all but did the same by Lonie. The charm would last longer. He'd been there at the beginning. Whatever came after, that memory would hold. The strength it had drawn on had been his own. He'd had a part in the birthing of something that would maybe outlast them all. A man could do worse that that for himself, by his reckoning -- a lot worse, one way and another. He'd lost the charm once before; lost himself, and the Contessa, and everything it had meant to him. All but destroyed himself, by the gift of the blind malice of the Gods of Ragnarok. This time... this time, he had chosen to let it go. He touched the empty rawhide, remembering. He'd done without that link with the Contessa, these past two hours; yet he'd had more. Been there, seen her with his own two eyes. Even held her for one brief moment in his arms... The recollection of that touch burned like fire along his body, and for a moment he was lost again in the scent of her hair. He took a deep breath. Thrust the memory down, to be locked away for the cold winter evenings, treasured and polished over and over, until the sharp ache of it had all but worn away. Looked around. Cameron-cat stared back at him from the wings opposite, with little Nyctolops clinging with her long fingers to his fur, eager and scared in equal measure. The big cat simply blinked. From the audience, the night-sky cloaks shimmered on performers and guests alike. But the faces were turned upwards -- up to the flyers in the roof. --- They wore white. White that glistened and sparkled in the early-morning dusk, picked out by light-beams that swung and tracked like the gleam of a mirror. And they flew. He'd never seen such stunts. They swung on the bars -- over and over, back and forth like some parlor cage-bird -- and then they let go. Flying through the air like a ball to the catcher, with never a hesitation or a doubt. The body arched over, twisted, curved out a single lazy hand... caught, and swung. First one hand, then the other. Upside down on the bar, feet anchored firmly in the ropes, hands outstretched -- as the other glittering figure came spinning through the air, one, two, three and over, and the arms locked together in a flawless, swooping dive. The rhythm never stopped. One flight followed another, high to low, low to high, single, double, treble flip, from bar to partner to bar. Across the roof of the tent, the white costumes wove a gleaming trail that held the eye like the swaying head of a snake. Kid Curry blinked. Seemed like they were drifting closer and closer... or maybe he was floating up, like in a dream... Close enough now to see their faces, and there was nothing there. No smile, no fear, no joy of flight. Just blank doll-eyes staring ahead, and little pursed mouths, hard as china. Masks, like the white-face clowns. They were clever toys. No more than toys. And then one of the toys reached out a clawed hand and caught his arm in a grip of steel; and the warm haze that had held him was shattered in a thousand shards of hate, and he was *there*, high above the ring, falling at sickening speed, trapped against the cold hard limbs of the clawing /thing/, the blank mask cracked aside by the nightmare beneath -- A fear he knew. A taste he knew, a darkness that had hunted him through the years... his own. Stolen. The knowledge blossomed into rage that drove out all fear for the few seconds he had left. They dared to use his own dreams against him -- they *dared* -- He sank the fangs of his own mind into the creature, tearing at it with blind human fury as they hurtled downwards. Clawing back what was his. If he died, he'd die *whole* -- and leave no part of himself for the Gods to play with as a creeping horror -- In the last moment, as the ground opened up below him, he closed his eyes. And felt something tear loose in his grasp. --- Applause. Kid Curry swayed on unsteady feet and caught himself instinctively. Shook his head, blinking. And rubbed aching, bewildered eyes. Applause rained down around him. High above, poised one to either side, the acrobats bowed and bowed again, stiff and lifeless as marionettes. *Two* of them... both untouched, unharmed, by that fall that should have crumpled hollow limbs, smashed living flesh with jagged splinters of bone. No-one was looking at him. No-one had seen. All a dream? He stared across at the Gods of Ragnarok; and knew the answer by the powerless hate that came staring back. Trick -- yes. Dream -- no. Somehow, he'd fought them, and he'd won. Won back what he'd lost, the dreams they'd been using to shape their acts. All the loss, and the hate, and the brutal years... and the slender bright threads of joy... He was still shaking. Maybe his body hadn't taken that fall -- but some part of him had. Some part of him that sure would have been real, if things had gone the other way. Guess he'd have been the star of the show -- from the Gods' point of view. Gordon was consulting with the Muses. Looked like the hostess still wasn't back. Maybe they'd have to get one of the other Hoedowners to announce the last act -- pull someone out of the audience, could be. Kid Curry shrugged, and went over to find out. --- 'Hey there!' 'Ack!' Gordon gasped. 'Don't do that!' 'Whoops. Sorry. Are the others back yet?' Eloise asked. 'Nope.' Gordon frowned. 'Hmm. Hope nothing's up...' 'So do I,' Eloise said quietly. She clapped her hands together. 'Right... We've got a bit of space before the next act - a /little/ space, and then we've got the climax coming up.' 'Cameron and Nyctolops,' Allie said. 'Yeah.' Yokoi frowned. 'Al... Isn't turning into a cat one of your talents?' 'Yes, but... it's not the same!' Allie said. 'True, true... but when Xeph's a siren, it does begin to look a little odd.' 'It's just... something I can do,' Allie explained. 'I thought it was one of the talents that came with being a muse...' 'Al...' Yokoi said. 'Tess and I have some things up our sleeve - but as far as I know, shapeshifting's usually a family thing. It's /not/ usually available in the Muse package.' 'What? You're saying Xeph and I are mutants?' 'I don't know,' Yokoi said. 'The sirens had a place in Greek myth, but I've never heard of any cat-shifters around... and you have to admit, turning into a cat isn't usually accepted as part of the ability to inspire.' 'Yokki-' 'Which means there's something odd here...' 'We were talking about Cameron and Nyctolops,' Allie said slowly and carefully. 'Right,' Tessa said. 'The feline act, then the Gods' lion-tamer - probably lion-eating, knowing them - act - then it's our turn.' 'Guys... have you noticed something going on?' Gordon said. 'Hmm. Alryssa's no longer unlocking her magic, Kid's given up the charm... we seem to be moving beyond the artifacts.' 'Perhaps.' Eloise frowned. 'I'd guess you still need the Sword of - what's it again? Authority or Authorial Freedom?' 'Well, I do have the Authorial Freedom to rewrite what it is...' 'Could be...' Yokoi said. 'Allie's robe, on the other hand...' 'What?' Allie said. 'Author, Audience, Creativity, Medium and Inspiration,' Yokoi said. 'Inspiration...' 'Yokki, spit it out. You've got /something/ on your mind...' 'I think you're being inspired,' Yokoi said. Allie froze. 'She's what?' Gordon said. 'She's being inspired. Inspired to act as inspiration /in herself/. We've been coming up with weird ideas, bizarre theories about what's going on - and usually, we've been proved right. She's become an inspiration magnet - a magnet for inspiration, triggering it off in others around her.' '...What?' Allie finally said. 'Remember how Imran rescued you from the sphere?' Eloise said. 'You're becoming a /magnet/. Even /trapped/, he still got affected.' 'Mnemosyne... The Firstmother said... she /said/ it touched memory, inspired through memory,' Allie whispered. 'And that's what it's been catalysing in the rest of us,' Yokoi said. 'And that's why...' Allie whispered. 'Oh...' 'Right,' Gordon said. 'If they aren't back by the Gods' act...' He frowned. What /could/ they do, if the others hadn't come back? He really hoped he wouldn't have to find the answer out. 'They will,' Eloise said quietly, laying a hand on his arm. 'They will.' She looked up at Kid, newly arrived. He nodded. If they hadn't come back... well, he had a few things in mind. But something inside was telling him they'd be safe - and they would come back. He hung on to it. As he suspected they were, too. Could see it, in their faces, without a word. But the others... had to do what /they/ needed to do, to end this. And he, Eloise, Gordon and the Muses had to be here, to guard this flank... 'Oh.' Tessa clicked her fingers. 'I /think/ I know why we're starting to move beyond the artifacts - our web's moving towards completion, things are beginning to move /beyond/ their role in the web...' 'And when the web's complete...' Allie continued. '-Then we break the Gods' conduit here, and establish /ours/, return all the energy back where it belongs,' Yokoi completed. 'And it completes-' 'If we win the song battle,' Eloise said. The three nodded. She took a deep breath. 'Here's hoping.' --- As they talked... Something tugged gently at Kid's mind. He didn't look too closely at it; let it come in its own time, when it's ready. To name it might kill it in birth. But something about Allie's robe, and Sandra... There was a memory there. Not his... ...a memory of a moment, something coming back, as he broke through the Contessa's door. Of being... of being young, newborn almost, with a lifetime's memories, a sudden /awakening/, a desire to hold on to life, life reawakened... A quick glance at Allie. And he knew. Knew what Sandra had wanted - both of the things she wanted. A life for Allie, for the original Allie. And a life for Sandra herself. He'd been right - and wrong. She didn't want one - she wanted both. And there was no way she could have them... He'd stolen back his darkness, challenged the Gods - and succeeded. And he knew Allie would want that same darkness - not want, but needed it, all the same. Needed herself back. As he had- His stomach dropped. He'd /lost/ his dreams, his darkness, while they'd walked in Vortex City. But he'd still dreamed. When the Contessa had told him, of the hundred years gone... ...then something of the darkness had risen up in him. But there had been no hate. Anger, and disbelief, and disgust... visions of the empty past, long gone... ...but he had lost the hatred. Had survived without it. And now he had it back, it - and the blind need to survive, to go on... ...They no longer ruled him. No longer. And in a brief moment of inversion, saw it. /His/ darkness hadn't taken on a mind. Not a conscious one, at any rate. Allie's had. The thing still tugged at his mind. He hadn't named it. /Was/ there a way? A way to give Allie her life - and Sandra hers? Perhaps... perhaps. Wait awhile... He breathed out. So... Nyctolops and Cameron were ready to go on. 'Ware. This close to the climax, the Gods were like to be desperate - and their power had been limited. Lessened by what /he'd/ done - and by the Powers, that they were limited to their own power. Scared, he was guessing. Still hateful and watching - but rendered powerless. Only their own power remained - -and they were scared, now. What the Hoedowners were doing - the power they'd built was probably, near as not, a match for the Gods' own, ready to be used - They were scared. Victory hung in the balance, could be tipped either way now - and the Gods knew it, /knew/ it... If the others could do what needed doing... and so long as he and Gordon could keep an eye out, take care of things... He could see Gordon talking to one of the newcomers. Silence wasn't it? He couldn't understand what Gordon was saying from this distance, and the sheer speed at which Silence signed made it impossible for him to keep up. He saw Gordon bring something out of his pocket and hand it over. Silence took it and nodded, before walking outside the main tent. Imran walked over to Gordon. "What was that all about?" he asked. "Not so much plan B as plan Y. I've a funny feeling chaos is going to ensue, so I'm just organising a little help, in case things get out of hand. I wouldn't put it past the Gods to try something sneaky during the closing song battle, so while we're busy with that, someone else is going to be keeping a look out." "Silence?" "Yes, and some of her friends..." "Friends?" "I'm saying nothing. It'll spoil the surprise..." "What did you give her?" Gordon just smiled. "You didn't?" Imran suddenly realised what Gordon had handed over. ... Kid Curry smiled, a small, dark smile. And so... another few minutes, and on with the show. And with Cameron and Nyctolops... ((The next act - time for the taming of the Fiercesome Beast...)) * * * 61. The Taming of the Fiercesome Beast * * * / Nyctolops and Cameron are due to go on.../ --- Eloise the ringmaster caught Nyctolops and Cameron's eyes. Good. They were both ready. She gave them both a nod, and strode out to the center of the ring as confidently as she could (She hoped she at least *looked* confident), trying to put her worries about what was happening with or to Sailor Gallifrey in another corner of her mind. "Ladies, Gentlemen, Goddesses, Gods, and Trolls of all colors," she announced. "I present to you the daring and graceful exploits of Nyctolops and her wild cat Cameron!" With that, she bowed gracefully as she could, and walked backwards out of the spotlight. The applause from the pro-fun side of the audience descended over the tent like a curtain of sound as Nyctolops and Cameron took up their positions. Eloise, meanwhile, used it as a cover to go back to the circle where Alryssa had been stationed. *She* had abandoned the cards, but maybe Eloise could use them, to find out where she had gone to, and what they could do to bring her back safe before Nyctolops and Cameron finished their act. --- Just then, a terrified shriek was heard from the entrance to the ring. Nyctolops came dashing out, yelling, "Help! Cameron the Big Cat is loose and he's *hungry*! Help!" As Nyctolops entered the ring, Cameron bounded out with an ear-splitting roar. Spotting the scampering Nyctolops, he gave chase. At the sound of the roar, Nyctolops jumped and ran even faster. As she neared the center of the ring, she stumbled. With a mighty pounce, Cameron was on her, grabbing her by her red vest. Nyctolops yipped as Cameron tossed her high into the air. Looking down, Nyctolops could see Cameron waiting directly below her, mouth wide open, looking like a pit with sharp teeth. Flailing around in mid-air, Nyctolops managed to land with one foot on Cameron's nose and another on his chin. Not hesitating a moment, she jumped up and landed on Cameron's back, facing his tail, which she grabbed to keep from falling off. Looking around, she saw Cameron looking back at her, grinning and showing off his fangs. Still using Cameron's tail for balance, she got to her feet and leaped off with another terrified scream. Spotting her chair with her whip standing nearby, she ran for them, never doubting that Cameron was close behind her. Gratefully, she grabbed up her tiny chair and whip, then turned to face the big cat. She cracked her whip and shouted with all the authority that she could muster, "Sit!" Amazingly, the huge cat sat, though he seemed to be smirking. Actually, Cameron's smirk was the result of stifled laughter. Watching Nyctolops, who barely came up to his chin, wave that miniature chair and whip at him made him want to laugh out loud. He remembered that the plan had been for Nyctolops to lead him out to the ring on a leash, to show how tame he was. Tame? Hah! He'd snatched the leash out of Nyctolops' hand with his teeth and growled at her. The result of that had been most satisfying. He was really going to enjoy this next bit. Cameron: Hey, Nyc! Nyctolops: Y-y-yes? Cameron: This is the part of the act where you are supposed to stick your head in my mouth, isn't it? Nyctolops: I-I think I've changed my mind about that. Cameron: Ah, go ahead, Nyc. I won't bite. Nyctolops: A-a-are you sure? Cameron: I promise that if you stick your head in my mouth, I won't bite it off. At least, not on purpose. Nyctolops: Th-th-that's not very reassuring. Cameron: You don't want to spoil the act, do you? Nyctolops: N-n-no. I-I guess I can do it. Nyctolops put her chair down in front of Cameron, who obligingly opened his mouth in a huge yawn. She climbed up on the chair and very gingerly started to stick her head into Cameron's mouth. Just as she got her head most of the way in, Cameron sneezed. It was an enormous sneeze and it blew Nyctolops head over heels to the very edge of the ring. She sat on her bottom, looking at Cameron for a moment. Cameron just grinned. Nyctolops stood up and shook herself all over, trying to get as much cat spit as possible out of her fur. Keeping a wary eye on Cameron, she decided that the best thing to do was to just go on with the act. She walked as nonchalantly as she could manage toward Cameron and retrieved her whip. Then she walked over to the next part of the act, the ball-balancing trick. When she reached the mounting platform near the huge ball, she snapped her whip and shouted, "Cameron, come here!" Cameron obeyed with alacrity. Too much alacrity. He looked like a freight train aimed straight at her. With a squeak, Nyctolops ran behind the ball. Cameron stopped right where he was supposed to, beside the mounting platform. Cameron: Nyc, you can come out now. Everything's under control. Nyctolops: Are you under control? Cameron: As much as I ever was. Nyctolops: Why am I not reassured by that? Cameron: The audience is waiting. Nyctolops couldn't ignore that. They had a show to put on and, so far at least, Cameron hadn't actually hurt her. She crept out from behind the ball and commanded Cameron to get onto the platform. Cameron: I don't want to. Nyctolops: But you have to. You are supposed to jump onto the platform, then on top of the ball and balance there. Cameron: I think that you'd look better on top of the ball than I would. Nyctolops: That's silly. I'm the trainer, you're the . . . Yipes! Cameron swatted at Nyctolops with his huge paw and Nyctolops instinctively sought height to get away from him. Before she was really aware of what she was doing, she had swarmed up the mounting platform and leaped onto the balancing ball. Cameron grinned. "That's more like it," he chortled. Cameron reared up on his hind paws and placed his forepaws on the ball. Nyctolops could see his eyes and nose, but noted with great relief that his teeth couldn't reach her. Cameron began rolling the ball. At first Nyctolops fought for balance, but then she found that she could keep up with the rolling without too much difficulty, for the big cat was going at a steady pace. She found it easier to stand up and use her arms and tail to help her balance. They made a complete circuit of the ring, Cameron pushing and Nyctolops walking on top. Then Cameron pushed the ball to the center of the ring and dropped down. "Now what is he up to?" thought Nyctolops, but she didn't have long to wait. The ball started to wobble unpredictably and Nyctolops dropped to all fours, trying to hang on. Cameron was pushing against the ball with his shoulder, trying to make it spin. He backed up a little, then hit the ball hard, again and again. As the ball wobbled and started to spin, Nyctolops found it harder and harder to find any kind of balance and there wasn't anything to grab onto. Finally she slid off and landed on her furry backside once again. Just as she landed, she heard machinery whirring. From hidden recesses around the edge of the ring, hoops were rising. The Psychic Circus roustabouts were setting up the finale. Nyctolops leaped up and ran for the hoops. When they finished rising, the bottoms were just above Cameron's head and spaced far enough apart so that he could jump through them comfortably. Nyctolops had no trouble climbing up to the very top of one of the hoops. Cameron: What are you doing up there? Nyctolops: Getting away from you. Cameron: We'll see about that. Cameron began racing around the ring. Nyctolops realized that he was gathering speed to leap through the hoop, and maybe knock her off her perch on the way through. Her only hope was to keep ahead of him. She leaped from the top of the hoop and grabbed the top of the next hoop with her hands, using her momentum to keep her going on to the next. Cameron cleanly sailed through the first two hoops before he got an idea. He broke off and started running in the opposite direction. Nyctolops was too intent on swinging though the hoops to notice that Cameron was no longer following her. When he had enough speed, he began leaping through the hoops in the opposite direction that Nyctolops was swinging through them. Nyctolops first indication that things were not going as she had planned them was when she saw Cameron coming through the hoop that she had just launched herself at. She wanted to close her eyes, but that huge open mouth held a horrid fascination for her. At the last moment the mouth closed, the huge head ducked and she heard a whispered "Ears." Nyctolops grabbed Cameron's ears as the head rushed under her and she landed on Cameron's shoulders with a whump. Hearing a soft "Ow" she let go of Cameron's ears and slid down his back to his tail as he made his next jump. Cameron (whispering): Nyc, turn around, get back to my shoulders and ride me. Nyctolops (whispering): So you weren't trying to eat me, after all? Cameron: Nah, I was only fooling. Now get up here where you can hang onto my neck ruff and let's finish this act in style. Nyctolops caught Cameron's tail with her own tail and used it to steady her as she inched herself around until she was facing forward again. As Cameron came down from one of his leaps, she slid forward to his shoulders and grabbed a double handful of his neck ruff. Just then, the hoops caught fire. Nyctolops rode Cameron on a complete circuit of flaming hoops. As Cameron cleared the last hoop and headed for the center of the ring, the flames went out and the hoops returned to their housings. As Cameron stopped in the center of the ring, Nyctolops stood on his shoulders and bowed to the audience. Cameron roared and lashed his tail. She sat down rather suddenly again, as Cameron bounded off for the exit, but she managed to grab a handful of fur and stayed aboard. With Nyctolops waving to the audience and Cameron roaring, they exited the ring. --- Eloise clapped wildly, and jumped up and down, cheering. Her Ringmaster's top hat blew off her head as they rushed by. As she bent down to pick it up, a sudden, sobering thought (several thoughts, actually) brought a queasy, cold lump to her stomach. What would the Gods do to answer that (What sort of Wild Beast would *they* bring forth)? If the Pro-funsters survived that, would they be ready for the Finale? Then, they'd have to face who or whatever was manipulating the Gods... If they all thought this had been hard.... --- ((Meanwhile...)) Silence walked into the beer tent, gathering her cloak around her. Several Voord lay slumped on the floor, one or two lying in a paddling pool. Most were asleep. One of them, wearing a white robe, sat at a table, nursing a glass of beer which had obviously been sitting there for a while. ~ Why are you not out there, helping the others? ~ she signed. Yartek looked up and laughed. It was not a happy laugh. "They don't want our help. We're just a joke to them." He lashed out, sending the glass of beer flying across the room. A few of the Voord looked up to see what was happening. "Oh, lets bring on Yartek. He was mad, too stupid to take his helmet off when impersonating someone. He got blown up, let's bring him back, make him rap and dance, let's all have a really good laugh at Yartek, because he certainly isn't any good for anything else!" ~ They don't know the full story do they? ~ "Ha, no. To them we're just a bunch of psychopathic killers. History is written by the winners. We fought against racial genocide, for the right to be given a chance, no matter what you looked like." ~ You grew up in a world where they feared the unlike. A world of hypocrites. If someone was left unable to walk, or speak, or think because of an accident, they were treated with care and sympathy. If you were born that way, you were hunted down, destroyed. ~ "Yes, there was resistance, riots, almost civil war. But then they built the Conscience. But they failed. Most of the population fell under its influence, but not us. Because we were different. The House Dukes told the populace we were evil, pure and simple. With the Conscience active, they believed whatever they were told. We were the monsters under the bed, the stealers of children." ~ I was unable to speak from birth. My parents tried to hide me. The Inquisitors found me anyway. They took me and tied me, threw me into the sea, expecting me to die. But I was found before it was too late. You didn't steal children, you *saved* them. ~ "None of that matters. They look at me and see someone who's too stupid to take his helmet off when impersonating someone else. I lived for over a thousand years, ashamed, only removing my helmet when there was nobody else there, even among the Voord, I could not bring myself to show my face." ~ Because you are an albino? ~ "How do you know all this?!?!" Yartek cried, although he already knew the answer. Silence threw off the cloak, bringing the object under her arm up and placing it over her head. The triangular helmet sweeped back, aerodynamically shaped. An aerial curved over the head. The black armour was sleek, the claws sharp, the flippers small, but effective. ~ I am Silence, warrior of the alien Voord. We are the fallen, we walk in silence. ~ Silence held up the Sword of Authorial Freedom. She looked straight into the eyes of Yartek, hidden underneath his visor. ~ You cannot rewrite history, but you can choose a path now. You have a chance now. To change their perceptions. To remain a race laughed at by everyone else, or to claim your birthright. ~ She placed the sword on the table in front of him. ~ This time, it is purely up to you. ~ --- Eloise watched as the figures began walking into the tent. She realised it was the Voord, but they looked like no Voord she had seen before. Gone were the tatty wetsuits, the dull helmets, the lazy movement. Now they were clad in sleek, shining armour, standing tall, moving with grace and confidence. Eloise looked at Gordon suspiciously. "Exactly what have you been up to?" Gordon looked down at her, trying, but failing not to grin inanely. "What?" he said, innocently. "Somebody, probably Imran, said we were moving beyond having to use symbols, so I just gave mine to somebody else..." Yokoi was smiling so much, Saville was blinded by the lights reflecting off her teeth. "That's the power of the story." Gordon whispered to nobody in particular. The last two Voord walked in, helmets off. Eloise recognised Silence, but not the other. His skin was pure white. He walked over and his face broke into a smile as he bowed slightly. "My lady." He stood back up, standing proud. "I am Yartek, leader of the alien Voord. We are here to offer our assistance." ((And the Eighth Doctor remembers...)) * * * 62. A judgement in the Underworld * * * /The Nth Doctor's companion Silence has revealed herself as one of the alien Voord.../ --- 'You're not surprised,' Compassion said. 'No,' Eighth said. 'No, I'm not. 'Time was I /feared/ the Ice Warriors - the Martians. Monsters. Invaders who sought to conquer Earth. Creatures without honour, hypocrites who would kill a child. 'They /are/ that. 'Honourable. Noble. Loyal. Following a complex caste system. Individuals. 'They are /that/, too. 'I have travelled with an Ice Warrior. With a Cyberman. 'And he travels with one of the Voord. 'With the monsters. 'I broke the Conscience of Marinus. I /destroyed/ that which Arbitran asked me to restore. That which I was told the Voord would use for themselves, to impose /their/ will. I was younger - and older - then. Marinus had its free will returned to it. Both were right - and wrong. 'I suspect what happened when the Conscience was built was more complex than either side made it when I came to Marinus. Now, at any rate.' He looked at Compassion. 'I remember - because with Izzy and Fey, I never lost my memory. I /remember/ Marinus now... 'And he travels with one of the Voord. With one of the 'jokes', like the Vardans - or the Krotons. 'No, Compassion. I'm not surprised. Even a Cyberman might show some humanity, or the Silurians reclaim equality... 'The Voord were, can be jokes. They can be fierce fighters, too. They can be both of these - and it is /not/ a contradiction. Simplicity /and/ complexity. We are seeing both those faces, this time.' 'Sword. Charm. Staff. They have been given up,' Compassion murmured. 'The Cloak and the Robe remain...' 'You know what will happen.' Compassion nodded. 'The timelines are approaching the crisis point, now. The crisis /here/, at any rate. The battle after the Circus, with those behind all this... is still in flux.' The Doctor accepted that. 'There are other stories to be told,' he murmured. 'The Voord prepare to tell another of theirs, now. His face darkened. 'And it's not just the /monsters/ who were treated as jokes... Adric, Mel, Harry, Sam... they are treated as jokes - the audience find it difficult, if not impossible, to identify with them. They mock them, insult them, for the characteristics they show - for the simple, easy version of who they are. 'Did they really think they didn't notice? 'Do they really think it is such an easy thing, to wish a painful death on another? To /gloat/ at a painful death, when it /does/ happen? Even to /characters?/ To cast derision and spite on them for /decades/ after they last appeared? 'Of course. It /is/ an easy thing, isn't it?' The Doctor shook his head. 'But I /did/ see something in them... Harry is loyal, devoted. Adric was intelligent, rebellious, /artful/. Mel is enthusiastic, tireless, energetic - and a genius. Sam is willing to step back, to inform herself - and to learn and inform herself what she fights for... 'I saw something in them, and in Ssard and Kroton. 'And he saw what lay in Silence. In one of the Voord...' He fell quiet. 'Izzy and Charley?' Compassion said. 'They're doing what's needed,' the Doctor said. He stood up, and reached out a hand. 'Call the others. 'We're going down there.' --- She was afraid. For the first time in her life, she was afraid of what was to come. For an instant, stumbled in the... What would you call it? The darkness? No. Too fluid, too sensate for that. No time. There was no time. Felt the icy grip too late, couldn't twist away - /who are you?/ A feather brushing her cheek. /open your eyes, child./ She hadn't even realised they'd been closed. Oh... gods... Literally. /how did you get here? you are no soul awaiting its judgement/ "No." Glittering eyes narrowed. /then why are you here?/ "I come to ask... a favour. A boon." /i do not grant boons. i judge only the dead and inspire the living/ "I seek your feather." /what makes you think i will allow such a thing?/ "Because if you don't, my Lady, then you will soon have an infinite queue of people lining up to have their hearts weighed. Because they will all be dead." --- 'Crossroads, crossroads... where do you find a crossroads in a circus?' 'Well, it's not the Big Top - although I would've thought...' 'Alryssa used it.' Imran looked around. 'This... Hm.' Sandra looked too. This /was/ familiar. This had been the landscape of her vision. Of the point of division. 'Balance. Balance,' Imran muttered. 'That's what- I know. I know where we can go. A point of /balance/ here...' 'Where?' 'There.' --- Somewhere in the Big Top... 'Okay. Who're we waiting for?' 'Who said we were waiting?' 'Why are we waiting /here/?' 'Because here's where we need to be.' - Oh. Hello. Granny Weatherwax turned and smiled. 'Good day.' The Monitor nodded its head. - Good day, dear lady. 'Thought you'd show up, sooner or later.' The Monitor nodded again. - Our actions... elsewhere... have pushed things too far out of balance. To the balance of stasis and stagnancy. It was set /right/, by the actions of the Storyteller. 'Regrets, is it?? Regrets never did anyone any good.' - We do this that things here are set back in balance. 'And then the threat to the /greater/ balance...' Urd murmured. - We are the monitors of this multiverse's balance. This multiverse alone, said the Monitor. That was the duty for which we were created. But we /can/ help what we are, and do something about it. We are supposed to monitor a /dynamic/ balance, not a stagnant one. 'Charley? You okay?' Charley shook herself. 'For a moment there I could have /sworn/ someone walked over my grave...' - Human dream is the key to their binding, the Monitor said. The Powers told you that. 'We know that.' - And the Gods shall be judged in the balance, and found wanting. What might have been a smile crossed its face. Granny Weatherwax slowly smiled. 'Of course. Some people just don' know when they've lost.' - Precisely. If you win this final battle... the Gods will annihilate themselves. Destroy themselves, you, /and/ your web. 'And the Universe dies /anyway/.' Skuld completed. - Which is why they must be judged - and bound - at the moment, the very moment, the challenge ends. Sailor Gallifrey seeks the method of their judgment- 'And we've come to /you/ so we know their binding.' The Monitor nodded. - They feed off human dreams, off creativity and imagination. 'So why /bind/ them with-' Skuld began. 'I think I know.' Granny gave the Monitor an appraising look. 'We've got the prison, we've got the judge... Human dream shall be the key to their binding. The dreams they /stole/ shall be key to their binding - and prison too.' - Precisely, Granny. Granny smiled. 'Good.' --- 'Here?' Xeffy looked around. 'Why here?' 'It's a boundary. A place between two places...' Sandra said. Imran frowned. 'Okay... but I'm not really sure about the symbolism of a tollbooth,' Xeffy said. 'That's what's wrong,' Imran muttered. '...So, Alryssa went her way. This is ours. Our way to find her.' He opened the tollbooth's door. Behind it, there was only blackness. He stepped inside. Xeffy and Sandra looked at each other - and followed. --- /i judge the dead and inspire the living/ /you are neither/ /and she is both/ 'Uh-oh...' Xeffy said. 'Imran?' 'Eloise got worried. Sorry about this.' 'How did /you/ get here?' 'The same way you did. No, not quite the same...' Imran looked up. 'A boon has been brought, as payment for the journey.' He swept off the Cloak of Audience. 'And I return it to its keeper.' The Cloak disappeared into the aether. /we shall speak, then./ Alryssa breathed out. /we who inspire, we will speak with you./ 'We?' Sandra said. 'Who-' Wham. --- 'Oh. My. God.' Sandra gasped. 42 seats. 42 seats, 21 in each semi-circle. A massive set of scales stood on the ground between the seats. One held a feather. The other was empty. /we are here./ 'So... let's talk,' a new voice said. Sandra and Xeffy's faces drained of all colour. The other woman stepped forward into the light. A blonde woman, in a tailored business suit, a gold and pearl brooch affixed to it. 'Calliope...' Sandra whispered. 'I think... it's time for a few judgments,' Calliope said. 'So let's begin.' --- She reached out a hand. From the other side of the scales stepped a winged figure. A woman. 'Ma'at,' Alryssa said quietly. /one who is both alive and dead. one who is neither. one who lies under her protection./ 'Me. Sandra. Xeffy,' Alryssa murmured. /when the dead come, their hearts are judged against my feather, against Ma'at itself. its flame burns in the hearts of the living, driving them to live to it./ /you wish to use it against those who would destroy Ma'at./ Alryssa hesitated, then nodded. /you are no judge yourself, to so claim its use./ 'I'm a balancer,' Alryssa said quietly. 'Fighting the extremes. Corruption. Stasis. Dissolution. Against the Balance turned Destroyer.' /and you... no. you-who-you-were believed in me. you-who-you-are.../ Why am I getting World of Darkness flashbacks? Imran thought. /you are no goddess./ 'I never claimed to be,' Alryssa said. '/We/ never claimed to be.' /you seek judgment. this is truth./ /this is known. only those who walk with the gods can carry the burden. not even pharaoh himself could bear Ma'at./ 'And what about those who have /been/ judged?' Alryssa countered. /gallifrey has been judged. her heart balanced the feather. you-who-you-were has not. living and dead. the khaibit, the little darkness, has no heart of her own, is incomplete./ Sandra said nothing. But something trickled from her eye. /the child, the caller, is under her protection. her judgment lies with her pantheon./ Xeffy's brow furrowed. 'Huh?' 'That doesn't-' /all will be weighed, in time. that time comes too soon. so thoth said. so konshu said./ 'There will be a judgment,' Calliope said quietly. 'A decision. You have taken on our role, as guardian of creativity-' 'You're going to judge whether or not I'm worthy?' 'No. The Monitors have performed that task,' Calliope said. 'Judgments. Decisions. Sandra?' Sandra looked up. 'You and yours have owed a judgment since your grandmother's time.' 'H-?' 'Not to me,' Calliope said. 'To Ma'at. Or to the Judges of the Dead, in another perspective. The bounds were transgressed. Overstepped.' 'But... Huh?' 'Grandma only died a few years back,' Sandra said softly. 'That did not correct what had been done,' Calliope said. 'She went too far, attempted something that would have eaten away at us. She begged, pleaded, /screamed/ at me to allow it, to allow her to attempt it. I could not. 'She went ahead. She survived. 'She never spoke to me again. 'You, her grandchildren... you bear her mark. Xephanya has the gift of sound, the siren's gift. A true siren. Alisandra bears the protean gift, the gift of the changing form. You bear her gifts - and her mark. 'You invoked me, called me here. 'You called on your father to protect Xephanya. Called on some of my power to protect her, unknowingly. But the Prince of Stories had other ideas... 'There will be a judging, yes.' 'I'm not getting this,' Imran said. 'No? Let me put it like this. The Muses are mine to judge - a judgment that has finally come due. Alryssa has already been judged - by the Monitors,' Calliope said. 'You seek the feather so you can judge the false Story Eaters, judge them and bind them. But no human has borne the feather. And there is a long tradition of what happens to those who steal from the gods.' 'But the gods also have a habit of giving humans dangerous artifacts,' Imran said. 'Or was the tale of the Golden Apple fictional?' 'True,' Calliope said. 'Beware gods bearing gifts. Beware of taking from the gods that which is rightfully theirs.' 'A task? A favour?' 'A judgment. Not judging worthiness to bear the feather...' Calliope said. 'No. 'You have passed through the fire, been tested. Gordon too has been judged - the Sword would not accept one it did /not/ find worthy. 'Imran's judgment /failed/. It was what you would call a mistrial. Those who called it were not...' Calliope paused. 'Were false accusers. False to this universe - and to the judgment they claimed. But by the time it had been realised... it was too late. 'He has still to be judged.' '/No/.' Sandra said, her voice cold. '/No/. He has been pushed above and beyond what any of you had the right to expect. /All/ of them have. He's /been/ judged - by what he went through. And by /that/, he passes.' Calliope remained calm. 'He had a false trial. Would you begrudge him a true one, to prove his innocence?' 'Again - what kind of evidence do you need?' Sandra countered. '/We/ know they were false, that they had no right to call judgment on what he did. /We/ judged him as successful. And /our/ judgment's been judged, too.' 'Alisandra /was/. Sandra has not,' Calliope said. 'But...' 'Listen. You are incomplete. Imbalanced. You /cannot/ be judged truly - unless you were a complete entity. You are /not/. Xeffy cannot be judged - she is under my protection. Alryssa... is a special case 'You cannot be judged for the crimes of your parents. You have committed no crime against me. 'My judgment was for another. 'No. I was /not/ wrong to decide as I did. Your grandmother bore the guilt for her actions. Though it was a betrayal... the many were served as the one was not. But the betrayal of that one is /mine/, belongs to me, truly. I chose the lesser wrong. She chose a greater. 'But your mother /was/ unjustly accused. She accused herself, blamed herself, for what her mother did. 'She was wrong.' Calliope looked up. 'Let the judgment be heard. Elle was found innocent of all blame.' Whispers. From the seats, whispers. /accepted/ 'Judgment has been made, the debt discharged,' Calliope said. 'And...' /you have asked for the feather. it cannot be given./ 'Hey!' Xeffy protested. /i am sorry./ 'There /was/ something else,' Imran said. /yes. the khaibit./ /a life for a life, if you would have it so. incomplete, apart. sacrifice must be made for completion./ 'Yes,' Imran said. Sandra turned, horror engraved on her face. 'Imran, no!' /he has offered, little khaibit. his life that you might exist./ 'NO!' Sandra screamed. '/NO!/ YOU WILL /NOT/ TAKE HIM!' /who are you to judge?/ 'A /shadow/! A /partial/ girl! Incomplete, separate... /Alisandra/ deserves to exist again... 'But... but I wanted... 'I wanted to be real. I wanted to be a real girl. 'I wanted a real life, not a half-life, shadow-life. 'To be someone complete, whole, real. 'But my life is Allie's /shadow/. She needs it too.' /why can you not have a complete life?/ 'Because /I'm/ incomplete. I'm a part of someone else.' /you have an identity. does that not make you complete?/ 'My soul isn't,' Sandra's eyes closed. 'My soul /isn't/.' /this is a wrongness./ 'Then why don't you put them back together?' Xeffy challenged. /a soul cannot be regrown. both she and I understand this./ 'Then do it,' Alryssa said, her voice quiet and firm. 'Put them back together.' /oh, two-souled one? you are more than complete./ '/No/.' Sandra said. 'I will /not/ take another's soul to live. I won't take another's /life/ to live. 'Bring Allie back,' she said softly. 'Please.' Calliope nodded. 'Come to me,' she said. Sandra obeyed. Then Calliope kissed her, once, on the forehead. --- Allie gasped. And collapsed. --- Calliope sighed. 'It's done.' Xeffy shot her a poisonous look. Imran's face was long and drawn, as was Alryssa's. /you have been heard./ Ma'at said. /judgment has been made. call, when judgment is needed./ /call my name./ /go now./ Ma'at said quietly. /we will not dishonour her memory this day. go./ They went. And when they were gone, Ma'at spoke. /he has been judged, and so was she. their hearts were weighed against me, and judged./ Calliope nodded. /they have been found true./ Calliope nodded again. /it was a hard choice./ Ma'at said eventually. 'I know,' Calliope said. 'I know.' And then they, too, were gone. --- `Allie? Hey, Allie, get up!` 'Nnnh? Yokki?' `Get /up/, sleepyhead!` 'I'm fine, I'm fine...' Allie hauled herself to her feet. And paused. Yokoi was with Gordon and the Voord, deep in conversation. There was no way she could have- `I'm over here!` Allie turned. '...!' Sandra waved. `Hi, sis!` It would have been a lot more comforting for Allie's state of mind if she hadn't been transparent and floating a couple of centimetres above the ground. Allie's mouth opened and closed. `Oh, I'm not a ghost. I'm a phantasm.` Sandra explained. `I still had an /identity/, and /that/ couldn't be destroyed till we finally die. So... they sent me back.` Allie's eyes rolled up in her head. And she fainted. --- Across the ring, a sharp intake of breath. Instinctively, Sandra turns to see. Watches the color drain from his face as their eyes meet. Kid says nothing. Looks away, as the ringmaster comes running. But they both know the truth. ((Some explanations are called for...)) * * * 63. Sandra and Allie * * * / Sandra has chosen to give up her own existence rather than accept Imran's sacrifice... but she hasn't died.../ --- Eloise came running over when she saw the movement out of the corner of her eye. "Allie!" she began, "are you all --" and stopped. She looked from the prostrate Allie to her floating, transparent shadow. "What ... *exactly* ... happened ... here?" she asked, slowly. And when she got blank stares and stammers in response, she turned to Imran. "Well?" she asked. "And give it to me in plain, mortal, language... I've had enough Divine idiom lately to make my head spin for a decade. First: Has Sandra gone back to being Allie's shadow?" (One of the roustabouts lingering on the fringes started singing "Me and My Shadow". Eloise ignored him.) "Second: Do we have our 'original' Alisandra back? Third: If not, who *do* we have? And, finally: How will this affect our song battle, which is coming up, in oh, about THREE MINUTES???!!!" She didn't mean to shout, really, but all the unexpected plot twists had been fraying on her nerves.... --- 'In a random order...' '...I /am/ Alisandra. The original,' Allie said. 'She's complete again,' Sandra said. 'Got back everything she lost.' 'But...' 'Everything /she/ lost,' Sandra said. 'But my identity... well, my personality... was mine. When Allie came back together... ' '-Sandra's identity still survived,' Allie said. 'In my home Fictiverse, as long as someone else, someone in reality, remembers an idea, it survives - and it's not just a mental thing, it's /physical/, too. And since Muses are, in some ways, an idea...' '-I'm still here. In a way. I'm not her Shadow, any more, though. Allie's got that back. I'm... a phantasm. Not a /ghost/ - Allie isn't dead. I'm more sort of a living idea, a formed concept,' Sandra eyed her twin. 'How much did we miss? I didn't think we'd been gone that long...' 'You missed Cameron and Nyctolops' act,' Allie said, pointing over to where the duo were resting. 'Haven't missed the Gods' response.' 'That's a relief...' Sandra said. 'So we've got a /little/ time...' She frowned. 'Oh. Um... the song battle. Just a moment...' While Sandra thought, Eloise took the chance to take in the newly returned Alryssa, Imran and Xeffy. They'd found some clothes for Alryssa - probably what had taken so long, and probably taken from the performers' carts... Kingpin and Mags wouldn't mind. Imran no longer wore the Cloak of Audience - what had happened to that? Gordon had said something about 'moving beyond symbols'... ...but nothing had happened to the Cloaks the audience wore. The cards hadn't told Eloise much of what had happened - but from what had happened to Alryssa, what Imran had guessed at, they'd plunged into the Underworld, looking for something... or someone. And if she remembered her mythology correctly, that meant meeting with those who held dominion over the dead... ...and bargaining for the life of a beloved. She looked back at Allie and Sandra. Just whose beloved had they sought? Had Gallifrey had an intimation, seen something that Alryssa had not? Or had they found one /they/ loved? Maybe... And /then/ she saw the looks on the trio's faces. Saw them /transformed/ - shock, wonder... Something shone in Xeffy's face - hope, realisation... ...and again she wondered, who /had/ been the beloved? Alryssa and Imran... their expressions were more complex, but... '...Yes,' Sandra said. 'I /can/ still sing. I don't think we've got too much of a problem... um...' 'Yes,' Allie said, more confidently. 'We /will/ be able to do the song battle.' 'That's a relief,' Eloise said. '...Ah. I nearly forgot.' She grinned, picked up the Staff of Harmony, and handed it to Alryssa. 'This is yours,' Eloise said. 'Welcome back.' Alryssa grinned. 'Heh. Let's hear it one more time...' '...GALLIFREY STAR POWER, MAKE UP!' When Alryssa lowered the Staff, she was once more in the costume of Sailor Gallifrey. 'So what happened?' Eloise asked. 'Why did you decide to leave?' 'Okay...' Alryssa said. 'In the cards, I got a hint of the future - a clue as to how to bind the Gods, and a warning. That, whether they won or lost, they'd make sure we lost. But there /was/ a chance - if we could judge and bind them in time, then we could win. But we needed something that could judge gods, and we'd already turned to the PTB, so...' She took a deep breath. 'So... I travelled to the Underworld, to... meet with... Ma'at and request the use of her feather. Then Imran, Sandra and Xeffy arrived to find out what had happened to me...' Sandra nodded. 'And Imran offered the Cloak as their boon for entering the Underworld. Returning it to its keeper, he said.' Eloise looked at Imran, who nodded. 'Ma'at recognised Sandra, and took us to her scales, where we met Calliope, too.' Alryssa continued. 'Then...' Imran frowned. 'Then they started discussing whether or not we were judges, talking about the judgments we'd been through... and /that/ led to Calliope coming to some kind of decision about Allie's family, about a judgment on something her grandmother had done, something... something /wrong/. Deciding that Allie's mum had /not/ been guilty, even though she thought she'd been.' 'Was what Allie's grandma did what made her mother fade out?' Eloise said. 'I don't think so... from what Calliope said, it happened when Allie's mum - Elle?' Allie and Sandra nodded. '-was born. Then... Oh. Oh,' Imran said. 'What?' 'What they were saying was that no human could bear the feather - couldn't be stolen, couldn't be granted as a gift. A catch when dealing with gods. What they were doing - what I /think/ they were doing - were deciding whether or not we could call upon Ma'at to judge the Gods.' Imran half-smiled. 'So they looked back over what we'd gone through... Alryssa and Xeffy were fine... then they pointed out what'd happened back when the PTB judged my act. Then Sandra put up a defence of how I /had/ been judged truly - by all the stuff we'd gone through-' Sandra couldn't make eye contact with anyone. '...and then they said they /couldn't/ judge us truly - they couldn't judge someone who was incomplete.' 'Sandra,' Eloise said. 'So they couldn't give us the feather,' Alryssa continued. 'And what he did... what he did was go and ask them if they could give Sandra a life of her own. They said yes - a life for a life. Imran's for Sandra's. 'He agreed... but she /didn't/. Not at the cost of his life, not at the cost of anyone's life... so she asked them to put Allie and her back together.' 'And it worked,' Allie said. 'Not without some side-effects,' Sandra pointed out. 'Then they said... judgment has been made. call when judgment is needed,' Alryssa finished. 'Then we left, and came back here - and found that Ma'at and Calliope /had/ decided to grant a gift...' She looked at Sandra. 'It was?' Xeffy said under her breath. 'That gets into Divine idiom,' Imran said. 'All right... but why do the Gods need judgment?' Eloise asked. 'Because this is a challenge between them and us. If we're going to bind them, they need to be judged first - if we just bind them, we're in a blurry area,' Imran said. 'The Powers are judging the challenge - who wins or loses, and what happens to the Universe afterwards - not what happens to those involved. We needed to ask someone else to judge the Gods...' 'But we don't know how to bind them.' 'Yes, we do.' Shayde held up the opaque crystal sphere - the sphere the Gods had used to trap Allie and Kid. 'They used - tried to use - human dream, twist it so that they could trap us,' Shayde said. 'And it shall be human dream that binds them once more. In this.' 'Won't they break free? Kid and Sandra did...' Shayde nodded. 'That has been prepared for.' Eloise let out a long, low breath, taking in what they'd told her. She looked around, at all the others. The Voord, Yartek, Silence, and some of the Doctors and companions, were gathered round discussing how - and where - they could assist in the finale. And against whatever the Gods threw at them next. The fish girl she'd first seen with Xeffy - it was hard keeping track of who was who around here, especially with so many arrivals, but she was /fairly/ sure she'd seen her with Xeffy; Izzy, if she remembered right - was back, along with three women in pointy black witches' hats and black robes - the Lancre Coven the others had been talking about? She'd have to ask. One of them, the eldest, had a satisfied look on her face, as if she'd found /exactly/ what she was looking for. Kid was standing by himself, keeping a wary eye on what was happening inside the ring. He nodded to her. All okay on that front... so far. Then he saw Allie and Sandra - and for a moment, his eyes widened. Shock - that she could hardly forget, it was the way he'd been when he'd first arrived. He'd come far since then. They all had, she acknowledged. But someway, somehow, they were going to get back - in body, if not in memory and experience - to where they'd started. She hoped. Gordon was deep in conversation with Tessa and Yokoi. Kingpin and Mags had started preparations for the parade - she winced; she'd been so busy she almost hadn't had /time/ to set it up. But they were experienced circus performers, they knew how a big show should end. And this had been one of the biggest, she acknowledged with a rueful grin. The presence of the Goddesses - Mnemosyne, Earth, and Jubiliganza... their power and attention was still with them, watching and aiding them. Silently, she gave blessing. And felt their silent acknowledgement. Sweetheart was okay - she'd made sure of /that/ when she'd popped out to get that bite. She wondered what had happened to Vortex City after they pulled Sandra and Kid out - whether the Contessa had been able to put things back together, or whether she'd rebuilt from the ground up. She found herself wanting to know what'd happened next, whether what Kid and Sandra had done there had succeeded... whether Kid could go back to the City and the Contessa, have a happy ending - or at least as close to it as he could, she amended. All part of the power of the Storyteller. She grinned at that one. All of them tired, ready to sleep... but also ready to face the Gods. Ready and waiting. One last response from the Gods... and then would come the song battle. She took a deep breath. 'Okay. Wish me luck.' The others nodded. And Eloise went out to announce the Gods' act. --- The Senshi watched her go, then turned back to the others, who were engaging in nervous smalltalk. Suddenly there was a presence at her side. "Hi." "Allie. Are you all right?" "I'm as well as can be expected, I guess." She frowned. "You look weird." The eye contact was broken, awkwardly. "You're keeping something from us, aren't you?" Sailor Gallifrey closed her eyes briefly, her grip tightening on her staff. "I meant what I said when I was going to be a conduit, Allie. Ma'at said no human could take the feather." Her face seemed to age before Allie's eyes as she stared into the middle distance. "People tend to forget that I'm not human," she murmured. "Not anymore. I miss it sometimes." Allie drew in her breath sharply. "There's a /reason/ a human can't touch the feather, senshi..." The scout turned swiftly and fixed Allie with a dark look as she hissed, "You are not to say anything before this whole mess is finished, do you understand me? Not to Imran, not to any of the Doctors, nobody. If you have any sense you'll forget this whole exchange." Allie nodded slowly, backing off. It seemed the Senshi's whole aura had become colder than absolute zero. Closing itself off. "Allie?" "hnuh?" Tessa was tapping on her arm. "You look like you've seen a ghost," she joked. "That's not far from the truth," she replied, and followed her friend, along with Yokoi, to the dressing rooms. --- Sandra finds him at the edge of the ring. He is watching Alisandra. Watching her movements, her frown, the tilt of her head... with a burning intensity that barely sees the Muse herself at all. Searching for traces of someone else. Someone he used to know. Apart from the crowd, as always. She drifts closer. "Guess I never thought you'd go through with it. Never thought you'd do the right thing... on your own." The slow voice is barely a breath away. His eyes slide past her, seeing/not-seeing. "Somehow didn't credit you with the guts... but I should've known. You and Allie --" He looks up at last. Allows himself to see her. His mouth twists into a wry, unaccustomed smile. "You always were the stronger of the two -- partner." One hand reaches out softly. Brushing through her arm, as her gloved hand had once brushed through his. "Guess this is where we came in... ghost girl." And then he turns. Walks off. Doesn't look back. --- He'd seen Allie talking to Alryssa, the coldness in Alryssa's face. Seen Sandra talk to Kid, Kid turn away, and the stricken look on her face. Consequences, he thought. Consequences. He didn't know what had been said. He'd seen the emotions, written across their faces... Allie... Allie had gone to the dressing room. There was... there was a /circle/ around Alryssa, people not quite looking at her, moving around her. Kid was watching - as he always did. Sandra was... was holding herself, holding on to herself, almost lost... He breathed out. He had been willing to sacrifice his life - to give up his life - that Sandra could have a life of her own. Instead, she had sacrificed her own existence - and become a living idea, a phantasm... But that feeling wouldn't go away. That feeling... that feeling that someone wouldn't walk away from this. But Eloise had vowed that they'd /all/ get back, someway, somehow. What happens when you put your life on the line - and it's averted? Do you feel blessed? Cheated? Confused? He knew how /he/ felt... 'Xeffy?' 'Mm.' 'Xeffy?' '...you... you put yourself...' She breathed in. 'I'm a siren - a real siren... Allie has the protean gift... and Sandra's walking around, still walking... Allie... Allie used - I think she used - Mum said that she used to call herself Sandra when she was a kid, when she was bit younger than I am now... I... I just wish, wonder... why Mum never told us. What we were, what had happened, what Grandma did... what /her/ gift had been... why she never said...' 'Guilt...?' Xeffy nodded, slowly. 'She said... she /said/ Mum blamed herself for what had happened, what Grandma did. Said she found herself guilty... but what did she do? I... I want her back, you know? Allie would never say this... but I wanted her back. /I'd/ have done it, if it meant getting her back... Dad... Dad cried, I'd never /seen/ him cry before, and I wanted him to stop, because it... it was wrong, this was wrong... Mum dying, Dad crying... it shouldn't have /happened/ like that... and I'd have done anything to make it right, but... but I /couldn't/...' 'Sh. Sh.' Xeffy sobbed into his shoulder. He closed his eyes, and rocked her gently. Saying nothing. Being there, a physical presence there. Maybe it didn't matter who... but she had someone here. Someone who'd heard her. There was a gentle touch on his shoulder, a hand resting itself. A silence. So many words left unsaid, things left undone... ...a miracle, my second miracle... ...such a quiet child, they said... ...my baby, my baby girl... ...you both were... ...oh, Xeffy... He blinked open his eyes. There was no-one there. No-one near. Only Xeffy, still holding to someone, onto something. And something that might have been, could have been, the memory of a woman's presence. He bowed his head. 'Come on,' he said eventually. 'Come on. We're here. We're here...' Slowly, Xeffy quieted. Too much, too much, and if another died... No. Too much already. Not here, not now. Everyone dies eventually - but not here, not now. Here and now, we are alive. 'Shh...' Xeffy looked up at him, eyes red, cheeks still wet. She nodded. 'I'm... I'm..' She took a deep breath. 'Sorry about your shoulder.' He shrugged. 'It'll dry.' Something occurred to him, then. He risked a look into the ring. Oh no... ((The Gods' Animal Taming act is about to start...)) * * * 64. The Salamander * * * /The ringmaster goes out to announce the Gods' reply to Cameron and Nyctolops.../ --- Now, it was time for the Gods' Beast tamer act, and based on the precedent of their equine and magician acts, she was not looking forward to it. Still, if she didn't announce it, they could claim "forfeit" -- and this time, they'd be right. :::Remember,::: she told herself, :::in order to vanquish your nightmares, you must turn and face them. All right, then ...::: She rocked herself up on tiptoe to give herself courage, and took a deep breath. As she exhaled, she became aware, suddenly, of the Beast's presence -- hunched in the wings, waiting... and watching her... Watching her with ... With what? Hunger? Curiosity? Malice? Sorrow? She knew that she would know, if she turned around, and looked into its eyes. But she couldn't bring herself to turn and look -- not yet. Instead, she trotted away from it -- into the center of the ring. She hoped she conveyed a sense of eagerness for the show to continue, instead of the fear she felt. She bowed deeply, sweeping her top hat off her head as she did so. "Ladies, Gentlemen, Deities, Mortals, and Trolls of all colors!" she announced, "I now present to you a -- " :::Oh, no!::: she thought. :::How can I announce what the act is, if I don't *know* what the act is?!::: "-- a wild animal act that will challenge even the wildest depths of your imagination -- an act you will not soon forget!" she finished. :::That much,::: she thought, :::I can be sure of:::. And she scurried out of the ring again, This time, to stand with Imran and the others. She didn't want to watch this alone. --- Now. The great lizard stalked into the ring. And raised its head. --- 'Doctor?' '/Fire/. They've trapped /fire/... 'They've trapped a salamander.' --- Blank milk-white eyes. Its forked tongue flickers out, into the air. Sensing, testing. --- 'Oh no...' 'What? What is it?' 'An elemental, Charley. Fire, given form and shape. Encased in a physical body. On a time, they called them salamanders.' 'Like... like Dawn?' 'Like, but not like. Dawn is the /Key/ - and that was something else altogether...' --- A thump, echoing through the ground... And Captain Cook entered. Pith hat perched on his head, whip ready in hand. His face pallid and ashen. --- In the wings, Mags hissed. 'Careful, Mags...' Mags breathed deeply. 'Long gone. Long gone... No power. He never /did/...' --- 'Ladies and gentlemen. Tonight you shall see a test of courage and bravery beyond even what the Vortex Riders of the Quantocks may accomplish. 'Tonight...' The Captain's pallor deepened. 'You will see a man allow himself to be eaten by a salamander... and return.' --- The Doctor looked on. 'Doctor?' 'They're controlling it somehow. They /must/ be. An elemental would never /willingly/ serve them... they've bound it here. It's trapped. An amulet, an amulet...' --- The salamander reared back. 'Come on, boy...' the Captain said, 'Come on. Open that mouth, let's see those pearly teeth, for your old friend the Captain...' He cracked the whip again. The salamander tried to lunge away - but a whip crack from the Captain held it in. 'Ah ah. A show we promised these fine people - and a show they shall have.' --- 'Is he saying... Is he saying he /wants/ to be eaten by that thing?' 'No. That he's going to /make/ it eat him.' 'Oh God.' 'He is going to make it eat him - and then...' The Doctor scowled. 'One way or the other, it will be very, very unpleasant. Whether they abandon him inside, or he gains enough power to break free.' 'Oh no.' 'And then, having taken some of their power into itself...' 'I can guess.' --- They watched it play out with the finality of a tragedy. 'We /know/ what's going to happen!' Mags said. 'How can we stand by and let it happen?' 'Because we can /guess/ what's going to happen - we know how the elementals work, we know how the Gods work. But it's /just/ ambiguous enough that they could call foul if we interfered before they got to the horror.' 'So we can't stop it?' 'Not before it gets to the horror.' 'Unless... There /is/ a way to free them.' the Doctor said. --- 'Oh no...' Eloise said. 'Oh no.' She watched the salamander and the Captain's deadly interplay - deadly, she would guess, not just for /them/, but for the rest of the Hoedowners. And then the Universe. They'd /captured/ it, bound it to them - a creature, a thing, that didn't belong to them, that never would. Bound it with fear, and pain, and terror... Breaking it to their will. And when that hadn't worked... No. Free. It wanted, /needed/, to be free. --- 'That's one.' --- Kid watched. He'd seen men break horses to their will, seen it.... ...how many times? Over a hundred years, he guessed, you'd lose count. And this Captain - and if this man had served in /any/ force, he'd be damned - he'd seen what this Captain was doing before. It was that look of /pleasure/ in his corpse-dead eyes. He'd seen that before. The Captain was /enjoying/ this. Enjoying tormenting, playing with, that creature. Before he finally broke it to his will. And something inside said /no/. No. This is not how it's supposed to be. Doing this to pleasure yourself, making others watch, enjoying the horror on their faces... because they must watch, and bear witness. Some things must be known. Even the horrifying things. And then twisting it, time and again, to your advantage. And a wild animal at the centre of it all, something that doesn't understand what's happening, that feels the lash of the whip - and obeys only it. And they wondered why their beasts had been so intractable. Ah well. A gunshot, when it broke a leg, then onto the next one. It hadn't been all, not even back in the day. Not all. But some. Enough to make it count. Not to say that the rest had been kind, or gentle, not all the time - but they had known, understood, what that creature meant to their lives. A necessity. An /animal/. Not a thing. And out there... ...they replayed it again. Another animal. The smile on the Captain's face was almost a thing of obscenity. Almost. And on the salamander's face... --- 'That's two.' --- Mags watched from backstage. He hadn't used a whip. Not with her. With her, it had been words. Words and silver. Cowing, binding, the young Vulpanan. Running from a crowd who wanted her dead. And he'd never allowed her to forget what would have happened, if not for him, if it hadn't been for him. A servant. A companion. Someone to get his tea, do the scutwork, to face the dangers while he swept in and took whatever treasure was there. Even /dead/, he'd still do that. This was going to get him a payback. No... get his /masters/ a payback. And they had to stand by and let it happen. The Captain raised his hand again. And her eye finally caught on what she'd missed. On the bone bracelet on his wrist. No jewellery, apart from his medals. He'd always liked /those/. /That/ was what they were using. That was how they were controlling it. If they broke it... How? How could they break it, without the Gods calling foul? --- 'Imran?' 'I can see it.' 'How... how do we break it?' Imran turned to her. She flinched, a little. 'I don't know... 'That's it, you see... When the salamander eats him, it'll break the bracelet, break their control over it - but it will also absorb their power.' 'Breaking one control for another.' Eloise murmured. 'Exactly. And like Kingpin said, we /can't/ intervene - not without the Gods calling foul.' --- Allie's eyes narrowed. 'Tess?' 'Yes?' 'Help me get the robe off.' 'What?' 'Help me get it off. Now.' Underneath it, Allie still wore the yellow and green fuku she'd started out with. Tessa weighed the robe in her hand. 'What did you have in mind?' Allie took the robe back. 'Watch.' --- The beat intensified. 'And now...' the Captain announced. The salamander turned, tasting the air again. The Captain raised his free hand. And caught something, from out of nowhere. The audience watched, fascinated. 'A cape?' 'Got a cape...' 'Aren't they supposed to be red?' 'Well, it /is/ blind...' The Captain looked surprised. Looked around, warily. The Hoedowners watched, said, did, nothing. Watched. The Gods' regard did not alter. 'Very well...' he said. 'On with the show.' He raised the silver cape in front of the salamander. The salamander raised its head. --- Allie grinned. 'If /we/ can't do anything...' '...then we help /it/ believe it can.' Tessa completed. 'The /salamander/ does it, breaks free.' 'Salamander power! Yeah!' Yokoi proclaimed. The other two /looked/ at her. --- 'That's three.' --- 'That's it, that's it...' The salamander opened its mouth wide. The Captain lowered his head, ready to place it in the salamander's mouth. 'Oh no...' Eloise said. The Gods' regard intensified. It might have been imagined that the Captain's face was caught between pleasure and terror. Might have been. With the speed of a whipcrack, the salamander's tongue lashed out- The shards of the bone bracelet fell to the floor. The salamander held its place. Turned. Raised its head to the Gods. Turned. Inclined its head to the Captain. And then a fiery comet blazed up- -out of the ring- -through the top of the Big Top- -out into the sky- The Captain remained where he stood in the ring, his face scorch-blackened by the elemental's release. Then, slowly, he bowed. Turned to leave. And faded as he reached the exit. Abandoned on the ground behind him lay the silver cape Which shimmered briefly. And then disappeared. --- 'Well, they can't say he didn't deliver...' --- not human not one but two khaibit-ur-sekhem, who wanders between the Universes... It is time. --- "Did you feel that?" Fourth looked across at Eighth, who was staring intently into space, a frown upon his features. "Well, it couldn't have been an earthquake." "This is either very good or very bad," murmured Eighth, who rose from his position in the crowd, looking around for the source. "I'm more inclined to think the latter, but you never know," answered Fourth. "I'm going backstage. I think I'm needed." "I'm sure they would have asked for it if they..." But Eighth was already hopping through the crowded bleachers, down towards the front. "...needed it," finished Fourth, sighing. "I think we're far more use out here, you know..." -------- you see it now. see what must be done. no! not now. you will know when. and only then can they know. She shuddered. fear is your only enemy. face it. She swallowed. In about fifteen minutes, she was going to stare it dead in the face... whatever it had for a face. dua Senshi. And if anyone had cared to chance a look at her that instant, they would have seen the tears that escaped her eyes. --- Something twitched at the edges of Eloise's ears -- a small thing, barely audible, even to her. It took her just a moment to realize what it was: a change in the rhythm of breath -- a catch. She turned. "Alryssa, are you all right? Are -- are you *crying*?" Alryssa shook herself slightly, and squared her shoulders. "I'm all right," she said, in a tone that suggested that she *wasn't*, really, but that talking about it was out of the question. :::She's been to the land of the dead,::: Eloise reminded herself. :::Maybe -- maybe she hasn't returned completely::: and she remembered how important it was to ground yourself after returning from an astral journey -- and this had been much more than an astral journey... "Have you eaten," she asked, "since --" "No." The word cut her off like a shut door. Eloise didn't press the matter. She looked out toward the ring, where Sweetheart, in the persona of the lead mare, was trotting around the roustabout as he tried to sweep up after the salamander act, kicking up the sawdust, and making fake runs at his backside. Laughter and sighs could be heard from the audience. They needed the lightheartedness, now, after all they had been through. No one, who didn't know ahead of time, would have known that that wasn't a planned act. And it looked like she could keep it up for a while. Which was good. Because so much had changed since their rehearsal that they now were going to have to redo their entire finale -- with no rehearsal time -- and make it their strongest act yet. She called to her deputy, the turquoise troll. "Gather all the performers back from the audience," she told her. "We're going to need all hands on deck for this." She signalled to Alisandra, Sandra, Xeffy (who looked a little surprised to be included) Tessa, Yokoi, Imran, Gordon, Saville, Curry, Nyctolops, Cameron, the Nth Doctor, Katherine, Silence, Yartek, Mags and Kingpin to join her in a huddle. "Okay, here's what I'm thinking," she said, when they were finally all together. "This would have been a lot easier if we still had the last word -- but we don't. "We are going to have to use this act to bind the Gods -- but we *can't* bind them before they get a chance to perform...and after they perform, it will be too late." "So what do we do?" Xeffy asked. "We lose either way." "I'm thinking," Eloise said, slowly (to make sure that it really was what she thought, before she said it), "That what we need to do is, well -- not to put it delicately -- set a trap, so that the energies we create during the song battle will still be in place after we take our final bows, and --" "*And*," Gordon said, "when the Gods try to make a final strike at us (and we're pretty certain they *will*), that will 'spring the trap' -- binding them at that very instance." Eloise nodded. "Right," she said. ~~It will have to be very precise,~~ Silence signed. ~~A nano-second too early, or too late, and it won't work at all~~ A silent shudder went through them. "And exactly *how* are we supposed to build and set the trap in the first place?" Xeffy asked. "That's where I'm stumped," Eloise admitted. "Any ideas?" "And, erm, I hate to be a wet blanket at a time like this," Tessa said, "But the round you gave us --" "Yes?" Eloise asked, uneasily. "It says here, that it's for four voices... But there are ten measures. It doesn't come out evenly." "Can it be rewritten for five?" "Certainly, but who's going to sing the fifth part?" "What about the audience?" Gordon asked. "They did all right with 'Row, row, row your boat'." "Asking them to sing a round they know well, is one thing," Tessa reminded him. "It's something else entirely with one no-one has ever heard before." "What if they had someone to lead them," Xeffy asked, "--someone to sing along with?" "You?!" Alisandra and Sandra asked together. "Why *not* me? If anyone can keep them on track, it would be a siren." Her sisters groaned. "The power's gone to her head," Alisandra muttered under her breath. "Just what we need." "I'm sorry," Eloise asked, "but are you sure that's *safe*? We want to trap the Gods, not the audience." "Well, I've been singing in the shower all my life," Xeffy answered her. "And I never trapped anyone before." "Until today," Sandra reminded her. "But that was because I *wanted* to call you back -- I needed to. I think intent is always a part of it. And maybe," she added, "you need some of the energy of a siren's song to make your dream trap work." She looked around at the faces looking back at her, suddenly older than the child she was when she arrived. "*I* was called here," she reminded them, "I was *brought* here. I don't *know* by whom," she looked at Imran, "though you may be right about Sandman," she said, "in which case, my powers could somehow be linked with Dreaming. But I do know I was brought here for a reason. I think maybe this is it." She turned to her sister. She was tall enough now to almost look her in the eye, straight on. "I'm not 'the baby' anymore. I didn't tag along behind you. Not this time." Eloise let out a long, slow breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. "All right, then," she said. "Xeffy will lead the audience in their part of the song battle. ... So what else do we need for this act?" ((They begin their plans for the finale...)) * * * 65. Starting to fight back - the finale * * * /Meanwhile, in Vortex City.../ --- A soft click, and a whirr. Startled out of concentration, the Contessa raised her head sharply. Then the familiar muffled note of the eight-day clock in the hallway began to sound, and she sank back in her seat, laughing a little at her own over-reaction. Ten... eleven... twelve... A corner of her mind counted the strokes automatically. Midnight. She took a deep breath and let it go, aware suddenly of aches and tensions that had gone ignored as she strained her senses to encompass the City, to guide the healing as the restoration flowed outward around her. The lamps were burning low. She rose to her feet, wincing a little, and moved to turn them up one by one, allowing the stiffness to fall free from her limbs as she did so. The first great outflow of stolen energy -- energy restored to its rightful stories -- was over. Channeled into place. The City was quiet, no longer cowed, beginning almost to awaken to its normal late-night hum. She could afford time now to rest for a little; to recruit her strength. For a moment, she let her eyes close. This was not the bone-deep weariness she had known before, when every moment had been stretched thin on the road to the inevitable end. This was no more than the pleasing ache of skilled muscles well-used... a reminder merely of all the reserves still to be tapped... Suddenly restless, she paced to the door of the room, out to the cooler air of the hallway. Laid her forehead against the smooth wood of the newel-post beyond, at the foot of the narrow stair. Somewhere out there in the dark -- were the other twisters. And one man fighting them, drawing them away... Buying time for a miracle. Had he known, then, Doc Gallifrey? Linked to this place in blood and bone as she could never be, had he sensed somehow what hope would arrive when their enemies, over-confident, had deemed her at her weakest? When they needed it most, in the shape of raw human desire the miracle had come. She hoped only that Doc Gallifrey had not already paid the price. Slipping back down the hallway, she eased the side-door open a crack, looking out into the windswept night. Ragged remnants of clouds raced across the sky, filming-over the face of the sinking moon. The storm had passed; but in the northwest, a darkness clung on that owed nothing to nature. She sighed. They had broken the siege -- and survived. Time now to turn the tide. Time to take the battle to the enemy... and begin to fight back. The Contessa closed the door and walked back slowly to the familiar warmth of her parlor. The Monitors' dream-matrix lay open, unfolded, on her table, all its stored power set free. She laughed, for a moment, picturing how the Sisterhood would have reacted to the merest idea of one of their number resorting to such a device. Rassilon himself could hardly have harnessed the power of dream in a more mechanistic prison... Well, she had taxed her mental training enough in the past hours of this night to please even the most exacting of Sisters. Time now to reawaken the other skills of Gallifrey. She took her seat once more in front of the box with the air almost of a virtuoso pianist, flinging back his coat-tails as he prepares to perform. Touched the golden glimmer of her rings to the gold at her ears, her wrists, her waist... and felt the faint hum of the field spring into life around her. A gift, like so much of the gleaned technology hidden away here, in payment from outworld wanderers she had aided. Little used, in this time and this place -- but she carried the parts of the charged power-net with her always. She laid one hand over the dream-matrix, sensing a slight tingle as its own field began to fuse with the net that clad her, and slowly, cautiously, feeling her way, began to set the final reversal in motion. Life against draining, joy against dullness, creation against sterility. She did not think, somehow, that it was coincidence alone that had set this technology within the grasp of the one person in the whole of Vortex City with the knowledge to recognise it, let alone use it. But whatever purpose lay behind the miracle -- she would not turn this chance away. A tool could cut both ways, to heal as well as to harm... and hers was the hand of a healer. --- ((Back at the Circus, the Hoedowners are planning their final act...)) Nyctolops asked, "Do we need the Gods to concentrate on the singing in order for the trap to work, or do we need to distract them a bit, so that they don't realize that a trap is being set? I can't sing a note, but Cameron and I, along with some of the other non-singing performers could provide distraction in the side rings." "Well," said Eloise. "We *will* need dancers . . ." She looked toward the shadows where the Goddesses Jubilganzia, Gaia, and Hertha had been bearing witness since nearly the beginning. "Until the Ragnarok Gods spring the trap, and close the conduit through which they've been stealing energy, and we can set up a more permanent conduit to let it flow back," she said, "*we* will have to be the conduits -- our own bodies, our own voices. Traditionally, that has been accomplished through dancing -- drawing the divine energy from the Earth (or in this case, Jubilganza) and the cosmos beyond, through our bodies, and into the sacred space being created (in our case, the "net" of energy which we will leave suspended above the circus rings, after our act). The Goddesses are here with us now. But they cannot, by the rules of the contest, act directly against the Gods of Ragnarok themselves -- they must act *through* us. So -- can you dance?" "I-I think so," Nyctolops answered. Eloise grinned a reassuring grin at her. "Based on how well you did in your acrobat act at the start, I don't think you'll have any problem." She turned to Yartek, standing tall, stiff and still looking uncomfortable without the familiar protection of his helmet. "You, sir," she said, making sure to look him squarely in the eye, "have become famous for your ability to dance. Would you be willing to lead the dancers?" Yartek bowed deeply in assent. "Good!" she said. She was beginning to feel that this could work after all. "And you, Gordon --" she asked, turning to him, "are your zombies still prepared to be part of this fun?" Gordon grinned. "They're always ready for fun!" he answered. "Okay, then!" She handed a stack of photo-copied papers to Xeffy. [ http://www.bhfh.fsnet.co.uk/everlife.htm ] "Here are the lyrics and music for the round," she said. "Better pass them out to the audience so they can sing along." "Hey," Xeffy asked. "Where'd these come from?" "Troll magic," Eloise answered, with a ;-) --- 'Xeffy, what are you doing?' 'Taking notes.' Sandra blinked. 'O-kay...' 'Xeffy, Xephy, Zephy...' Xeffy mumbled. 'Okay.' Imran thought. 'I think, now, since /both/ sides are involved, the Gods are going to try and distract /us/ during the battle. If we stop, during the song...' '...then they win by default,' Eloise said. 'Exactly. We need someone to counter that.' Imran looked around. 'We are /not/ to distract them so that /they/ stop singing, okay? We're distracting them to divert their attentions - and to defend against whatever they'll throw at us. 'And we know what - or who - they'll use during the battle.' ~Sirens.~ Silence signed. Imran nodded. 'The originals. Or /corruptions/ of the originals, at any rate. It's almost too obvious.' 'It's perfect for the Gods,' Katherine said. Sandra and Allie turned their heads. 'The originals?!' Tessa took a deep breath. 'Okay... The magic words we had in mind should still work...' 'The /originals/?!' 'What's the problem?' Imran caught their look at Xeffy. Oh... A siren who'd just discovered what she was, against... against corruptions, twistings of the first sirens. But she /wasn't/ one of the originals, was she? /They/ had been nymphs, before they'd been cursed... but Xeffy came from a family of Muses. Not a throwback. An inheritor. A modern day siren. Putting her own creative spin on it. 'It's supposed to be a gift,' Xeffy said quietly. 'Grandma's gift. For better or worse. And with an audience behind me... I didn't tag along behind you. I came to help you - because you called me, /asked/ me to.' Sandra looked down. 'It's not about you helping me, or me helping you,' Allie said. She stopped Xeffy's response. 'We're in this /together/. And Xeph...' Xeffy stepped back from her sister's glistening eyes. 'I'd die before I'd let /you/ die. You're my sister. Not my baby sister, not my little sister... but you're my sister. You got into this because I wanted you to be safe. I still do. I'm /scared/. I'm scared that, one way or the other, they're going to win - and take you. But...' Allie breathed out. 'If they do, they're going to go through me first. And if they /do/ get through me... you'll know what to do.' 'Al...' 'You've got the talent. You know why you're doing this - and what you're doing. You can take them on,' Allie continued. She raised an eyebrow. 'Otherwise you wouldn't be the teen queen - right?' Xeffy grinned, blinking away the nascent tears. '/Right/.' Allie blinked. 'Singing in the shower? Xeph, you never said-' She raised her other eyebrow. 'And who else was in there to /trap/?' Xeffy blushed furiously. 'We're going to have to have a talk about relationships soon, young lady...' Allie said, a smile twitching at her mouth. Gordon clicked his fingers. 'Just a moment... How /is/ Sandra going to hold a mike?' Sandra concentrated. 'OW!' Gordon doubled over. 'Telekinesis. Moving things with the power of my feelings,' Sandra explained. 'I thought that was 'power of your thoughts'.' 'It is, for some. But telekinesis means movement at a distance. It doesn't necessarily mean I have to use my /thoughts/...' 'We also need /this/-' Shayde held up the sphere. 'I thought that disappeared.' Shayde looked, if that were possible, embarrassed. 'We used Yokoi's retcon-o-tron. In /this/ timeline, it was present here up until Kid and Sandra came back.' 'Ah,' the others said. 'This will be what will trap them,' Shayde said. 'The prison they created from human dream-' Sandra shuddered. '-will be their binding.' 'Which is all well and good, but how do we get them /in/?' Allie looked at Alryssa. The Senshi didn't return it. 'We ask Ma'at. We call upon her - at the /moment/ they attempt their final strike-' 'Suicide strike...' '-and at /that/ point, they will be judged,' Alryssa said. 'Not given to the Devourer - they're /kin/ to it, in a strange way. I'd hate to think what'd happen if they met. No. They will be judged against the feather of Ma'at - and then, they will be imprisoned. Called in by the siren song - and by our Muses' magic words.' The three Odd Muses double-took. 'We still remembered why you came /up/ with TYA in the first place, guys,' Gordon said. 'You said you had some magic words you were going to use - not to bring something to life...' 'To call something,' Tessa said. 'Call /upon/ something.' 'We're going to set up - hang - the binding. Not trigger it. We're going to trigger it at the moment they're judged. Called on by the magic. Captivated by the siren's song. And /bound/ by our dreams.' 'But how?' Eloise wondered. 'They eat stories...' 'All but /one/,' Allie said. 'All but one. And that one - their /own/ - is key to their binding.' 'So... we'll have to time it precisely.' Eloise looked around. 'We need everyone - everyone - to keep their dreams in mind during the song battle. And then, when they make their final strike - after they've won or lost - we call upon Ma'at to judge them - and then /we/ bind them.' The others nodded silently. 'This is the completion of the web,' Eloise said, quietly. 'If we /win/, and we bind them... they're no longer maintaining their conduit, no longer drawing out creativity. Our web breaks that conduit, creates a conduit of our own, returning the stolen energy back where it belongs... and hopefully, it won't be too late. One way or another, it'll be decided by the time the sun clears the horizon. 'Is that everything?' --- Before Imran could answer, a strange vehicle emerging from the back of the circus caught his eye. It was a large tricycle, with a huge white box on the front. Pedalling it merrily and occasionally shouting "Getcher quorn dogs!" was Daibhid. The Rucksack was hanging from the handlebars and Schroedy was curled up on the box. "Found it backstage," he grinned, "It's good, isn't it? Anyone want a quorn hot dog? Popcorn? Drinks? I think there might be a candyfloss machine... So, what's the plan, folks?" Imran and Eloise outlined what they'd discussed while the others picked up some snacks. "Doesn't the Doctor always say you can't fight evil on an empty stomach?" remarked Gordon. "Er, not that I remember," responded the Eighth Doctor, joining the queue. "But I'll definitely start. Two dogs, no onion, please." "There you go." Turning back to Eloise, Daibhid said, "So, the rest of us have the job of distracting the Gods from distracting the singers? Not a problem. If there's one thing this Hoedown's proved, it's the power of Pro-Fun to distract. That's why we keep going off on side trips. And with an army of cats, a gunslinger, a comedy food cart, a full complement of characters from a score of fictiverses and a typo gremlin, I don't see how they could *fail* to be distracted!" Imran shook his head. "Subtlety, Daibhid. At this point, an upheld foul could mean they win automatically." "Relax, we'll be subtle. I know what I'm doing." "Really?" "No, but I'm sure *someone* does." He looked back at the Eighth Doctor. "Um, that's two fifty, altogether." The Doctor looked at him. "Hey, I'm cutting my own throat, here!" --- Yokoi snapped her fingers. 'I know what we're missing,' 'Oh? What?' Gordon asked. 'Apart from the burgers, anyway?" 'There you go,' Daibhid said, handing him a quorn burger. "Killer outfits of course!" Yokoi struck a pose to show off her... unique.... dress. Imran's eyes bugged. Gordon hiccuped. Allie choked. "Woah..." Tessa breathed. "OK, my turn..." She dashed off to find herself an outfit. Allie paused a moment, then took off after her. "What's their plan, blind the Gods with shiny things?" murmured Sandra. Imran just shrugged, speechlessly. --- 'I thought they'd already been to the changing rooms,' Eloise said. 'They have...' Imran said. 'But this /is/ their star turn, after all.' Eloise grinned. 'True enough. So once they get back, we're on.' Sandra grinned, and twirled. 'Well, I already look like a refugee from "Burning Saddles"... I think I'll stick with it.' 'Problem?' Yokoi asked. 'Who, me? No, no problem at all. Absolutely. No problem.' Gordon eyed his Muse. 'You've been 'round me for far too long.' Yokoi smirked. 'What'd you expect? All that "curvy female ninja" stuff had to rub off sometime. Yokoi - Idol Star!' 'She's my Muse alright...' Gordon muttered. Imran looked in the direction his Muse had gone, following Tessa. Looked thoughtful for a moment. 'What about Xeffy, though?' Eloise wondered. 'What about Xeffy?' the adolescent siren asked. Yokoi smiled wickedly. 'I have /just/ the thing. Come on!' With that, she grabbed Xeffy's hand and hauled her off to the dressing rooms. 'What's she planning?' Gordon wondered. 'Don't look at me, she's /your/ Muse...' Imran said. 'Don't you know what Allie plans?' 'If I did, I'd have known about Sandra much earlier,' Imran said. '/Sometimes/, yeah, when she gives me a narrative overview, or when we were the Bookworm, basically whenever we share headspace... but not usually.' 'Does it work the other way around?' Alryssa asked. 'They wouldn't know what we planned?' Imran shook his head. 'Not unless they were sharing headspace just beforehand.' 'Oh,' Alryssa said. 'The connection's... usually unconscious,' Imran explained. 'They personify the creative impulse, yeah - but they've got an identity beyond that. Some Muses come into being when their author imagines them - but some have been around for years, centuries, millennia, pairing up with lots of artists before they teamed up with their current one.' 'They survive the death of their author?' 'As long as the idea of them, that identity, survives in reality, gets remembered,' Imran said. 'But when it happens... it hits /hard/. The Muse/Writer relationship isn't quite like any other. It's...' He hesitated. 'traumatic, when one dies. Not like losing a relative, or a friend. It's... different, but similar. It hasn't happened to me... there're stories, from the survivor, about what happens...' Alryssa nodded. 'Which one's Allie?' Gordon asked. 'Allie? Oh... Um, given she's twenty... she's lived for twenty years... She had a life before she met me, basically,' Imran said. 'That's where Xeffy came from.' Sandra nodded. 'No Writers, though. He's Allie's first.' 'And on work experience to boot,' Imran said, drily. 'She's /my/ first, too. Muses can move on from their Writers, without too much trouble - move on to another Writer, while the Writer takes on another Muse. They don't have to take on another Muse, but most Writers do.' 'So, does being a Muse run in the family?' 'In /my/ family, yep. Auntie Jackie - and Xeffy - aren't, but the rest of the family are,' Sandra said. 'It's not genetic... I think it's one of those story conventions. Some families have only one Muse - and in others, the whole family are. Some pop up spontaneously from their Writer's minds. And not every Writer personifies their Muse - puts an identity to go with that impulse in the back of their heads. Even if they do, that doesn't mean they have to bring them out.' 'Which's why only the three of you - is it four?' 'Technically, /I'm/ not a Muse anymore. I'm a phantasm,' Sandra explained. 'Which is partly why only you three have popped up,' Eloise surmised. Gordon looked out at the ring. 'That, and if anybody /else/ turns up, it's gonna look like a tin of sardines out there...' 'It doesn't already?' Imran said. 'That depends entirely on your definition of "sardine". Or, for that matter, "tin".' 'So, before the girls get back... We haven't forgotten anything, have we?' Eloise said. 'You keep saying that.' Eloise nodded. 'I know. I think it's an attack of nerves.' 'With who's out there, I'd be worried if we /didn't/...' Imran observed. ' 'Kay, so /have/ we forgotten anything? Daibhid and food cart - and army of distractions, Yartek and Nyctolops leading the dancing, and the girls getting killer outfits... You know, Daibhid's right. Pro-fun has an incredible power to distract... but I think we've got everything.' ((But at least one of those present has misgivings...)) * * * 66. The song battle begins * * * /Kid Curry isn't happy about the idea of using his dreams to help bind the Gods.../ --- 'So... we'll have to time it precisely.' Eloise looked around. 'We need everyone - everyone - to keep their dreams in mind during the song battle. And then, when they make their final strike - after they've won or lost - we call upon Ma'at to judge them - and then /we/ bind them.' Kid Curry had stirred sharply as she spoke. The troll didn't know what she was asking -- Everyone. *Everyone*, she'd repeated, and the second time she'd looked straight at him as if she could see right into his mind. Yeah, she'd meant what she'd said. Remember dreams -- *all* dreams -- So you fought to get back what's yours, her gaze told him clearly. Time enough to take it out, look it in the eye, maybe? For once in your life stand and face something where you can't just shoot and you can't run away? --- He'd shot old man Landusky. He'd been blind mad, and maybe three parts drunk -- it was Christmas, after all. A man had to celebrate... and he'd been celebrating his own way in the bottom of a glass, down from the ranch in Jew Jake's saloon in that little raw mining town. Old man Pike had been a big name back in those parts -- big enough they'd named the town after him -- and his girl Elfie had been mighty pretty... and mighty empty in the head. Just the type Lonie went for; and that was the start of it all. Maybe the Curry boys hadn't been too respectable, even back then -- but no way did that give old man Pike the right to cut up rough the way he had. So Lonie'd got the girl in trouble? Maybe he should have known better -- *she* sure should have known better -- but hell, there'd been shotgun weddings before. There'd have been bad blood between them anyhow. He'd been in no mood for Landusky's moralising -- but if the old man'd taken a reasonable line... just maybe, once the dust had settled, he'd have wound up dragging Lonie to the altar himself to make a decent woman of the girl. No way had his little brother set out with marriage in mind -- he knew him well enough for that -- but it was about time that kid learned to take his own lumps for a change... But Landusky hadn't wanted a wedding. Wouldn't have his precious daughter touch Lonie with a bargepole. He'd wanted to settle accounts -- teach the dirty lowlife scum to lay a hand on his little Elfie -- drag them through the mud and wring them out. He'd wanted trouble; and he'd got more than he'd bargained for by a long way. You didn't pick a brawl with Kid Curry. Not then -- not ever. He'd been the smaller man in every fight of his life; but the other guy was always holding something back. Thinking; afraid to lose. Kid Curry fought all out. Fought dirty. Fought to win. When Pike Landusky rolled up from the floor, one eye swollen shut and blood down his chin, and pulled a gun -- there was no way he was going to back down. Landusky's first shot went wide. He didn't get another. Yeah, he'd shot old man Pike; and then he'd run away. Left town. Left the ranch. Left Montana. No way would he stand trial, not in a town with the name of Landusky, with pretty Elfie in the courtroom all dressed in black... As well be lynched for a sheep as a lamb. He'd taken the outlaw trail. Taken to it like a duck to water. Killed, and killed again... forgotten faces, lost in the dust. It was Pike Landusky's features that swam up out of the night, bruised and bloody in that last moment before the gun went off -- --- He looked back at the avocado troll, eyes wide and steady. Keep *all* dreams in mind, lady? You want /that/ out there -- and the rest? You sure? Eloise saw the question in his eyes, in the turn of his mouth, and nodded, ever so slightly. Yes. Even *your* dreams, Curry. She held his gaze until she saw the realization of what she meant settle in his eyes, then she turned her attention back to the questions flying around her as they tried to figure out what needed to be done and how they were going to do it, but part of her mind stayed on the question that Curry had silently raised.. Maybe they needed Curry's dreams -- his nightmares -- most of all. They were going to be making a binding -- twisting a rope from dreams. And it needed to be strong enough to bind a whole tribe of *Gods*. Light and laughter and fluffy-bunny-cozy thoughts were all very well and good. But they were as useless, and as life-draining, as the Gods' of Ragnarok's un-energy, unless the heart was also open to suffering, and unafraid of the dark. Joy, pure and simple, was the reason life itself existed. She was as sure of that as she was of her own tail-tuft. But that didn't mean it ever came easy. The reason a cactus root existed was to search out water in the desert, too -- and that means it has to go through some pretty dark, stony, hard ground before it finds any. A binding... they were making a binding. Each person's dreams were like a single strand of hemp in a rope: twisting together one way, and then twisting again the other way -- the very elasticity of the strands, that threatens to unravel the rope, turned back upon itself to keep it together. She remembered then, Gleipnir: the ribbon that held Fenris, the wolf of war. It would hold until the day of the *real* Ragnarok (unless, she thought, with a shudder, they lost the song battle). And it was woven together from six things: The dreams of a bear, the beard of a maiden, the sound of a cat's footfalls, the breath of a fish, the spittle of a bird -- and the roots of a mountain. For all its lightness and fantasy, its impossibility, it was grounded with darkness, and stone. Yes, Curry, she thought again, we need your dreams in the mix, too. And there was another reason to need his dreams, a more immediate one, specific to this battle: The Gods had tried to steal those dreams, tried to make them their own to use. Even though Curry had gotten them back, they would hold the memory of the Gods, the way a whisky glass held the fingerprints and the warmth of the hand that had held it. Those dreams had become part of the Gods' own story -- and *that* was the *only* thing they could not drain. As Tessa, Yokoi and Allie showed off their costumes for the final act, Eloise felt that Curry was still watching her. She turned, and met his gaze again, briefly. :::Remember, Curry,::: she thought at him, whether or not he heard those thoughts, :::there is always one bright side to nightmares: no matter how dark, how terrible, eventually, you wake up, and leave them behind::: She let a smile grace her lips. Dawn was coming. --- Someone collided with Kid Curry from behind. He swung round, instantly on edge, and found himself blinking back at a little yellow troll with what looked like an armful of feathers. The tips were tickling its nose. Purple freckles twitched helplessly, and the troll's eyes screwed up in one giant, unbalancing sneeze. Feathers went flying. "Mmf." The troll had sat down backwards very firmly indeed. Fortunately, it didn't have far down to go. For a moment, like a baby who has lost its balance, the little troll seemed poised between a surprised bawl and a gurgle of laughter; then its cheeks bunched up suddenly into helpless chuckles that spread to a grin a mile wide. The outlaw turned to see what was so funny. Found no-one behind him. Turned back -- and felt the tweak of a feather at his collar. The sudden movement as he brushed it away unleashed a shower of brightly- painted quills from the rest of his clothes. The yellow troll finally stopped laughing for long enough to help him pick them off. Hunkered down on his heels, trying to brush the sawdust off handfuls of long feathers, Kid Curry managed to retrieve the remainder of the load, feeling more than a little ridiculous. It was like someone had let off a shotgun and hit a turkey at close range... He glanced round. It looked like there was some kind of grand parade planned. Half the original Hoedowners seemed to be milling around in the side-rings, and others of them were pushing their way through the audience. Beads and feathers were everywhere, and there was the muffled jangling of little bells. The yellow troll pounced on the last stray feather -- almost losing the rest of its load at the crucial moment -- and scrambled back to its feet. For a second or two it looked him up and down, head on one side; then it trotted on its way. The glint of renewed laughter, as it glanced back over one shoulder, had flowered into the most infectious of grins. Kid Curry stared after the little figure, frowning slightly; then shook his head and got to his own feet, moving somewhat cautiously after the first wince. The crowd swirled around him. Daibhid pedalled past in his three-wheeled bicycle contraption... and glanced back, looking distinctly surprised. And he wasn't the only one. Something brushed stiffly against the outlaw's sleeve; something sticking out of his vest pocket. An incongruously bright gift against the weatherworn hide, the single jaunty feather lay nestled against his breast where the troll had tucked it. Small wonder the others had been staring. Flushing, he snatched it out instinctively -- right now, he'd had feathers enough to last a lifetime -- about to let it spin to the ground. Let the Hoedowners dress up like some kind of raindance if they had a fancy that way; but they better not plan on making a bird-scare out of *him*... He took a breath, mouth hardening, and held it -- and caught sight of the little ringmaster in the distance. Any minute now the show was due to start, and she was so busy she hardly knew which way to turn. The bright blue of her coat was almost swamped by the urgent crowd around her -- seemed everyone had a question, and somehow she was the only one they'd trust for the answers... His set face never changed; but almost unconsciously, the hand that held the feather moved to tuck that gift back inside his vest, out of sight against his shirt. The outlaw looked away, over into the main ring -- and *saw*. --- The pent-up breath hissed out of him as if the ground had come up to hit him in the guts. Three of them, there in the ring. Gray, they were. Gray-skinned, like faces wrapped with smooth bark -- and they were hunched under great dusty cloaks, crouched up like roosting birds. The faces were pretty, even, in a way. But they were empty, empty of all but a mindless hunger that shone from the slits of their eyes... and something else. Smeared across the gray blankness, like a mockery of the Contessa's pain. Years beyond counting; creatures ancient beyond bearing, beyond all belief. Nothing left, but the craving for life at all costs. To /survive/. Without willing it, his own gaze was drawn into that blind stare. By what he saw there. By the cold understanding...of the echo of himself. "*Those* are Sirens?!" A sharp breath somewhere close by. Elsewhere, a half-stifled scream. The nearest Siren shifted, under her feathery cloak. Bent down to grasp something beneath her feet. Cracked the white arm-bone between dainty, pointed teeth. She licked the marrow delicately, savoring the taste, watching them. Watching the Muses. The four-toed foot that had held the bone was gray and scaly, tipped with long, blunted claws. --- As Allie and Tessa ran off to get their own outfits, they passed Mags who had, in her arms, what looked to be a pile of folded blankets. "Speaking of outfits," she said, "I thought some of the dancers could wear these." She carefully lay the pile on the edge of TYA's stage, and unfolded the top bundle. Eloise gasped. What she had taken to be blankets were actually long robes, appliqued from hem to hem with stylized feathers -- of every kind of fabric, from silk to wool, to gold lame, even denim. But as a fringe, along the bottom hem, hung real gryphon feathers -- snow white, gold, russet and brown, emerald and sapphire, and rainbow. "These were worn by some of our acrobats, for our own big finales," Mags explained, "back in when this circus was at its peak, back when the gryphons sometimes joined the act. I think this one here might fit Yartek .. It was Osetak's robe, and he was particularly tall." She handed the robe to the leader of the Voord, who bowed deeply as he took it. Then a few of the others came forward to collect their robes. Those who were uncomfortable with either their singing or dancing abilities accepted the kazzoos and party noisemakers handed around by deputy trolls and roustabouts. Nyctolops and Cameron, who weren't quite built for the wearing of robes, opted to wear crowns of gryphon feathers (or, to be more accurate in Cameron's case, a collar), and anklets of sleigh bells. The Second and Eighth Doctors took up positions at the circus's calliope and midi keyboard, respectively. There was a brief bustle of activity as all the hoedowners experimented with and traded their instruments, tried on the robes, and generally took their places. Then, there was a shift in the air. Eloise couldn't put her finger on whether it was a chill or if the lights went dim for a split second. But there was a definite shift. Sweetheart flattened her ears and trotted out of the ring as if someone had cracked a whip on her rump. And the roustabout left the ring in a similar manner. The message was clear: The Powers That Be were tired of waiting. The lights in the big top went out. A single spotlight shone on TYA's stage. The three muses, one phantasm, and one siren began to sing in unison: Every life is a tale to tell -- Each has a song to sing! For every hero yet unsung, we'll help Love and Freedom spread their wings. And the eighth Doctor played along on the keyboard, directing each musical patch to a different speaker around the big top. From the east, came the sound of chimes, the south, a trumpet, the north, a French horn, from the west, an English horn, and from a speaker suspended below the cupola, a choir. The dancers moved slowly in a circle, swaying slightly in rhythm with the music, as if mesmerized. Then Allie started singing alone, with the musical line of the chimes to accompany her. Tessa followed, with the trumpet. Then Yokoi joined in, and Sandra. As each new voice entered the song, a surprising, syncopated rhythm emerged -- moving from fast to slow and back again in waves. Now the dancers really began to dance, slapping their heels down to accentuate the new rhythm. Bells on ankles and wrists, and tambourines shaken in the air magnified that rhythm. Then Zephy led those still in the audience to sing. Eloise was afraid, with all that was going on, many would lose their place, and it would all sound like mud. But guided by the siren, and the stronger singers in the seats, the audience stayed pitch (and rhythm) perfect. Silence and Yartek, each in a long feather robe, moved to the center of the circle. They spread their arms in wing-like fashion, circling each other, personifying Love and Freedom. Then the magic started. Eloise's heart skipped several beats as she watched it happen, but she kept on singing. Light reflected off silver bells and jeweled gryphon feathers, sending beams -- no -- *threads* of light high into the big top canopy, where they hung, suspended. Darker threads twisted among them (the nightmares, Eloise suspected, of Curry and the others). But rather than blotting out the light, as the Gods' unenergy would have done, it seemed only to make the light brighter in contrast, stronger. It was working. The net was being woven. She could feel the Gods' growing frustration. But she could not hear them. As dark and as terrible as they were, they were simply outnumbered. There were just too many voices on the pro-fun side. But then the voices in the round began to drop out, one by one, until only the audience was singing. Would TYAS be able to shift to their diva song in time, before the last measure of the song ended, so there wouldn't be even a moment of silence? And what *were* the magic words they had in their heads? ((Tessa, Yokoi, Allie and Sandra take a deep (mental) breath...)) * * * 67. Victory conceded * * * /Now it is just TYA against the allure of the Sirens.../ --- No. /NO!/ She is my /sister/! I will not... I will /not/! --- Ready? Ready. --- Oh why you look so sad? The tears are in your eyes Come on and come to me, now... Don't be ashamed to cry Let me see you through Cause I've seen a dark side too. --- Imran's eyes widened. 'What? What is it?' Imran turned to Eloise. 'The Pretenders. "I'll Stand By You".' 'It's /what/?!' Imran nodded. 'They're weaving the words into the song, singing the spell /in/ the song. Making the song /into/ a spell.' 'Making the song /itself/ the magic words...' Eloise murmured. 'Nn.' --- I know your hunger. I wanted a life, a /soul/. I would have done anything for it. No... not anything. No one dies. No one dies because of me. How many died because of you? Of your hunger? To /feed/ your hunger? To feed your songs? We give. We /share/. We do not simply /take/. --- When the night falls on you Don't know what to do Nothing you confess Can make me love you less I'll stand by you I'll stand by you Won't let nobody hurt you I'll stand by you. --- Depression. Despair. I've been there with you, when it all seemed it was going to hell. As you convinced yourself that it meant nothing, that /nothing/ meant anything. That there was no worth. I was there, with you. The voice in your head that said there had to be a meaning beyond this. That /you/ were more than this. More than the /nothingness/. Mad scientist. Armadillo freak. Gordon... --- So if your man gets mad Don't hold it all inside Come on and come to me, now And hey, what you got to hide? I get angry too Well, I'm a lot like you. --- Xeffy... The teen queen. The brat from Hades. My sister. You are /not/ like them. You got the siren /gift/, not the curse. No matter what you do, whatever happens... ...I'll be there. No matter what. No matter how much you irritate me, how much you piss me off... No matter how much I beat my head against the wall. No matter /what/ you do, I /will/ be there. Like I was there, when Mum... When Mum... When Mum died. I'm here, Xeph. I always will be. As long as I live... --- When you're standing at the crossroads Don't know which path to choose Let me come along Cause even if you're wrong I'll stand by you. I'll stand by you Won't let nobody hurt you I'll stand by you --- Always, 'Ryss. Always. Won't let anybody hurt you. Won't let you hurt you. No matter what problems are in the way. Whatever difficulties wait for us. I'll be there. For you. For you, and for Gallifrey. Inspiring, provoking. Catalysing the defender of creativity. We're in this together, Alryssa. Together. As long as you live. --- Baby, even till your darkest hour And I'll never desert you I'll stand by you And when When the night falls on you, baby You'll be there all alone Won't be there on your own I'll stand by you --- Mum... I want... I want you back so much. Don't wanna be them, don't wanna be like them... So much... This wasn't why Grandma did it, was it? Was it? Why did you never tell us? What /happened/? What did she do? You would have told us? Right? You would have told us... ...and you'd be there, and it'd /all/ be okay... --- I'll stand by you. Won't let nobody hurt you I'll stand by you Baby, even till your darkest hour And I'll never desert you I'll stand by you... --- The girls lowered their microphones as the Eighth finished the song. And then they bowed. The audience held silent. --- 'The Gods' turn now...' Imran murmured. 'Wonder how they're going to counter /that/...' Eloise caught Kid's eye, saw him gazing at the Sirens. Saw a horror reflected in his eyes. Understanding. Knowing what he saw. /Hating/ what he saw. Hating it... because he'd known it in himself. Saw something about himself in them. What he'd been. But not who he was, she reminded herself. The man he'd become... the man he'd become had moved beyond whatever they might show him. Had joined the side of the Hoedowners, his darkness emphasising, complementing, their light. Grounding it. Eloise's eyes fell on the Sirens. 'Imran...' 'I /know/.' Imran said. '/No/. Xeffy will /not/ end up like them - not if Allie, Sandra /or/ me have /anything/ to say about it. That's not the way /her/ talent works - but they'll want to try and corrupt her... or failing that, make it seem as if her talent's going to make her like them. Scare her away from it, make it seem corrupted, /tainted/...' Eloise looked at Kid again. No... It wasn't just Xeffy they were after. She took a deep breath. They'd won through their acts - now, they had to survive the Gods' finale. The Sirens readied themselves. Here goes... --- 'Head to head.' Imran murmured. 'I should've /remembered/...' 'Pardon?' 'Song battle. First one side does a song, then the other, then the first one again. 'The last side to sing wins. If the other side can't - or don't - follow it, then they lose.' Eloise turned back. Oh no. Oh no oh no... They'd been counting on it being a counterpoint - both sides singing simultaneously. Or failing that, one song for each side. Not this. Not this. Could TYAS hold out that long? All the Sirens felt - /all/ they felt - was hunger. Never get tired, never get drained, never get hoarse... they'd just keep on singing. The girls couldn't do that... could they? --- "Well," she said, a little shakily. "We do outnumber them -- by a long shot. If we can take turns... Xephy picking up when TYAS gets tired, then the other hoedowners, long enough to give TYAS a break, so they could take it up again..." "Do you *really* think that a bunch of kazzoo-tooting trolls are an equal match for *sirens*?" Imran asked, incredulously. "Well..." Eloise took a deep breath. "We'll have to try, won't we?" She steeled herself to glance at the three bird-women and saw the featherless wings, the old scars where each feather had been plucked out now a pale pearl of itself. And she took hope. The sirens and the muses had held just such a song battle before -- a battle instigated by Hera. And the Muses had won. They'd plucked out every feather of the sirens' wings, and made crowns for themselves from them. She winced inside at that memory from her studies in Mythology. The Muses could be as cruel as the Gods of Ragnarok, sometimes. The muses would always be the stronger of the two groups. But this time, the sirens were probably not just singing on behalf of the Gods -- they wanted a rematch. And the three muses singing now were no where near as mature or strong as the original nine. "Wait a minute --" Eloise said, "where are the Moerae?" "The who?" "The Moerae -- the three fates. According to the ancient myths, they always sang in unison with the sirens." "But they're not here now." Eloise shook her head. "I don't think they can. They're part of the Powers that Be, surely. They can't take sides. Not this time." "So the sirens are singing without their full power," Imran observed. "Right. But if their 'back-up singers' are part of the panel that is going to judge us..." "They might vote in favor of their old 'team'." Eloise nodded. "But above all else, the Fates were always fair judges -- at least, that's what the myths always said." "So it's still up in the air." "As undecided as it was in the beginning. We have a chance," Eloise said, "as long as we can keep coming up with songs." She sighed. "If only Allie still had her Robe of Inspiration, it would be a cinch -- we'd be able to ad lib our way through." "Maybe we still can." "Maybe." --- '...!' 'What?' Imran looked at Eloise. '/You/ knew they sang with the Sirens - but I didn't. To /me/, the Moirae were always the spinners of Fate.' Eloise nodded. 'It's a small part of their myth... and speaking of which, this is a /rematch/.' 'It's /what?!/' 'The Sirens - and the nine Muses - also had a song battle, instigated by Hera. The Muses /won/ - and plucked the feathers from the Sirens' wings to make crowns.' 'Oh my Gods...' Imran whispered. 'Oh my Gods. Calliope said something about the "siren's gift", about Xeffy having the Sirens' gift. She was part of the song battle, she /must/ have known... the Fates are neutral, always have been. No favour, even to the highest. Fate weaves the tapestry as it must. Not Gods... but something /else/. That's something the myths usually agreed on. If they /are/ part of the PTB, they'll stay neutral... Only the Nine, only the /first/ Nine, are goddesses.' He hesitated. 'They're nowhere near that. Even those Muses who were around at the same time... only the first nine, Mnemosyne's daughters, are the goddesses. Three, not nine... without the power of the Nine...' 'Against three, /not/ six.' Eloise said. 'Against three.' 'Hn. Here's where all those nights on the karaoke machine finally pay off...' Imran murmured. '/Four/ on three...' 'Sandra.' Eloise realised. 'Do phantasms get tired?' 'Don't know. Sandra's the first I've met. But she doesn't have a physical body to /get/ tired... they may still /want/ us to swap, though, so I wouldn't count on that...' Eloise looked back into the ring. But they /knew/ the Gods were going to spring something during the act. If they could fight it off... then the Gods would lose. And the Gods were getting impatient, just like the PTB - they wouldn't settle for a filibuster, they'd strike /soon/. And if they /couldn't/ fight it off? Eloise shuddered. Watch. Watch carefully. The Gods will make their move - and we must be ready. We /must/. --- She watched the Doctors from her vantage point, unseen by the Gods. Watched their faces, the different emotions expressed by all 8 of him. Seventh, stoic and unforgiving. Sixth, singing his hearts out. Eighth, troubled and weary. Fifth, intensely concentrating, immersing himself in the song... Felt the vortex pushing. No. Not yet. Wait. Wait... Her staff glowed dimly. She laid a hand on it, gently, as if reassuring herself that it was real. /Please, goddess, let me not screw this up. Not like Oltega 9. Please.../ --- Exchange. Back and forth. Wordless songs, songs of beauty. Captivating, entrancing. 'They're not using their talent.' Imran murmured. 'Using intent... They don't /intend/ to use it.' Hollow, though. Beautiful, charming... a meaning that was /suggested/, rather than actual. Listen deeper. --- 'Oh no. We fell for that one already.' 'Xeffy's /not/ going to sing, you /know/ that.' 'I know. I know. What happens when you see your future - and it's monstrosity? She's /terrified/!' --- Come. Follow the call, follow where it leads. Follow. Follow. Come. --- No way. Wasn't falling for that again. The empty hunger, the mindless pit. Survive. Survive, no matter what. Nothing else matters. No... --- Oh no. Oh no. --- He /knew/ he'd done monstrous things - killed and stolen, fought and terrorized the cowed and helpless. Not a monster, though. All too human. All /too/ human. A part of him - a part he'd thought necessary. That had /become/ necessary, to survive. One final trap. Oh yeah. Oh yeah. He could feel its form now, knew it for what it was. He recognised it. It'd mastered him, mastered him for... who knew how long. He'd /let/ it master him... what else had there been? The others would be fighting it too - they'd faced their share, and more than their share, during their lives, yet still held to the light. And the longer the sirens sang, the less resistable it would be. Less able to /fight/. He /knew/ his,... but there was much, so much... Too much to atone for? So many dead, so many dead by his hands. The deaths he'd seen, he'd done, as history passed him by. Blood on blood on blood. Some had been good men. Some had been bad. Some had sought him out, to bring back his head. Some had turned on him - revenge, or greed, or trap-laying. Many. Many over the years. A sea of blood. A sea of it. And, oh, he knew what that meant, the price that brought. How would any story end, but in death? A redemption, maybe. A redemptive death. Take out the sirens... then get taken out himself. Or bloody, meaningless - just another corpse in the dust, one who got in the way. A step closer to it. With every second that passed, a step closer. And he /would/ - what other price would the stories demand for a killer? Killers got killed. That was the way of things. They got killed. Accident or action, they got killed. But /that/ wasn't /always/ the way of the story. Sometimes, they survived - long survived anyone who might have come for them. Sometimes. But most of the time, death got brought back on them. Didn't fling themselves into it, though. No. Did, if it meant saving someone else... --- 'Doctor?' '/No/. No. I will /not/. I will /not/ remember!' 'Oh no. Oh no.' --- Oh yeah. He could see it now. Evoke the darkness in them, bring it to light. Tainted victory, tainted by blood and darkness. The outlaw, the one who struggled with his darkness - his death would be the wakeup call, the realisation of what the sirens had done, what the Hoedowners had become. And they'd defeat the sirens, someway, somehow. At the cost of a life. /His/ life. And if /he/ killed... another tainting. Another dirty victory. Couldn't sing to the light. Couldn't interrupt, not without a call of foul. --- I'm going to screw this up. Like I screwed it up /before/ I accepted Gallifrey. Going to screw it up again. (going to die again) Going to mess this up... ...funny, you'd have thought not being human any more meant you were beyond it. --- Not human. Not any more. Oh, they pretended... ...but she wasn't. No matter how much she might think otherwise. Don't get comfortable. Don't get familiar. Because when you do, that's when you've started forgetting. Started to forget what being human was like. The pain. That's how you know, that's how you remember. Through the pain. Raising a scaled hand in front of her face. Not physical pain. Soul pain, emotional pain... --- The sirens smiled. --- 'Xeffy?' 'Huh?' She turned around - and looked up into the Eighth's face. Whose face was twisted in concentration. 'You'll have to excuse me. I hope I'm coming out right. I've shut down my audial systems, so I can't hear anything - in particular, them. Unfortunately, I can't hear myself - so I'm going on memory, and lip-reading, to have this conversation. You see, if the sirens don't get tired, and don't need to pause, that means they can continue their song as long as they choose. I don't think they're trying to tire us into an ending, though - wear us down, /until/ we strike against them, perhaps. By their final song... I think we'd be too captivated by the darkness, one way or the other, to continue.' 'So what do you suggest?!' 'Start humming.' 'But-' 'Start humming. Low, under your breath. I want you to concentrate on something.' 'But-' 'Xephanya... look at me. /Look/. Focus on me, and on what you call. Show them what the siren's gift can be used for. Show them it /doesn't have to be like this/. That /you/ are not like this. Will never be like this. That these others will not allow it - so long as it's in their power. /Show them/.' 'But...' 'Someone will /die/ unless we stop this. Now. Either /they/ will, or one of us will. Someone will feed their hunger, unless we stop them now. 'Xeffy...' The young girl breathed out. Then she nodded. --- And the sirens felt it. Felt the hunger being /fought/, the darkness they called resisted. Someone calling the light. The soul they had wanted so badly. A siren born to a family of muses. A prize they would have /dearly/ sought. A new siren. A new siren who belonged to those who had beaten them, so long ago. Would have brought out the darkness, called it until she'd /begged/ to join, begged on her /knees/... Not fighting them. Not singing loudly enough to distract, to distract anyone. Calling the light. Calling on life. They saw the eyes of the one with her. Saw /him/... And his gaze promised them. Promised that as long as she kept singing, /he/ would encourage her. As long as he could encourage her, she would sing. And as they were fought, more, and more, and more would fight off their song. Would be freed from their grip. You cannot fight this resistance. Not without revealing what you have done. The louder you sing, the more obvious it will become. The longer you sing, the unhappier your masters will be. You will be resisted. Far beyond the point it is worthwhile for you to continue. Far beyond /any/ point your masters would be satisfied with. They will not fall as easily as your masters wish. And /because/ of what she calls, they will not strike you. Will not offer themselves up to you to end this. One voice. /One voice/, put against you. One that will be the key to many more. And it will triumph. --- The audience shook their heads, trying to ease their headaches. Then one of the sirens raised her voice once more. The victory has been conceded. They have won. --- 'We have?' Eloise gasped. 'Not yet...' Imran's voice was quiet. 'We've won this round - somehow... Now it's the PTB's decision...' ((Everything hangs in the balance...)) * * * 68. The Feather of Ma'at * * * /The Sirens have conceded victory in the song battle.../ --- Eloise held her breath, waiting. Watching the sirens. Leucosia had just finished plucking her lyre -- the sound had not yet left the strings. Parthenope's lips still held the shape of the last syllable. Pisinoe still held the Libyan flute to her lips. It was only for a split second, but they seemed frozen in time forever -- like a half-remembered photograph from long ago (was it a photo of an Attic Vase painting she had seen once? Eloise wondered). Then, as one, they spread their wings and rose toward the big top canopy. They turned transparent as they rose -- as transparent as a ripple on the surface of the sea -- and flew through the mesh of the song web that the hoedowners had raised, leaving bits of themselves behind, as morning fog is caught by the strands of a spider's web. (!) The web of song was still there -- and the power of the sirens -- the originals -- was now part of it! Did this mean that The Powers That Be had decided in the Pro-Funsters' favor? Had they really and truly *won*? Into the absolute hush that now filled the tent a new sound struck their ears -- from outside: a bird singing. Morning had come. Eloise began to let out the breath she'd been holding. But before the air was out of her lungs, the Gods of Ragnarok struck. --- The Gods had taken the bait, taken that moment of victory.... And now the darkness was threatening to consume them all. A nanosecond was all it would take to win the Gods their unrighteous victory... Time for the Doctors slowed, as they saw the wall of death that screamed towards their friends... And then... Bullet Time. /not human/ /face your fear and embrace it, for it is part of you/ /it is time/ /fight not with rage but with truth/ /It is time, Senshi/ The staff drove into the ground between the Hoedowners and the Gods, and time resumed once more. The Gods howled as their effort was repelled, its energy dispelled harmlessly into shadowy fragments that littered the circus ring like candy from a pinata. A muted sigh of relief from the hoedowners, but that relief was short-lived, as they seemed to be drawing themselves up to another attack.... "I don't think so." From between the bleachers, the slender figure of Sailor Gallifrey emerged, her walk slow and deliberate as she made her way to the centre of the ring. She gently touched each person as she passed, a smile and a nod, leaving in each hand a red feather. The Eighth squinted, as if not seeing correctly. There was something different, not quite... "Now that I have your attention, it's time for the judgement." She plucked her staff from the ground. Felt the energy surge. Was afraid, just for a moment... Oh gods - Imran stared, wide-eyed. Tessa's eyes bugged. "Oh boy," muttered Gordon. The feather of Maat was floating gently above the palm of her right hand. --- Eloise gasped. Was that *really* -- no, it couldn't be... could it? But before she could fully register her surprise at what she saw, she was in for another one. And from the reactions of those around her, she could tell she wasn't alone. The feather in her hand came alive -- buzzing like a fly's wing. She opened her fingers and, like the feather of Ma'at, it rose. But unlike the feather of Ma'at, it kept going. As did all the feathers Sailor Gallifrey had given to them. Like rose petals (or rose-colored snowflakes) falling *upward*, the feathers floated toward the song-web suspended above them. And as they rose, they lost their physical form, becoming tiny spheres of red light (echoing the red lightning the Gods of Ragnarok had used against them). When the lights-that-had-been-feathers met the web, they, too, entwined themselves with it, joining the light of happy dreams, the dark of nightmares, and the glimmering allure of the sirens' song (the second prize given in the victors in the second song battle -- this time, given freely, and thus, more powerful). Soon, the whole web shimmered with red and silver light, bathing the faces of all who were gathered there in a soft glow. (The Gods of Ragnarok fought desperately against the bonds Sailor Gallifrey had placed on them, seething with a palpable rage. But their fate was as sealed as that of a fish caught on the barb of a fisherman's hook. Eloise almost felt sorry for them. *Almost*). The feather floating above Sailor Gallifrey's palm thrummed softly, then slowly drifted down toward her hand. And the song web, following suit (as if laden down to its limit at last), began to sink, ever so slowly. It drifted over the bleachers where Gods of Ragnarok had stationed themselves. Then, with the suddeness of any sprung trap, it fell upon them. The angry howls of the Gods screeched through the big top like hurricane winds. All the hoedowners and their guests (except perhaps for the three goddesses) averted their eyes. There were some things mere mortals simply could not see. So no one actually saw what happened next. But they felt it. Felt it in their bones, like a change in air pressure or in gravity. The vortex -- the gateway -- opened: a rent in the fabric of space-time itself. The Gods of Ragnarok were sucked through it. And the soul-numbing cold that the Gods had brought with them, that had settled on the shoulders of the pro-funsters since midnight, rushed past them -- like the air in a room when it is opened to a vacuum. One by one, they cautiously opened their eyes and looked around them. Their faces were still bathed in a soft, rosy light, and for a moment, Eloise thought the magical, tiny feathers of Ma'at had returned. Then she realized it was the light of Jubilganzia's sun, filtering down through the red and white striped canopy of the big top. Outside, in the shelter of a canyon wall, Curry's brown whinnied a welcome to the morning. --- 'So where are they?' 'In their prison,' Shayde said. 'And their prison?' 'Here.' Shayde lifted the crystal globe, darkness boiling inside it. 'They are trapped here, in the prison /they/ created. Trapped by our dreams, trapped in /their/ dream. The solution to the riddle.' The darkness raged inside the globe, wanting, reaching for the light - Alryssa raised her staff. 'No more of this.' The Gods were held, the darkness seething. 'Now... Yokoi, the final phrase?' Yokoi nodded. /Life is a mystery/. The darkness quavered, trembled, knowing what came, the trap /they/ had built, now their cage - And the crystal became opaque, a silver globe. 'What happens to it now?' Eloise said. 'What happens to them? If someone decides to free them?' 'Someone will,' Shayde agreed. 'That is the way of things. And I would /not/ say that the binding is irrevocable. They were freed once, they may be freed again.' 'Oh no.' 'But there are safe places... places where it would take a god's will to free them. Perhaps even more than that... And after this night's work, no god will come for them,' Shayde continued. 'The Grey One has readied a place for them.' He raised the globe. 'Go then, to the Grey One of Gallifrey. To the place that awaits you.' The globe seemed to waver in the sunlight - - and disappeared. Eloise breathed out. Done and /done/. Gone. Where they wouldn't escape. Finally /done/. --- Kid Curry shakes his head, dragging the back of one hand across his eyes like a man waking from a dream he doesn't understand. All round him the Hoedowners are starting to exchange disbelieving grins, thumping one another on the back, sharing hugs and a few grateful tears. Gods... gods were never his line of country. What happened? He finds the ringmaster in the crowd. Shies away a little from her enthusiastic greeting. "Lady -- was that it? Your side... won?" Not quite what he wants to ask. Not quite right. "Is it over -- the grayness, the draining?" Their eyes meet: and in them he can see that she has guessed what it is that really matters. He'd have hated that -- once. Hated her for knowing... for reading him too well. Once. Yesterday, maybe. Last night. All of eight hours... and a very long time ago. --- Eloise met his eyes. Saw the confusion, the exhaustion. She sighed. "This round. We've won this round. Whoever -- whatever -- was draining the energy from stories ... from ... everything ...". Now that she had to explain what happened -- slow down and think about it, the exhaustion was catching up with her; she barely had the strength to get the words out. She took a deep breath, tried again. "Whoever's behind this has merely been *using* the Gods of Ragnarok, the Monitors, as tools, as -- conduits. Like water pipes, in reverse. The Monitors -- the ones who planted those boxes in Vortex City, who kidnapped Sailor Gallifrey ... some of them were willing puppets, but some were unwilling. The Gods -- they were all too willing, that's why they were so much harder to fight. We've broken both those conduits. Now, we have to go back to the source -- stop them -- stop it -- before new conduits are found. Then ... then it will be over." She took another deep breath, and felt a smile spread across her face as if of its own accord. "But yeah. Our side won. It's a new day, and we're still here." She looked up into Curry's eyes. She could read some of his thoughts there. His face was more human, now, than it was when he first stumbled into the hoedown -- less of a dazed, stony mask. But she could not read as much, she suspected, as he thought she did. The road of fate that led him to this point had come to an end. The tornado blight of the Monitors that chased him to the hoedown, the Contessa's eye charm that led them to Jubilganzia, his own nightmares, the illusion that he was an ordinary man (even if he was a bad man) from an ordinary Western town, were all gone -- each surrendered, one by one, as part of the battle just past. The road of fate, that he had hurtled along like a freight train on its track, had come to a sudden, definite end. Where he went from here was entirely his own choice. And that was the one thing Eloise could not read. And it was the most important thing of all. --- A new day... Kid Curry looked up overhead, at the long splashes of sunlight across the canvas. The shadows there of the mountains were shortening almost as he watched. There was a new aroma drifting in amongst the close, stale scents of the circus ring; the fresh dampness of rising dew. The roof of the tent creaked gently, far above, the upper panels tautening as they began to dry in the warmth of the sun. Across the ring, the flaps of the main entrance were stirring with the morning breeze. He turned swiftly, without a word, and thrust his way though the crowd out into the open. The cold air was like water on tired eyes. He drew a deep breath, and knelt to rub the dew over his face, scowling at the coarseness of stubble against his fingers. Given the choice, he'd have gotten cleaned up before paying a call on the Contessa... but there hadn't been no choice, and it hadn't exactly been a social call... His mind shied away from the thought of Sandra as she was now. He took another, deliberate, breath and glanced up to gauge the state of the sun. Later than he'd thought, by the way the shadows were falling -- but this wasn't his world, and he could only guess at the hour. Mid-morning, maybe. If time ran steady between here and Vortex City -- and it didn't; he'd swear more time had passed for them, over in the City, than could be accounted for by the two circus acts he'd missed... yeah, well -- by his best reckoning, the night would be all but over. The small hours before dawn. And if the Contessa had been feeling even half as rough as he did -- he caught back a yawn -- she'd be fast asleep by now. Deep in a feather bed, wrapped in a froth of lace and ribbons, with her long lashes down on her cheek and just a curve of one shoulder showing... Best not to take that line of thought any further, perhaps. He caught up another handful of cold dew and dashed it across face and neck. She was safe. He'd gleaned that much from the little hostess, at least. No more draining, not now. Not ever, if they could track this back to the source, put paid to the mind behind it, before any more trouble could come. ---- A new day. A new journey. More time... to make the decision that had to be made: what next. After this was done, after the Hoedown was over -- what next? He glanced all round swiftly, almost as if afraid someone could overhear his thoughts by looking at him. But even the gryphons seemed for the moment to be out of sight, doing whatever it was that gryphons did of a morning... and the only sound was the soft ripping of grass under the horse's teeth. The brown grazed quietly, rested and ready to go. Too much horse-sense to let the lights and goings-on inside the tent spook him any, by the looks of it. He'd gone right on dozing on his feet -- the only one of them to have gotten in any sleep to speak of. Something to be said, after all, for being a dumb creature. Kid Curry sighed, and went over to loosen up the picket line. Horse was happy enough anywhere, provided there was grass, and a feed of oats now and then to keep the heart in him... Never thought about the next day, or the day to come. A man could live that way, too. Lose a hundred years from day to day and never see them pass... no better than a beast, maybe. Maybe. And maybe something less. The Contessa's voice, softly: "And those who had, once, another life... begin to remember. For a while." For a while. Until the stories were stronger. Until it was safe to go back. Go back -- and forget. Forget who he'd been; forget those he'd known, and lived alongside; those who'd stopped a bullet in his place, and those who'd stopped a bullet at his hand; those who'd cheated him, and those who'd stared, all those long months in the Knoxville jail, like children poking sticks at a caged coyote to make him turn and snap... He'd pulled the blanket over his head, in the end. Sat tented up in the stifling dark, hunched and sullen, while the voices beyond the bars murmured and laughed. Forget them all. Those who'd mocked, and those he'd lost, and those he'd murdered. Half-remembered, haunting his sleep even in the City... but no more. No more bitter dreams. That weight had gone, gone with the lidless hatred of the Gods as they dwindled away under the woven net of dream. Nothing left of his past, at all. If he went back. The stories would take him then, he guessed; take him altogether. He'd play out his part, to whatever end would come. Never aging. Never dying, for as long as he could keep ahead of the law. It was the world he knew -- a world that had been all but over in the land of his birth, even in his own day. He'd seen it go, bit by bit, as the telegraphs and the lawcourts spread, and numbered banknotes laid a trail that could take the wariest outlaw, hide as he might, the minute he tried to spend his gains. A world of stooping clerks and soft-handed men. Of judges who could no longer be bribed, and sheriffs no longer scared enough to look the other way. A world with less and less place for one of his kind... even then. The bells that rang the old century out had been ringing in the end of the life he'd known. The start of the road that had driven him south, and south -- that led at last to Corcovado. Even if he'd known the truth of Vortex City, that last night... he'd have sold his /soul/ itself to get there. Only -- Only, that was before he'd lived -- /really/ lived -- at the mercy of stories. Stories that led, always, to the noose, one way or another -- or to the shot in the back, or the damn-fool faceoff out in the street with no cover, up against some sharp-shooting would-be-hero with the story on his side -- and when you tried to twist out of one, why, there was another just laying in wait to trip you up. Another memory -- his own voice, half-crazed and bitter: "You don't go down for all the stuff you've done; no, you go down for the one time you tried to do right, or the one time you didn't aim to shoot an old man and maybe should have..." Go back -- to *that*? ..and yet, what else, really, had he ever known? They'd left Aunt Lee's for Montana, the four of them, still wet behind the ears, to set up for themselves, ranching. And it hadn't paid. Maybe they'd been too green. Maybe the day of the small ranchers had already been over. It hadn't paid, any way they'd tried -- until they'd gotten into rustling. Golden years? Could be. If he'd had the chance to go back, that's where he'd go. Lonie and Johnny still alive, and Hank too, in the beginning -- and leave Landusky be. Let old man Pike bluster out his righteous rage, down in Jew Jake's. Ride back up to the ranch instead, that day after Christmas, with the whiskey hot inside him and the air cold as the snow, and keep his fists back from the old man's face... But he'd been on the wrong side of the law, even then. Living on a knife-edge. All it would have taken was one nosy neighbor -- Jim Winters, maybe -- to cast an eye on the brands of the rustled steers they'd been running. And they'd all have been hunted men -- or in jail. What else had he ever known? --- And the City... held the Contessa. A warmth that drew him, moth-like, quickening his breath when he even thought of her. Not his. Never his. Beyond his touch. A moth -- yeah, beating himself against a window-pane. Hell, she was no more human than the Doctor she'd taught him of, in her stories... and at any rate she'd never looked at him twice. Not in that way. Not human... and if he'd known, would it have made a difference? He guessed it would. But he *hadn't* known... no more than he'd known what he felt for her himself. There'd been women, before. Not that many -- but enough. *This one* -- So. Go back? Close enough to see, once or twice a year -- but never to touch -- and wait for this burning to fade, as all bitter knowledge told him it would? Stay? Leave? Go? -- and go where? He straightened up, slowly, the peg that held the picket line twisted, forgotten, between his fingers. His muscles were stiff. "You would age again, from the moment you returned..." Words whispered in his mind. Already, he'd never see forty again. Fifty, coming into sight. Sixty, in the end. If he didn't go back to the City -- how long would he last? And if he did -- how long would /that/ life seem worth the living, now? His own world was dead... dead as Gallifrey. Him and the Contessa, exiles both; with Vortex City all they had as home. Kid Curry unsnapped the picket line from the brown's halter and slapped it across the horse's shoulder, tugging his head round towards the circus wagon. Time to get packed up and get going... and right now he could use a shave. Most of all, though, he hankered to stretch him out somewhere soft -- quiet, noisy, he wasn't too particular -- and sleep. Quit thinking about this last journey's end until he'd got started, at least, upon its beginning. But the wagon was locked. Leastways, he couldn't seem to get the doors open. He bit back a tired curse. Leaned against the side of the wheel for a moment, eyes closed. Then turned back across the sunlit grass towards the circus tent. ((Meanwhile...)) * * * 69. The Odd Trio vanish * * * /For Sailor Gallifrey, calling the Feather of Judgment has not been without its cost.../ --- 'Excuse me,' the Eighth said. 'I wonder if I could have a word?' Alryssa looked at him. 'I thought so,' Eighth said. 'I /wondered/ what I was looking at...' 'Gotta get over there...' Gordon hissed. Imran nodded. So did Tessa. 'I was afraid,' Alryssa murmured. 'Afraid I wasn't human any more. Afraid I'd mess things up... but the fear was a part of me, it always was. Still afraid. Heh. Me, the sekhem-ur-khaibit...' Sandra's eyes widened. 'Alryssa,' Eighth said. 'tell me something. Not for me, for them.' 'All right.' 'What is it that makes you not human?' Alryssa blinked. 'You see,' the Doctor said. 'most of the people here don't know, those who came in late. They see a human woman - many might recognise her as a Senshi, but the Senshi are still human, for the power they command. Why aren't you human? Why were you afraid you weren't human?' He took a step forward. 'What did you fear that meant?' --- She stared at him for a few moments. "I'm not sure if anyone can understand. I was human, once. Being merged with what you could call the soul of Gallifrey.... was overwhelming." Her stare hardened as she recalled. "Unwelcome. An invasion. Alryssa didn't ask for it. Forced into a role she didn't want, to share herself with another *thing*... She felt like she was losing her identity... I felt if I lost that, I'd lose my humanity... my ability to weep, to laugh, to love..." She shook her head at that last one. "Yeah, whatever... that last one's off the list." She looked back at the Doctor. "But I guess you'd know about that too." He smiled, wryly. "I suppose you could say that." "Now there's no chance." She reached up to her face, felt the new mark on her left cheek. "I don't know if I'll have time to feel. But I chose this. I did this for my friends. And that I will embrace gladly." 'Nothing but choices...' the Doctor murmured. 'Remember this, Alryssa. You gave it up willingly. But they did not. They still care - still love. Still love you.' He looked at her. 'And that, in time to come, may be all that keeps you going. The love of others. But you have not lost the ability to cry, to laugh, to make friends... you are not without emotion, neither of you are. Both of you can feel, can /care/...' 'We can?' The question was almost a child's. 'We can. Never forget that. You chose this because you cared. You still do. Fate pushed you into this... but from this point on, it is your choice. It always will be.' He leaned in, whispered in her ear. 'And nothing lasts forever. There will always be a chance. 'Always.' 'Alryssa?' Alryssa span round. Imran caught the Staff before it could hit his hand. 'Yeow! Could have been /nasty/...' Gordon squinted. 'What's that on your cheek? We doing the face-paint thing now?' Alryssa blinked. Then her eyes went to the Staff of Harmony. To Imran's hand on - 'Oh no...' 'Oh no? Oh, not again... What is it this time, summoning the armadillo god?' 'Worse,' Alryssa whispered. 'Hah. Like to see what'd be /worse/,' Gordon said, resting his hand on the Staff. 'Oh no.' The Staff began to glow, first silver, then gold. Then a rainbow of light spilled from it - --- 'Imran...' Allie whispered. 'Al?' 'I can feel him, I can - Oh, Hades -' --- Yokoi's eyes reflected the rainbow light. 'Oh no. Gordon, no -' --- Once together, always together. You know this. You have always known this. Remember. --- Here goes nothing - --- And when the light dimmed, the Odd Trio were gone. 'Alryssa...?' Tessa whispered. 'I can't feel... Alryssa? Gallifrey? Where -' 'Where /are/ they?' Sandra demanded. 'They've triggered something,' the Doctor said. 'The final stage. The final process. They're on their way.' 'Where?' Eloise asked. 'Where all this began. The gateway to the first truth. Where we're going now. We're going to face the one - and the others - behind this.' 'But how?' 'Remember the web?' 'The song web?' The Doctor shook his head. 'The other web we built. To build a conduit -' 'Of our own,' Eloise said. 'Destroy the /Gods'/ conduit, create a conduit that /reverses/ the drain of energy.' 'That's how we follow them. That's how we get where they've gone. By tracking the conduit /we/ created back to the starting point.' Eloise nodded. She clapped her hands together. 'Time to make our goodbyes, everybody! We've got one more stop to make!' --- She cast a questioning look at Curry. :::You coming with us?::: it asked. He hesitated a moment, then nodded. She didn't ask why, let him keep that - but she felt a tiny flutter of relief inside, that he'd chosen to come. Maybe she could guess at why - he wouldn't leave till this was done, till it was seen through. As long as there was still a threat out there. And there still was. From what the Doctor said, the Odd Trio'd gone to wherever all this had begun. Not exactly /willingly/, though - not if their, and their Muses's, reactions were anything to go by... the Doctor had said they'd /triggered/ something... And they had to go there, too. To see this through, face whoever had been behind all this, to put an end to it. To bring the Odd Trio back. Then, it'd be over. Something nagged at her, though... 'Doctor?' 'Mm?' 'What did Alryssa choose? From the way she was talking before she disappeared, it sounded like she'd /chosen/ something...' He heaved a deep breath. 'The Feather of Ma'at requires a heart to be placed in the balance.' 'She chose to call the feather... she chose to offer up /her/ heart,' Eloise whispered. 'She gave up the ability to love,' the Doctor said quietly. 'Symbols have power, I'd forgotten that... she gave up the ability to love. Not the ability to care, to laugh, to cry, to grieve, to make friends... but she gave up the ability to love.' 'Always?' Eloise asked, her voice nervous. 'Not always. Not always,' the Doctor said. 'She believes there's no chance... no, that's not true. Hopefully, she'll have the chance to learn that.' Eloise nodded. For now, it would have to do. But she was going to do /something/ about it. /Could/ you give up love like that? What would stop it returning, developing again? Hmm... And so thinking, she set off to make her goodbyes. --- "Mags, Kingpin!" she said, approaching them with outstretched arms. They met, and joined hands in a ring-around-the-rosie fashion. "I can't say it's exactly been a *pleasure*," she said, after a moment of simply drinking in the sight of them. "But it has been *good* to see you -- to know you brought the Psychic Circus back again." Kingpin smiled. "And thanks to all of you," he said, "we have a third chance for a new beginning." Mags broke into a grin, the tips of her wolfish canines showing. "And you know what they say about third chances." "We'll meet again in happier times," Eloise said confidently. "I'm sure of it." The ring-around-the-rosie collapsed into a group hug, Eloise almost coccooned in the arms of her friends. She wanted to stay there forever, and just sleep (She hadn't had a wink of sleep since before the Hoedown started -- what was that, three days ago, four, a week? How was she ever to find the strength for the last battle, now?). But instead, she pulled away with a shiver. Almost immediately, the other hoedowners crowded in to take her place, and eventually, she found herself at the fringes. She needed to find the Doctor -- any one of him. Eighth might have told her, or he might not... with her mind drunk with exhaustion, she couldn't be sure of anything. But *how* were they to follow the web they had created back to the center? The Odd Trio had gone via Sailor Gallifrey's staff -- and had taken it with them. The Contessa's charm, that had led them this far, was also gone -- at least as it had been. So -- how? She heard several of the Doctor's voices from the center of the crowd. She couldn't fight her way back there. All she could do was wait. Maybe her mind was dreaming of its own accord, with or without sleep, and leading her by association from the thought of the charm to Kid Curry, where he sat on the ground, leaning against the low wall that surrounded the ring. His face was aged by exhaustion and weariness, and the stubble of his beard had more salt than pepper in it. But his eyes held something else: the panic of a small child, faced with a world that had too much light, too much noise, too many choices -- she'd seen that look in the eyes of toddlers separated from their mothers in the shopping mall. She plopped down beside him -- more a case of her legs giving out than any conscious decision to sit. It was to comfort that child in him that her hand reached out to his. It might have been gratitude, or, more likely, his *own* exhaustion at work. But for the first time since they'd met, he didn't flinch, or pull away. Then she closed her eyes. Just for a minute. Just to rest them.... --- Ghost watch. A ghost. A phantasm. Something that wouldn't die. Sandra took a deep breath. She didn't need it, not any more, not physically... ...but mentally? Oh yeah. The Trio were gone. Fragile. So fragile, now. Walking outside the crowd. /Floating/, watching... Resting. And... Partners... They'd been partners. Not friends. Not love. She'd seen Kid, as they met the Contessa... no, it wasn't love she felt. They'd been partners. And then she'd done what had been needed, given up her existence for Allie's... ...and she'd found herself still here, still here... And then, with her journey done, her goal reached... he'd ended it. Of course he had. Why shouldn't he? He'd helped her reach her goal. All partnerships broke up sooner or later. So he'd chosen to end it... ...and what would he do when he reached the end of this journey...? Sleeping. Things getting heated in the centre of things. She'd stepped outside. The little hostess was sleeping, her head resting against Kid's chest. The outlaw's head was bowed, resting low on his chest, sleep finally caught up with him. With them. Resting. None had earned it more. They needed it, she /felt/ that... the emotion from them, they /needed/ it, needed to rest, without fear of disturbance... She hung there, watched them, for what seemed like an endless moment. Allie's memory, part of hers. Xeffy's first night at home, sleeping in the cot, breathing in and out and in... ...And Allie had watched, fascinated. Just watched her sister. Another, closer... Her memory, uniquely hers. In Vortex City, and the child Kid had taken, exhausted in his arms, wanting to rest. And the Contessa, weighed down with the effort, the burden bearing deep into her, the need to rest. Needing... They could, she knew. Sweetheart would get them where they needed to be in time, no matter how long they took here. She knew that. The gateway to the first truth. You don't find it, it finds you. Not the staff or the sword, the charm or the cloak or the robe. Beyond... In resolving her story may many others be aided In aiding others' stories will hers be resolved. Click. Something snapped into place. Track the web back. Track it with the cards that shaped it. The /staff/ wasn't there - but the cards were. The cards that had shaped, channelled magical energy, shaping the web. Alryssa's Tarot cards. They'd /shaped/ the web... and if Sweetheart linked to them, she could feel the web's form, follow its outline... 'Already thought of.' She jumped. The Eighth stood just behind her. In his hands- -'You knew,' she said. 'Yes,' Eighth said. 'Where we're going... a TARDIS couldn't get there, not normally. They need something to show them the way.' He riffled the pack of cards in his hands. 'Leave them be, for now,' he said quietly. 'They need it - we all do. Let them rest.' She nodded. A tiny smile touched his lips. Then he was gone, back into the crowd. She watched, a little longer, then turned. In their own time. ((And as the Hoedowners rest, the Odd Trio are on their way to the centre of the Omniverse...)) * * * 70. Dreams and other weirdness * * * /On the Odd Trio's decided weird trip through the dimensions.../ --- 'I. Am. Not. An. Irritatingly. Cute. Kid. Sidekick!' 'Allie?' 'Mm?' the ninja secretary said. 'And. Anyone. Who. Says. So!' 'Remind me to review Tayani Industries' child care and work experience policies after our cruise.' 'On the schedule, sir.' 'Thank you.' 'Answers. To. My. Sister!' Xeffy huffed. 'Right. Anyone /else/ want to make any smart comments?' 'If we're /quite/ done...' Professor Clegg said. 'Oh, sorry. Was this the part where you exposit your plan to use your irreplaceable, one-of-a-kind, unique mind control devices to take control of my mind, thereby using me as a puppet to control Tayani Industries, and through /it/, gain access to influence and power galaxy-wide, your first step on your path to galactic dominance?' Marin Tayani asked. Professor Clegg looked abashed. 'Well... yes.' 'And, of course, control my mind too,' Allie interjected. 'After all, if the CEO of Tayani Industries showed up for work without his everpresent ninja secretary... people might get suspicious.' '/Excuse me!/' Professor Clegg huffed. 'Oh, sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to cut in on your gloating,' Marin said. 'Right then,' Professor Clegg said. 'Oh yes, nearly forgot. Note to self. Mind control ninja secretary's-' He caught Xeffy's glare. '-non-irritatingly cute kid sister.' 'Thank you,' Xeffy said. 'Very well. If that's everything...' 'Yep.' 'Then... Activate the Mind Control!' Marin sighed. 'Honestly. I'd like to go just /one/ month without something like this happening...' --- Gordon slumped in the control chair. 'Why me? Why me?' Yokoi patted him on the shoulder. 'There, there...' 'Once, just /once/, could I have my plans /not/ royally screwed up?' 'I know...' Yokoi soothed. 'Honestly. Eating my jaffa cakes? What kind of lunatic breaks into a base and eats an evil mastermind's jaffa cakes?' 'Wright R. Blauch, his file says,' Yokoi said. 'That's a /terrible/ pun.' 'It's a pun?' 'Wright R. Blauch. Writer's block? No?' Yokoi face-faulted. 'Oh, bloody hell...' She reread the file she was holding. 'Oh no.' 'Oh no?' 'He, um...' 'What?' 'He stole your Gotan toy too.' 'That's it. He's gone /too/ far...' Gordon said through gritted teeth. 'Yokoi?' 'Igor's got the sub on standby.' 'Right. We are gonna kick Wright R. Blauch's skinny arse so hard he won't be able to sit down for a /year/!' --- The portal glittered in front of them. 'You're too late, Senshi,' the robed cultist said. 'No...' Sailor Gallifrey whispered. 'The Old Ones will return. You've l-' He looked around. 'What's that?' In the distance, a motorcycle engine revved. 'It couldn't be...' he whispered. 'It /couldn't/...' 'You don't know genre convention very well, do you?' Sailor Gallifrey commented. 'No...' A black motorcycle roared out of the night. As it crossed the border of the ritual circle, its rider leaped into the air. The motorcycle roared on, into the portal. -And with an anguished howl, the portal collapsed. The motorbike's rider landed. 'Damn. I really liked that bike...' the figure in black said. His voice was slightly muffled by the reflective black motorcycle helmet he wore. 'Mirror Knight...' the robed man whispered. 'No...' The figure in black bowed. 'At your service.' He reached an arm into the air. 'And allow me to introduce the one who works magic as technology... or is that the one who works technology as magic?' 'I'll let you decide,' said the voice from the darkness. The Knight chuckled. 'Okay. Allow me to introduce the Son of the Ether!' WHOOOMPH. Something - someone, rather - suddenly landed on the cultist. Sailor Gallifrey raised an eyebrow. 'Again with the melodramatic entrances?' The Knight shrugged. 'What can I say? I'm a sucker for a good OTT entrance.' The Son of the Ether brushed himself off from his abrupt landing. 'Well, /that/ was disturbingly easy...' Outside the circle, something moved. /hssshshshssss/ 'Somehow, I'm guessing that's /not/ the Tooth Fairy.' 'This isn't over,' Sailor Gallifrey said. 'Not by a long shot.' She raised her staff. 'Here goes...' --- Once together, always together --- And then- --- thud "Ugh!" "ooof!" "nnggfffggg!" Silence for a few moments. Then, something in the pile of arms and limbs moved. "Get your foot out of my ear!" "That's not my foot." "That's not my ear!" "I don't want to know..." "Of all the ways to arrive, this has to be the most undignified yet." "And this is unusual for us?" "Shut up and move. You're crushing my fuku." Groaning, shifting, three forms distinguished themselves from the heap. Imran blinked, trying to adjust to the light. "Woah, it's bright out here. I don't like it." "You had to touch the staff, didn't you?" Imran looked sheepish. "It seemed like the right thing to do!" Gordon squinted at them both. "Will you both quit arguing and help me up?" The two looked at him. Gordon was almost tied in a knot, arms flailing. Alryssa shook her head and disentangled him, and between her and Imran they managed to get him to his feet. "Ooh. Better. As I was saying before Imran made us all disappear again, what is /with/ that feather tattoo on your face?" She stared at him. "You might live long enough to find out." Imran gawped. "Uh-oh..." The two others followed Imran's gaze. "Ooer," said Gordon. "Oh, *crap*," muttered Alryssa.... --- ((Meanwhile, back at the big top on Jubilganzia:)) Dream. Kid Curry stirs a little, drifting for a moment towards the surface in instinctive panic; but exhaustion has the better of him. And the dreams creep back at last, shorn of their poisonous fangs. ~~~ High summer, Iowa. A little black-haired boy crouches in the dust, tracing patterns with one forefinger. The day is still cool enough to hold a slight mist, but the sky is a brassy blue, and the sun is already high above the horizon. It will be hot again, later. The back of the child's bent neck, emerging from the collar of his nightshirt, is brown as a nut from long days in the open, and so are the small fingers paddling in the dirt. The child is utterly absorbed in what he is doing, the dark face frowning intently in concentration. An ant runs over his foot. He doesn't even twitch. "Harvey!" An older boy's voice, from the direction of the unseen house. The child tenses up for a moment. "Harvey?" The small face is stubborn. "Ma..." A schoolyard wail. "Ma, Harvey's out in the yard again..." The child has deliberately resumed his patterns. "Oh Henry. I told you to keep an eye on him." But their mother's voice is edged with laughter. An infant's cry. "Hush now..." The baby wavers back into silence, only to burst out yelling again. "Hush... hush... Henry, hold Baby for a moment." Renewed wails. "Ma!" the boy begins indignantly. But she is already out in the yard, swooping down towards the recalcitrant three-year-old. "Harvey? Harvey Logan, you come here this minute!" The child turns to scuttle under a bush, but his mother is faster. "Got you!" She hoists him, wriggling, onto her hip, and carries him back to the house to be dressed and scrubbed thoroughly behind the ears. Her own long hair is still in its night-time plait, tumbling over her shoulder, and she moves easily on strong bare feet. Harvey struggles, a little, but it is a token resistance. And he is young enough to take pure pleasure in being carried. Normally a silent child, he gurgles with laughter. His mother sighs, and stoops briefly to rub her cheek against the tousled black head. --- A small green hand is wound in the dreamer's grasp. Presently, the little troll's head droops low, to rest against him. He stirs at the unaccustomed weight, half-waking; and the dream changes. Four boys, tumbled in the back of a wagon. Earlier, tired and bored, they had been squabbling like a litter of puppies. Now they lie curled together like that same litter an hour later, scratches and bruises forgotten. Tall Hank is snoring slightly. Harvey, the most awake of the four, kicks him until he turns over with a snort. 'I'm never gonna snore when *I* grow up,' Harvey promises himself with all the fervor of nine years old, giving his lanky brother a disgusted look. He tries to elbow Lonie off. But the little boy only snuggles in closer to his brothers' warmth, his heavy head nestling on Harvey's chest. "Get off!" He pushes Lonie over towards Johnny. But a moment later the weight returns. And he knows from past experience that Lonie once asleep is almost impossible to rouse. Johnny murmurs a sleepy protest as his older brother sits up and extracts himself from the heap of limbs, crawling out over him towards the box. "Of course we ain't there yet," Harvey hisses. "Go back to sleep, why don't you?" The wagon lurches as he crawls out from under the cover, and he grabs at his mother's waist to save himself. She looks round, smiles, and rumples his hair -- "Don't *do* that, Ma!" -- before pulling him onto the seat beside her. For a while the jolts keep him awake; but there is still a long way to go, and he is soon dozing against his mother's arm. --- "No --" Curry moves restlessly in his sleep, his voice blurred. "No -- no..." But the dream will not let him go. The weight on his chest is suffocating, and the water is in his mouth, and he cannot breathe ... "Harvey -- Ma? Ma! No -- /Ma/ --" Henry is screaming after them from the box of the overturned wagon, all the would-be-adult sophistication stripped off the terrified boy beneath. Harvey's head breaks the surface of the water for a moment, and he can hear Lonie's howls. The horses are plunging, kicking out wildly in the shallow water, but under the bank it runs deep and fast, and the current has him. For a moment he catches a glimpse of Henry scrambling desperately along the wagon towards the bank; then he is pulled back under. The river tears at him, choking, blinding, clawing at his clothes with its sharp snags -- He reaches out, desperately, from the blackness before his eyes. And his fingers close and hold around something hard as iron -- a root, maybe, locked into dirt long since washed away. He clings... and finds himself breathing. And then Henry is there, face tear-slobbered, hard hands on his collar pulling him out. Something brushes against his knee like weed, trailing. And a face, glimmering pale beneath, a bruised smear across her temple as the current for a moment slackens its hold on its prey -- "Ma!" He tries to tug free of Henry. Almost chokes. "Ma --" Her face is slipping away under the dark water, long hair trailing, eyes half closed. "*Ma* --" --- The dreamer struggles. He knows this dream, knows it so well; but he cannot wake up, can never wake up -- This time... this time, though, it is different. Soft arms around him; enveloping warmth. Harvey wriggles a little. His new black clothes fit badly, and the collar of his coat is rubbing. It has been hurting him throughout the whole long journey up to Kansas City. "Let's have a look at you now..." A plump finger holds him at arm's-length, tips his chin up. She turns to Johnny, does the same. The boys stare back. This aunt -- Pa's sister Betty -- is *old*. Short and round with gray in her hair, she has grown children of her own, bigger even than Hank. The youngest of the family is hanging back, staring at them from around a corner. Harvey returns him a black scowl. Aunt Lee catches him at it. For a moment he thinks she is going to slap him; then her face crumples. She turns away, catches up Lonie, standing small and bewildered in front of their baggage. "Oh, you poor motherless boys..." Harvey's own lip begins to quiver. He tries hard to think about the sore place on his neck, but somehow it doesn't seem to help any more. Beside him, Johnny chokes back a sniff manfully -- and then both of them are flinging themselves into their aunt's open arms, hard heads burrowing into her side. Even Hank comes forward, boyish-gawky, to hug and be hugged in his turn, all four of them clinging as if their hearts would break. "Hush, now," Aunt Lee says softly, the familiar words bringing more tears. "Hush... you're home, boys. This is your home." --- The dreamer sleeps easy now, harsh lines of exhaustion finally slipping from his face. Aunt Lee was not pretty, laughing Ma; never could be Ma -- but she was safe, and kind, and all the mother soon that Lonie and John could ever remember. And there was Cousin Bob to play with, and chores to do, and time to run wild, as growing boys will, and take a whipping after. And plans, to make -- always plans. Sometimes with Bob, but mostly the four of them together... Lonie swings one foot up and parks it on the edge of the table. Crosses the other over it, and leans back with an air of satisfaction. "Curry," he announces simply, as if that settles the matter. "What's wrong with Lee?" Hank growls, shoving Lonie's booted foot out of the way. "And get your feet off the table, kid." At twice Lonie's weight and nearly twice his age, the eldest brother is the only one he will -- sometimes -- listen to. "What's wrong with Logan?" John says quietly, as a sulking Lonie brings both feet back to ground level. "After all, even if Bob comes along there's four of us and only one of him --" "Three of us." Hank is firm. "Maybe two. Lonie ain't quit school yet, and you're still kind of wet behind the ears yourself, kid." He strokes his mustache with the air of one who has spent the last eight years as head of the family. "Hell, I'm as big as Harvey already -- I can pull my weight --" "Got a point there," Hank allows, glancing across at his other brother, who still hasn't said a word. Both Harvey's elbows are on the table, and he is staring downwards, dark eyes sullen. "Hey -- quit sulking, Harvey --" "Ain't sulking." The response is automatic, and Hank shrugs it off, draping an arm around his brother's thin shoulders. "Well, quit glooming then. Anyone would think you'd gone moony over some girl --" Harvey shoves the heavy arm away, scowling. "Just quit riding me all the time, Hank! Maybe I ain't feeling too sociable --" "What about the name, Harvey?" John, as always, the peacemaker. "For when we get a place of our own?" "Hell, he weren't even listening," Hank growls under his breath, and Harvey's head comes up sharply, eyes tense and a little wide. "Maybe Curry suits me just fine," he says slowly, staring down his brother. "If Lonie's got a fancy to it -- why not? Why not start out fresh all over?" Lonie's face has lit up at backing for his suggestion from this surprising quarter, and Harvey's cold gaze softens back into a hint of amusement at the kid's excitement. "John Curry..." John tries it over on his tongue. "Lonie Curry... Harvey Curry..." He grins, looking up at his eldest brother. "Henry Curry -- what do you say to us being the Curry boys, Hank?" "Maybe." Hank doesn't sound on the face of it too convinced, and Lonie's shoulders slump. "Oh /Hank/..." "Oh /Hank/..." Harvey mimics unexpectedly, note-perfect. But his voice breaks in the middle to a sudden awkward bass, and the family meeting collapses -- literally -- as first one, then the others, breaks into helpless giggles that become a howl of laughter. Harvey wipes tears from his eyes, grabs a hold of Lonie. "C'mon, kid. Let these two lumps stay here all day -- we got chores to do..." ~~~ But now Kid Curry slips down, at last, into the quiet still waters of dreamless sleep; and there is no more. --- ((And at his side, the avocado troll sleeps...)) Dream: the first to return after all others had been sacrificed, flowing into her mind like water bubbling up from a spring into a dry stream bed: clear, bright, and shockingly cold. She's home: her real home -- back on Planet Radwah, nestled among the supports of her own arching bridge, where the mountain stream flows into the marshlands, slows down, and spreads itself among the cattails, the water lilies, and broad-leafed marsh grasses. Only instead of stone, the bridge is formed from the intertwined, arching canes of wild roses, and she can't nestle in too deeply or she'd get pricked by the thorns. But this is such a minor concern. It is so beautiful here, with the sunlight filtering through the cascades of white blossoms, the glimpses of sapphire sky beyond, and the rich, sweet fragrance everywhere. It's so beautiful, it makes her sad. This bridge is so fragile. More fragile than stone, or even a simple pine log. And while it lasts, she knows, the thorns scare visitors away, and she is alone. What good is beauty if you can't share it with someone? Then she *knows*: the bridge is in danger, not because the roses themselves are fragile, but because the Dark Giant is coming to tear it down. The ground starts shaking under the pounding weight of his footsteps, and one by one, the petals above her head start to fall, past her eyes and into the stream, shadowed now -- dark -- and flowing too fast. As they fall, she catches glimpses of their undersides -- something she didn't notice before -- tiny images of the Major Arcana. The images weren't just images, though -- they *were* the people: the Magician, the Judge, the Fool, Fortune. And they were alive -- they were speaking, trying to tell her how to defeat the Dark Giant. But they were too small. She couldn't hear them. Tiny as they were, as quickly as they were falling, Eloise could see their lips moving. But she couldn't hear them. And they were falling into the too-quickly moving stream, flowing away from her. She was about to run -- no, swim -- after them, when the sword of the Dark Giant (still red-hot from the forge) sliced through her bridge, right before her eyes. --- Eloise woke with a start and a gasp -- blinking and disoriented. A shaft of sunlight, red-orange with late afternoon, shone across her eyes. Where was she? Radwah? The TARDIS? Then it came together: the big top at Jubilganzia. Imran and Alryssa and Gordon: gone. They'd been about to go after them, when she'd fallen asleep. Then she became aware of Curry, still sleeping beside her, his chest rising and falling with his breath under her cheek. He'd have been embarrassed, maybe even to the point of hurt, if he woke to find the two of them in such an intimate position, innocent though it was. And, embarrassed for him, Eloise backed away and stood up. Then a brief moment of panic swept over her: the others -- they hadn't left without them, did they? She glanced about the big top, her eyes readjusting to the shadows. The hoedowners were all there, and all of them were sound asleep, sprawled out across the seats, or resting against the haybales in the sidelines -- like some massive slumber party gone mad. All of them had been exhausted. All of them needed rest, and to replenish their dream stores. She glanced down at Curry. For once, his face -- his whole body -- was relaxed. She sighed. She'd been a week without any sleep, but he'd been through *one hundred years* where sleep was an enemy to be fought off. Until now. She moved off quietly, careful not to wake him. As she moved among her guests (only the originals, now -- the other characters from other fictions had all drifted away, like all audiences to all circuses do eventually), she became aware of voices. Not everyone was asleep. The Doctors and Sandra were in a tight huddle, discussing something. ((Where have the Odd Trio gone - and how are the rest of the Hoedowners to follow?)) * * * 71. Deciphering the Tarot * * * /The avocado troll has just awoken from a long-overdue rest.../ --- Sandra noticed her approach first. "Feeling better?" she asked. "Much," Eloise said, nodding. She drew nearer, and saw Alryssa's tarot cards spread before them. "...Must follow the cards..." she murmured, remembering the last image of her dream, with the urgency, the panic that went with it rising within her. "If we can link these to the Sweetheart's coordinate system," Eighth said, as if reading her thoughts, "we should get there at precisely the right moment -- maybe even before the Odd Trio arrive." "Hm... With Curry's charm," Eloise said, "we dipped it in the console water trough. Try that with the cards, and Alryssa would have my tail!" and a smile crept to her lips. "Still, we can figure out a way -- both the TARDIS and the tarot rely on a symbolic language system. The trick is to get those two very different systems to mesh with each other." She hunched down to join the circle and figure out what to do -- and remembered the opening image of her dream: roses, sunlight, sapphire sky, emerald green lily pads, and the melancholy beauty of love. --- 'I should know this...' 'Mm?' 'I'm a phantasm. I should know this,' Sandra said. 'Symbolism...' 'Mathematical symbols and representational symbols. Each card represents a greater meaning... and so do numbers.' 'Use the numbers of the cards?' Third suggested. 'No... I /think/ I know how...' Eloise murmured. 'Follow the cards...' 'Cardcaptor?' Sandra wondered. 'Interpreting it through the person she is linked to,' Eloise murmured. 'Interpreting it through me. Letting the cards speak for themselves. Translating those symbols, using me as the translator. Sharing them with her, letting her see them. Someone to share with, through our connection. Have to be careful it doesn't get too /deep/, though... Clarity. She needs to see it with a clear eye.' 'Using your connection to Sweetheart to allow her to see the cards,' Eighth said quietly. 'To enable her to interpret them in her way...' '/If/ that's what it means...' Eloise murmured. She shook her head, remembering how silent the "cards" had been in her dream . "If only I'd studied the Tarot. The cards are as much a foreign language to me as they are to Sweetheart." "You never studied..." Sandra began. Eloise smiled wryly. "Amazing, isn't it? They're almost as ubiquitous as the daily horoscope, and I've barely run across them. But my home is in a marsh -- even the dry bits aren't, very. Not a good place for an oracle based on paper." She bit her lower lip. But all oracles are pretty much based on intuition, right? And you can use one oracle to interpret another..." She shed her ringmaster's coat, and started digging around the pockets of her fishing vest, which she still wore, underneath. "I *know* it's here somewhere..." she said. "Ah! Here we are!" and she pulled out an old, clothbound book, with a bright yellow cover. Its pages were all warped, and there was a faint green tinge on their edges. "The *I Ching*," she explained. "My oracle of choice." "I thought you said paper-based oracles didn't work for you." Sandra said. "Well, it's still readable, and besides..." she paused, in order to devote attention to the hunt through her pockets. "... the *real* mechanism of the I Ching are ... these." And she dropped three bright pennies onto the ground before th