(Note: This story takes place between 'The Greatest Show In the Galaxy' and 'Battlefield'.)

 It hadn't always been a void, of course. His captors had been kind to him--more kind, perhaps, than they should have been, considering the enormity of his crimes. They had furnished his eternal prison with vast, lavish opulence; they had provided servitors to cater to his every whim; they had even given him a way to monitor the universe outside, as a means of easing the boredom that would be his only companion in this timeless realm.

 Zalaxal had destroyed it all within moments of his initial imprisonment, far beyond any hope of reconstruction.

 He had, however, kept the viewscreen. It afforded him a view of his captors, a focus for his rage. He watched it continually, looking for some solution to his dilemma, some freedom for his perpetual captivity. He watched as his captors died one by one, succumbing to ennui, to boredom, to a simple lack of interest in a universe that seemed to have no place for them any longer. Even as he watched, conflicting emotions ripped through him. Pleasure, at seeing his ancient enemies finally die. Contempt, at seeing his brethren fall victim to mere lack of purpose, an ailment he knew he would never suffer. And, of course, rage at not being allowed to crush his captors personally.

 The rage was strongest. The rage was always strongest.

 He continued to rage, hurling his near-infinite power against the barriers that held him here, outside of space and time, unable to do anything but observe these new, pitiful, insignificant specks that had the naked temerity to exist without his sufferance. The barriers held, established by the combined powers of his entire race, designed to last long beyond the death of the weakling, impotent fools that had placed him here. He saw new races learn and grow, dip their toes into the pool of true reality, the vortex that held his prison, and he raged at their freedom to go where he was denied. One in particular flitted about, rarely stopping, always moving in and out of the vortex, and he raged at that one most of all.

 And then he noticed that he could affect it.

 Not much, of course. The barriers that imprisoned him brooked no reaching beyond their boundaries. But he could watch it on his viewscreen. And, like an observer watching the state of a particle, the act of observation changed its course, ever so slightly. So he continued to watch the craft, and when it arrived at its destinations (always slightly different from the ones they had planned to go to, always attributed to the incompetence of the craft's controller), he watched its inhabitants as they poked and prodded--one in particular always curious, never caring that some unknown force had shifted its craft from its planned course. He watched this little being as it risked its life time and time again, simply to indulge that burning curiosity. He watched as the being was imprisoned by its kindred, and exulted at the downfall of another. The little speck that had so gloried in its freedom, trapped just like him!

 And then it was released again, and he nearly destroyed the viewscreen in his fury. The prisoner's release seemed to mock him, its subsequent travels mocked him further still.

 Then he saw it shed yet another husk of flesh to save the life of some insignificant mayfly creature, and it gained a plan.

 It took him some time to steer the little craft--a seemingly endless succession of mistakes, mischances, and more than one case where the craft was drawn away from his gaze like iron fillings following a magnet. But finally, he steered the craft to Kallintura, homeworld of his lost race. Kallintura, anchor to his prison.

 Kallintura, last hope for his deliverance.

 Anywhere else, she hated to get up. It always seemed like someone somewhere wanted her to get up five minutes before she was ready, and they never took no for an answer. She'd lost count of the number of times she was late for school, or for work, because she'd hit the snooze button without even thinking about it. But waking up in the TARDIS was different. The first time she'd gone to bed here, when the Professor showed her to a spare bedroom, she remembered asking him if she had to get up early for anything. He just tapped her nose, and said, "Don't worry about it. The TARDIS will wake you when it's time to wake up." So she'd gone to bed, privately expecting some loud buzzer to go off any minute, blaring in her ear, just like in Perivale...

 And then she'd woke up.

 That was all. The Doctor claimed later that the TARDIS helped to modulate delta waves in a way that made sure she woke up at the right time, fully rested and energetic. She didn't really understand how it worked, much like the rest of the TARDIS, but she got up fully alert, without any of the cobwebs that usually permeated her brain. It was better than coffee, or a cold shower.

 Not that the TARDIS had those either, she thought as she stepped into a small cubicle. Waves of sonic vibration washed across her body, cleaning and disinfecting her in a matter of moments. She got dressed, picking out a T-shirt that read, "Johnny Chess--London '99", and pulling on her jacket and a pair of tennies over her clothing. She'd seen lots of fancy clothes in the TARDIS, but never felt the urge to wear them. For one thing, they just weren't her. For another, she'd decided early on never to wear anything she couldn't run in.

 The Professor was waiting for her in the console room again. Privately, she wondered if he ever slept, but she couldn't figure out a way of asking that didn't sound too personal. He was leaning over the dormant console, poking at a switch, but he looked up when she walked in. "Hello, Ace," he said in a Scots accent. "How was your nap?"

 "Great, Professor. You ought to patent that delta-wave thing."

 The Doctor smiled. "Oh, you'll come up with it on your own sooner or later. You humans are quite inventive, in your own way."

 Ace rolled her eyes. "Gee, thanks, Professor." She knew he meant it as a compliment, but it was still weird to hear someone say, 'you humans'. Most of the customers on Iceworld didn't comment on her species; most of them hadn't even heard of Earth. Not that she'd cared. Getting back home wasn't what you'd call high-priority. "So where are we now?" she asked casually, praying, just like all the other times, that the Professor wouldn't say, "Perivale."

 The Doctor didn't answer for a moment. Instead, he looked down at the console again, his eyes shadowed by the brim of his hat. Finally, he said, "I'm not sure."

 "Oi, I thought you knew how to work this thing?"

 "I do!" the Doctor responded somewhat defensively. "Something's pushed us off course. Not far," he added quickly, "just a hair off of where I wanted us to be. But I don't recognize the planet we're on."

 Ace grinned. "Only one way to find out, then, right?"

 The Doctor grinned in return, picking up his umbrella from the hatstand. "We go out and take a look."

 "Wicked."

 The Doctor simply snapped out his umbrella, which miraculously held its form against the wind, and strode forward with an unshakable calm. "Of course, Ace," he called. "After all, look at what's ahead of us!"

 Ace shielded her eyes against the wind and peered into the distance. It took a few moments of walking before she could make it out, but there it was--a huge, ruined city, its buildings worn to rubble by the endless centuries and the ceaseless winds.

 "Wicked," she whispered softly, and hurried after her companion.

 Behind them, long-lashed, multiple-lidded eyes watched them go, and a thick-skinned, sand coloured hand reached for a short, barbed thrusting spear.

 And in the void, Zalaxal watched, certain now of escape.

 "What is it, Professor?" she asked as she finally caught up with him.

 "It appears to be some sort of marker stone--I don't understand the language it's written in, but I do recognize it from my Ancient Languages class."

 "What language is it?"

 He waved his hand vaguely back and forth. "Oh, one of the lost tongues of some ancient race that died out before the Time Lords evolved. They left ruins of their civilization all over the place, but no technology--I remember it being theorized that they used sheer force of will to perform the feats attributed to them."

 "Sounds well brilliant."

 "Mmm..." he muttered, examining the carvings closer. "Ace...these are new carvings."

 Ace looked around, then leaned closer to the stone. "I thought you said they were all gone?"

 The Doctor looked up. "Oh, I'm sure they are. No, these were made by simple chisels- probably some local tribe maintaining the carvings in the face of erosion." He paused, lost in thought. "I wonder what they say..."

 "Probably a warning not to enter the city," Ace guessed, touching the canister of Nitro-9 in her jacket to reassure herself. "That's what these things usually are, aren't they?"

 "Not necessarily," the Doctor mused, rolling his 'r's. "It could be a welcoming sign--some sort of 'Civic Pride' display. Either way, I wonder what's inside?" And with that, he walked rapidly past the marker in a burst of energy, compelling Ace to run on the shifting sand in order to keep up.

 Once they entered the city itself, things improved. The buildings acted as a sort of natural windbreak, and Ace was able to shake most of the sand out of her hair. The Doctor, for his part, seemed quite unconcerned by the fine coating of grit he had picked up, and was instead observing the buildings, occasionally brushing the sand off of a wall to reveal a carving or picture. "Incredible," he said quietly. "All of the effort that must have gone into erecting these buildings, into maintaining them against the forces of nature that continually raged against them. And all for nothing. The sand is swallowing them up again, and the builders are forgotten. 'Look upon my works, ye mighty, and despair.'" He sighed,and headed deeper into the city.

 Eventually, they made their way to the center of the ruined city, where they found a building that was more intact than the rest. It seemed to be of a more durable material than the others, and had weathered the test of time admirably. The Doctor found an entrance without too much difficulty, and they went inside.

 The interior was all one large room, taken up with various monoliths and marker stones, each one carved intricately with symbols similar to the one they had seen outside of the city. They were arranged in a pattern of some sort, but Ace couldn't determine what it was. She wanted to ask the Professor if he knew, but something about the room seemed to inspire silence and melancholy, like being in a church--only more real. More like a cemetery, she thought inadvertently, then wished she hadn't.

 In the very center of the room was a slim staff made of an unknown metal and set into the ground, surmounted by a large crystal. The Doctor paced around it several times, noting the way that each facet was aligned precisely with one of the monoliths. "Interesting, isn't it?" he whispered.

 "It's weird," Ace whispered back.

 "But interesting, too," the Doctor persisted, keeping his voice low despite the grin which appeared on his face.

 "I guess," Ace whispered, wishing she could find some excuse to leave. She wasn't scared, or anything...but she didn't want to be here anymore.

 "Why are you whispering?" the Doctor whispered.

 "Why are you whispering?" Ace retorted in a whisper.

 "I don't know," the Doctor whispered. "It seemed like the thing to do."

 "Yeah, that's what I thought," Ace whispered back.

 The Doctor nodded. "I wonder what this is made of?" he whispered, reaching out to touch the crystal.

 Then he vanished.

 The Doctor grinned self-effacingly. "Well, that was awfully polite of you, but surely you had places to go, people to see, things to do..." He looked around the void. "I don't suppose you could point me back in the direction I came, incidentally?"

 "I did indeed have 'places to go' and 'things to do'," the voice said, with a trace of wry humor in it. "This is why I have waited for you. You will assist me in leaving this place."

 "Ah," the Doctor said, nodding his head and pretending he understood what was going on. "Well, as much as I'd like to, I left a friend back--" he gestured vaguely-- "back there, and I should really be getting back to her, so if you'll just see me back to where I came from..."

 "Silence!" the voice boomed, and the Doctor winced at the sheer volume. "I am Zalaxal, Doctor. I am the last of my people. They imprisoned me here, long ago, for what they considered crimes. I have long desired my freedom, and you will help me regain it!"

 The Doctor smiled a child-like grin, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure if your people imprisoned you that long ago, they must have had what they thought were good reasons. I'm afraid it'd probably be a bad idea to let you out."

 "Let me out? You cannot let me out, you pitiful, insignificant speck. My captors planned well when they designed for me a prison for all eternity. They feared me to the point of insanity. They would never risk a future generation lulled into gullibility by tales of my reformation, and so they ensured that I could never escape. They only allowed a way for others to visit me, and learn first-hand what they considered an irredeemable monster to be."

 "Then, if you don't mind my asking, how can I help you escape?"

 "It is very simple, Doctor. The barriers will not let me out. They will, however, release you with ease. And if you are you, and I am you as well...they will release both of us."

 "Possession?" the Doctor exclaimed. "I'm sorry; I don't allow anyone to travel steerage in my brain, thanks all the same."

 Zalaxal laughed. "Nothing so simple, Doctor...and by the way, if I did not need you, I would take great pleasure in rending you atom from atom for speaking so to me. Perhaps I will, once I leave here. You have certainly already merited death by your crimes against me."

 "What crimes?" the Doctor asked indignantly.

 "You existed," Zalaxal said coldly, "without my permission. You, your species, and all life in this universe, failed to obtain my consent before evolving, just as my own race failed to ask me if they were allowed to continue existing once I had attained my full potential. I destroyed many of them for that crime, and I shall destroy all of you as well."

 "Well," said the Doctor with mock humility, "it's not as if we knew. I'm sure if we were aware we had to get permission, we'd have asked..."

 Zalaxal replied, "Those of you who demonstrate proper obedience and sorrow for their crimes will be allowed to live as my subjects, of course. However, Doctor, you have already shown yourself to be far too insolent to be allowed to live. Once I have escaped, I shall destroy you utterly."

 The Doctor's eyes narrowed, and all trace of humor left his face. "Then I'd better not let you escape, had I?"

 "You," said Zalaxal, in a real voice this time, one that came from behind the Doctor, "have no choice." The Doctor turned, already recognizing the Scottish accent, and found himself staring at an exact double. "A perfect copy," Zalaxal said in the Doctor's voice, "except for the mind. I will have to duplicate that, as well, in order to fool my captors. But rest assured, Doctor, that after leaving, I will revert soon enough to my true self. First the mind, then the body and the inheritance of power that comes with it. And then you will die."

 "Taking this 'existence' thing a bit personally, are we?"

 "I have watched you Doctor, ever since you first steered that battered craft of yours into the vortex. I have seen you squander your precious freedom, your pitiful gifts, even your lives in helping the worthless insects that populate the universe now. And all the while, I have been trapped here...seeing you die will be the first pleasure of many."

 "You do seem to go on about wanting me dead," the Doctor said lightly. "Couldn't we find another subject--"

 And suddenly, Zalaxal's presence was in his mind, searching through every last bit of memory, duplicating personality and identity as causally as the Doctor looked into a mirror...the sensation of motion returned, but this time there was a sickening lurch to it as the barriers of the prison probed him (them), confused at the presence of two identical beings, unable to find their prisoner yet unwilling to condemn one of them to captivity with Zalaxal, and the Doctor(s) felt the barriers rip and shred behind him (them), and...

 For Ace, only a moment had passed. She only had time to register the disappearance of the Doctor for an instant before two identical Doctors appeared, each staring at the other with an expression of utter dread. The crystal they were touching had turned black, like a burnt-out light bulb.

 "The crystal's been destroyed," they said in precise unison. "Then one of us must be Zalaxal."

 "Zalaxal?" asked Ace. "What's going on? Why did you disappear? Why are there two of you?"

 Both Doctors looked at her, an identical expression of urgency on their faces. "Ace," they said, "only one of us is real. The crystal was a prison for an alien criminal, a madman named Zalaxal. He escaped by duplicating me precisely. He looks like me, sounds like me, even thinks like me...but not for long. Sooner or later, his own mind will begin to manifest, first in small ways, then in larger ones. Right now, though, we're exact duplicates...we say and do everything--"

 "--together."

 "--in unison."

 The Doctors looked at each other. "Then it's--

 "--started."

 "--begun."

 One of them said, "We'd best get back to the TARDIS, and try to figure out which is the real one."

 The other one said, "We'd best stay here, and try to repair the crystal."

 Both of them looked at each other suspiciously. Ace looked at them both, feeling paranoia rise within her mind.

 "Oh, shit," she whispered, with feeling.

 Now Tizanna, High Priestess of the Imprexa, would have to stop the evil from escaping...and punish the strangers with death for their crime...

 TO BE CONTINUED...