The Statue

The Ruins of Babylon, 1827

The sandstorm tore at the tarpaulin covering the statue, threatening to rip the covering from its pegs. It was the last thing anyone wanted to see. Three archeologists and seven native workers were already dead, and a fourth member of the expedition was teetering on the edge of madness. All since they had uncovered that bloody thing. Most of the native workers had fled, fearing the 'curse', a curse many of the British archeologists were beginning to place great stock in.

The statue itself was horrendous. It was a scale model of ancient Babylon herself, with a titanic, horned, dog-faced demon towering over the city. In his shadow lay miniature depictions of people, lying prone, as if dead.

He is coming. He will lead us into darkness.

That was what the afflicted men had said in unison. While unconscious . . .

He is coming.

A bright light broke through the thick sand as the tarpaulin finally lost its battle with the wind. The light illuminated the ghastly statue in an odd, sand-filtered yellow-brown.

Then the light vanished. The statue vanished with it.

No one on the expedition would mourn its loss.

The Museum aboard The Maedar

Mikaboshi knelt beside the statue of Abaddon, examining the face of his lost half-brother. It was done in a realistic style, unlike most Mesopotamian art. The likeness was uncanny, the expression suitably terrible. It was even to scale, Abaddon's height relative to Babylon's architecture, he stood almost two miles tall in life.

Sargon could sense something wrong about the artifact. Though Abaddon had sacrificed himself to save all of their lives during the war with Nyarlathotep, he was still the son of The Beast himself, and a terrifying 'demon' in his own right. His image gave off an aura of evil and madness that was undeniable. He put a hand on Mikaboshi's shoulder, causing his friend to jerk back in surprise.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." He said.

"It's alright. It's the statue itself, it contains some vestige of Abaddon's power."

"Can we contain it?"

"So, part of him survives, even now." A soft, unfamiliar voice remarked.

Both boys turned to see a small, thin, elegant gentlemen in a black suit and red ascot. His eyes were both soft and somehow unnerving. Penetrating. Frightening. Both recognized the elderly man at once.

Bilis Manger, Disciple of Abaddon.

Mikaboshi was stunned. Not only had this man traveled back in time without any mechanical means, but he had boarded The Maedar, a living time vessel with countless safeguards against unwanted incursion.

"Greetings, Mr. Manger." Mikaboshi stood up and gave a polite bow, "At the risk of sounding rude, why are you here and how did you manage to breach my ship's defenses?"

"I can travel throughout the whole of time. It is especially simple in the presence of my Lord's power." He walked over to the statue and looked sadly into the face of Abaddon, "Oh, my Lord, I can hear you, even now . . ."


Bilis Manger sipped his tea quietly as Mikaboshi explained the circumstances of his god's death, his unnerving eyes betraying sorrow as his countenance remained stoic and indifferent.

"He died a hero." Sargon said softly.

"The Light has lost its most powerful champion." Bilis' voice was somewhat strained, "This was not meant to happen."

"No, it was not." There was a hint of anger in Mikaboshi's voice, "Moloch's treason, and the acts of his allies, have divided The Great Old Ones deeply. I fear violence may break out among them."

"Then perhaps Nyarlathotep has achieved his goals. He has sown discord among The Great Old Ones. Chaos. Destruction."

"Mr. Manger," Sargon asked, "Did you want Abaddon to kill everyone on Earth?"

"What I want is irrelevant," Bilis replied, "Only my Lord's will mattered. There was far more at stake than the death of a single world. Had The Dark emerged victorious the fate of much of the galaxy would have been far, far worse than mere death. Because Captain Harkness slew Abaddon's corporeal form, Pwccm and The Dark very nearly succeeded in eliminating The Light altogether. Only by combining our forces with those of Torchwood were we able to stave off disaster."

"Abaddon's life-draining powers were meant to destroy The Dark," Mikaboshi explained, "However, he could not control it, and he grew dependent upon the life forces of others to maintain his strength. Doubtless he was trying to gain as much power as possible before facing Pwccm and The Dark."

Bilis Manger nodded in agreement, "It was nothing personal, mere unpleasant necessity."

Sargon turned to Mikaboshi, "What happened to Pwccm? He's your half brother too . . ."

"Pwccm has been imprisoned within The Rift itself. He's alive, but unable to influence the universe outside of his temporal prison."

"I feel I should warn you, he's not dead, you know." Bilis stated softly.

"Who's not dead?"

"The Butcher."

Mikaboshi dropped his tea cup, which shattered on the obsidian floor. His face became deathly white, almond-shaped eyes widened into circles.
He tried to speak, but could not. Sargon simply stared in silent shock.

"It is not as bad as you think." Bilis continued, "He can be killed."

"Then . . . The Time Lords survived?" Sargon asked. He knew who 'The Butcher' was, and if he lived, perhaps they all did.

"Yes. Like Abaddon, they merely await their day of release."

The color slowly returned to Mikaboshi's face. His people still lived! But that meant Rassilon still lived . . .

That could be rectified.

The Great Vampires would have to be told. Prepared, should Rassilon move against them.

Mikaboshi felt warm blood splash in his face as he drove the steel bolt into Rassilon's left heart. He was not a vampire, true, but he wanted to make sure. With both bolts in both hearts The First Time Lord lay stone dead. There was still one thing left to do. The head. Mikaboshi reached for his Katana.

Mikaboshi blinked, rubbed his eyes. Bilis Manger sat watching him across the table, expressionless. Sargon, seated at his right, looked somewhat elated. He had obviously not shared Mikaboshi's bloody vision.

"Is this the future?" His voice was cold, steady.

"Perhaps." Bilis replied, "One never really knows . . ."

The End.


This story ties into my story 'Chaos'.