Anna woke in a cold sweat. For a moment she could only lay rigid beneath the sheets while the nightmare dissipated. Even when the worst of the terror was gone, it was an effort to roll over, to sit and reach for the water on her night-table.
The glass was empty. For some reason, the realization brought with it a flood of rage and depression. Blinking back tears, swearing at herself, she resisted the impulse to hurl the glass across the room and, instead, hit the button on the bedside communication unit. The pert voice that responded almost set her off again.
"Xeno-immunology Department."
That was the nice thing about Gallifrey. Timelords rarely slept, so things were open around the clock.
"Is Doctor Sevrin available?"
"I'm sorry, Dr. Taylor, but Dr. Sevrin has still not reported in. I have your previous ten messages." The voice held a hint of impatience. Anna did not bother with parting pleasantries. She broke the connection abruptly and said a few nasty things to the faceless receptionist.
The Gallifreyen immunologists claimed they could manufacture the antagonist she needed to keep the worst of the relapse symptoms at bay. That had been two days ago, and since that time Doctor Sevrin had vanished. Apparently no one else was involved in the synthesis, but each time she called, she had "just missed him," or "he's in a meeting." The lame excuses abounded; hell, she had used more than a few of them herself! Short of going down to the College, however, there was nothing she could do.
Also unnerving was the fact that Romana had not bothered once to get in touch with them. Anna knew the Time Lady was up and about. Leela had mentioned it -- and promptly been shushed by her husband. When Anna asked, they gave her vague excuses, just like the immunology receptionist. If someone didn't start talking soon, Anna thought irritably, they were going to find out just how much fun a Terran dana in relapse could be.
Picking up the glass again, she left the bedroom and took the antigrav to the first floor. The house was deserted, the lights on minimum. The exceedingly attentive Andred Jr. was also absent, which was odd considering how religiously he had been putting himself in her path.
She tiptoed through the parlor and into the kitchen, hoping not to attract the attention of Luella, Leela's formidable housekeeper. Slipping past the stove, she found the dispenser unit on the far wall. Anna selected water. Luella would be chagrined to discover Anna getting her own drink. Guests of Major Andred and his family were to be pampered ruthlessly, even lowly human guests. To be found failing at even the most minute task was likely to get them all sulks, tears and bad suppers.
"Can't sleep either, eh?"
Anna almost jumped out of her skin. "Damn you, Alan! Don't creep up on me like that!"
"Sorry." He sounded uncharacteristically subdued. "Get ya another drink?"
She leaned back on the counter top while he selected something a bit stronger than the water she really wanted. He had obviously been abed, shirtless, with his fine hair tumbled over his face. Reaching absently to push back the glasses he no longer had, his fingers hovered at his nose a second. Looking faintly self-conscious, he dropped his hand back.
"Why did you wear those things?" she asked.
"What?" Pretending ignorance.
"Were you a nerd, Alan?"
He choked on his drink, glowered at her a second, then slowly, reluctantly, smiled. "Yeah, actually. Lenses so thick they were bulletproof, pocket-protectors, the whole nine yards. You were probably Miss Popular, weren't you? Dated the captain of the football team? Queen of the Prom?"
"Nah. Dated the equipment manager. I did make to the prom, but my date didn't rent a limo for the night. We arrived in his dad's '79 Dodge. Humiliating."
"I asked a girl to the prom," Alan said, staring into his glass. "She laughed at me."
Anna blinked. He rubbed one bare foot against the other, momentarily lost in that painful memory, tried to push the nonexistent glasses up again and sighed. "You know? You couldn't pay me to be young again."
No one spoke for several moments. Then: "I can't get through to Sevrin."
Her abrupt change of subject startled him. Comprehension quickly settled in, however, and with it, alarm. "I -- have you gone down there?"
"In case you haven't noticed, Alan, we're not exactly encouraged to leave the house."
"Yeah, but -- surely this would be a good excuse? I mean, I doubt anyone wants you to get sick."
"No one does want me to get sick," she agreed. "But I am sick, Alan. And if I don't get the drug, you and I are going to be an interesting situation."
"Oh, no." He set down his glass, but missed the counter top. It hit the tiled floor and bounced. "This isn't good, Anna. We don't know what will happen."
"The TARDIS said we were compatible -- identical viral DNA, remember?"
"But what if the TARDIS was wrong?"
He really was adorable, backing hastily away, eyes darting in panic to the right and left. Why had she never noticed before how aquiline his features were, how baby-soft the long, brown hair? She tossed off the remainder of her drink. Punching in an order for two more, and requesting them stronger, she said: "Have another, Professor?"
"You know I can't get drunk. Anna, be reasonable. Let's call Dr. Sevrin again."
"I don't think they're working on the antagonist," she retorted. "I don't think they give a hoot about what's happening to us! We're an embarrassment. We came waltzing into the middle of some Gallifreyen palace coup and they don't know what to do with us."
She had Alan backed into the corner by the stove. His blue eyes, wide and apprehensive, were fringed with the most ridiculously long lashes. Nice cheekbones, too. She offered the fresh glass. He stared as if it was cyanide.
"Oh, come on," she tantalized. "After all, you were so recently disappointed..."
"Huh? What are you talking about?"
"The 'nubile young thing' from whose arms you were so brutally . . .'" She stopped. His cheeks were scarlet. "There was no nubile young thing, was there? Alan!"
"I -- uh -- I think I hear Luella!"
Distracted, she whirled around. He was gone, racing toward the antigrav. She watched him go thoughtfully.
"Dr. Taylor?"
The dana turned. Leela's housekeeper was peering suspiciously about the kitchen. "Is there something you need, dear? Was that Professor Masterson?"
"Hullo, Luella. No, I don't need anything, thank you."
"Whatever is going on here?" The housekeeper found the puddle of spilled drink. "Why did the Professor run off like that? Maybe I should go see if there's anything he needs."
Anna smiled into the perplexed face. She handed the woman her empty glass.
"You know, Luella, I'll tell you what. Maybe it would be better if I went up and had a little talk with him. Human males -- well, sometimes they can be a little high strung. It's been kinda stressful here the last day or two. I'm a psychologist, though. I'm professionally trained to deal with these things."
Luella looked relieved. "I'm sure you're right, Dr. Taylor, but are you certain there's no way I can help?"
"Actually, Luella, there is." Anna draped an arm over the startled housekeeper's shoulders. "If you don't mind, I'd like a bottle of that very fine liquor this thing dispenses."
*****
The Sher'dana walked swiftly along the path. Dew-laden branches bent to the earth, forcing the Doctor to duck frequently or get slapped in the face. Gravel crunched uncomfortably under his bare feet, creepers caught at the soft fabric of his trousers.
The garden was larger than he had realized from the balcony. It circled the Sher, a lush, green buffer between that structure and the Tarn. He saw no one else, not even gardeners, although it must certainly require an army of them to maintain the illusion of wilderness that met his appreciative eye. Brilliantly colored blooms appeared amidst the various shades of verdure. Wide-leafed lilies, graceful ferns, fine old trees with gnarled trunks bounded the many little paths they came upon. A stream brought sudden, glittering brilliance to a shady copse. An artful tumble of mossy boulders added interest to a stand of dwarf pines. And over it all, towered the ominous Tarn, shutting away all sight of the countryside, making of this place a small, private paradise. They might have been in another world.
Benara had not spoken since leaving the balcony. The Timelord attempted once or twice to engage her in conversation, to no avail. Her only response had been to tug sharply at his leash, cutting off his breath and effectively silencing him. After that, he kept his tongue between his teeth and worked on getting out of the binders. It was not so easy on the run, avoiding blows from the surrounding vegetation, trying not to attract her attention. Still, the cords were loosening a bit.
Ahead was a clearing, sunlit and tranquil. A gazebo occupied the center, rail-posts wreathed in flowering vines. It was surrounded by a narrow band of flower-strewn lawn. She dragged the Timelord across the grass and up the steps. Dead leaves and other detritus covered the floor. Dew sparkled in cobwebs under the eaves. Dropping his leash, sinking into a cloud of white lace, she scrabbled at the dirty floorboards. A moment later, she pulled a trap door open. Stale, damp air rushed up from the dark hole beneath.
"Down," she ordered harshly.
Stone steps spiraled into the rock, treacherous and slick. The Doctor felt her at his back, a malevolent, unstable presence. Down they went, darkness finally swallowing them completely. He stumbled, pitched forward for one heart-stopping moment. Something caught him and pulled him back. Light appeared, dim and of a greenish cast. It did little to show the way ahead, but he could again negotiate the steps without falling.
At last they reached the bottom. Ghostly in the gloom, the Lady Benara slipped past him. A door barred by a massive brace blocked their path. As he watched, catching his breath, the brace lifted ponderously in its iron brackets, hovered a moment in mid-air, and came crashing to the ground. Leaping aside, the Doctor just managed to avoid getting his toes crushed beneath it. Ignoring him, Benara pushed the door open on groaning hinges.
There was a cave beyond, its walls crudely hewn into vaguely regular dimensions. In the center of the room was a rectangular dais, perhaps seven feet long and four feet wide. A dome of clouded, semi-transparent material covered it. There was nothing else in the room.
"Go ahead, Timelord. See for yourself."
Slowly, reluctantly, the Doctor approached the dais. Halfway there, he turned about. The Sher'dana was motionless by the door. She watched him without expression.
A thick layer of dust covered the curved, glass-like material. Bending awkwardly, he wiped away some of it with his shoulder. The clear spot revealed an arm, a portion of hip. The flesh was sunken, bones sharp beneath it. Trembling now, wondering if he understood, terrified that he did, the Timelord twisted out of the binders and flung them away. With swift, broad strokes, he swept the lid clean.
A death's head stared sightlessly into the shadowed ceiling, sunken eyes wide, desiccated lips pulled back in a silent, eternal howl. There were long gouges on the interior of the glass; dark flecks still clung to it. A flicker of white and Benara faced him across the coffin. She ran her hand along the clouded surface.
"It took so long for him to die," she complained plaintively. "He kept changing and changing." The childlike quality in her voice made the Doctor's skin creep. "But he would not tell me his secrets, you see. I would have let him out if he had told me his secrets, but he would not."
The Timelord could not look into her lost, glittering gaze. Horror curled in his gut
"Everyone loved him so much. But he stole it all from us. . .everything that was Dev he took and twisted around and made into something not Dev."
The Doctor wanted to shout, to curse, to smash the glass into shards with his bare hands. He did none of those things, only stood paralyzed while the soft, mad voice filled his ears.
"I loved him, too, you know. We would meet here, in this place. Such pleasure we shared. She never knew. He called me his sun child, his lover -- his light. Sometimes, afterwards, I would come down here." Her voice was so soft he had to strain to hear it, even in this deathly silent place. "And he would be screaming. Screaming and screaming and screaming with no one to hear but me."
She lifted her gaze to meet his. His breath caught in his throat. "Benara, this -- this should not be. Vis was wrong to interfere so profoundly in your culture. Perhaps you had a right to be angry, but to do this, to murder him, then to use your wonderful powers to enslave and torment . . ."
"Be QUIET!" Her shriek filled the stuffy chamber. "He had his chance to live! When she left him, he had me! I gave him everything! What did he give me in return? His pity? His lust? It was his knowledge I wanted! Only that. It was not so much to ask, surely?" She was sulky now, pouting. Then her eyes lit up.
"You have the same knowledge, though, don't you, Doctor? You were at the Beacon. You did something that my alorin are still puzzling over."
The Timelord looked again at the mummified corpse. To go through all his incarnations, one horrible death after the other -- such a fate was almost past imagining. He bent his head against the coffin lid, closing his eyes against the terror and despair still evident in those decaying features.
. . .he screamed and screamed and screamed. . .
"I want to know how to use the time ship."
The Doctor looked up, hearts contracting.
"The Sanctum." Her voice was light, conversational. "It can travel through time and space -- like the danships. He told me all about it. But we could never get around the energy exchange problem. Timelord ships can fly free of your world, they aren't bound to the Eye. In the Sanctum I could land on the danships and they would never know, would they? I could bring my Protectors and warwitches, destroy the Exiles forever! Vis' contamination will be wiped out completely."
He shook his head. "What did you tell your people, Lady Benara? How did Vis' death go unnoticed?"
She shrugged. "T'was easy. The One had already gone. Everyone expected him to follow. A handpicked group of 'witnesses,' and small illusion. . ."
"I won't help you, Benara. I can't help you."
She looked at him, head tilted, bird-like, unsurprised by his response. "Do you know how long it took him to die, the noble Vis?"
"No." A whisper.
"Months." The satisfaction in that delicate voice made him shiver. "You can die the same way, Doctor, but first you get to watch the others go -- your dana, the pretty iri'dan, the boy -- all of them screaming until their throats bleed, clawing at the glass. There can be air enough in there, if I choose; Vis did not suffocate." She waited, but he said nothing. "You know I can do this, don't you, Lord of Time?"
He nodded.
"Vis was stupid. He came on this world and thought that by trick and by treachery he could steal the danae's power. He thought he could twist us into something unnatural. Because we did not choose to use it, he never believed how great was our strength, the fool! We danae had ruled Devia from the beginning of time. We abandoned our power to please him, and were ourselves the fools. No more!"
She came swiftly around the coffin and seized his bare arm, pulled him about to face her. "Show me how to use the Sanctum, Doctor. Save yourself and your friends from that!"
He could not look into the coffin and its grisly contents again. "We Gallifreyens may meddle a bit here and there, but we do not, cannot completely alter a race's destiny. What Vis did, he did without authorization of any sort."
"Then help me erase that alteration," she urged, moving nearer. "Help me restore my world. Help me obliterate his influence!"
He said nothing for several long moments. Then: "Do you promise not to harm the others if I do as you ask?"
"Of course," she purred.
"You won't meet Palas, won't honor the Challenge?"
She slipped her arms around his neck. "I must, I'm afraid, but I don't have to kill her. I promise to spare her life, Doctor." Rosy lips traced a line down the curve of his throat. The Doctor shivered.
Very well," he replied thickly, "I'll show you."
***
It was late. Cthilian stirred in his place by the bedroom door. Soon it would be time for the Lady to wake and face Benara. Hugging his knees to his chest, he tried not to be afraid. Across the room, a single light sphere illuminated the table around which sat Mzara and his lieutenants. They were pouring over drawings of the tarn, arguing in low voices about this strategy or that. He had stopped listening.
A handful of apartments had been commandeered within easy reach of the stair. Although the Sher'dana had disabled the transmats, Mzara was taking no chances and the alorins who had joined them disabled them further. They were, as a result, completely cut off from the outside world. Without the transmats, Benara could not bring in reinforcements, but neither could Mzara. It was fortunate that there were dana not lured by the Sher'dana's siren call to power. It was only through them that the clanlord maintained communication with his allies outside the Tarn.
The news was, for the moment, encouraging. All over Devia, clans were rallying to the insurrection, outraged by the destruction of Vis' Temple. Several large units of Protectors, recalled from the Wall of Heaven ,had been stopped on the Ivhadaran road to Sidhain. Raynig'tan and a few other high blood clans remained loyal, but they, too, were under siege. The Sher'dan was in disarray, and word was that the Fastigium -- or what remained of it -- was meeting in emergency session.
Yet, beneath all the optimism ran the grim knowledge that the real battle was yet to be fought. What happened between the two high danae would ultimately decide Devia's fate. Mzara swore to fight on, even if the Lady was vanquished, but they all knew that real war lay in that direction.
"Cthilian?"
He started out of a half doze. Shieann stood over him, outlined in the dim, silvery light of the sphere. She held something in her hand. Food. He started to his feet, but she sank down beside him instead. Having no appetite, he took the plate only because she had troubled to bring it. Such courtesy was still a novelty to the young ir'dan.
"They told me you had not eaten," she chided gently. "You must, you know."
"Why?" he asked bitterly. "The Lady will not have me!"
"Oh, Cthili - are you so eager to die?" Her voice was sad. In the half-light, he could not be sure of her expression. "What of your son?"
He set down the plate, swallowing at the sudden lump in his throat. Why did they persist in bringing that up? The answer was clear enough -- he had been repeating it endlessly to himself.
"I am alorin, my lady! How will he feel, knowing his father is clanless and a slave? What sort of life could I give him? As the son of Raynig and Mzara, he will be a great lord, a master of important estates, have a powerful voice in the Fastigium. . ."
"Do you think titles and vast stretches of dirt will make him a good man, a just lord? He is Katha's son and will be lord of Mzara, no matter who the father. As for Raynig'tan -- that vile place is no great loss. Far better that Djan learn courage, loyalty and compassion. These are qualities that make a lord truly great, and he could have no better teacher than you, Cthilian."
Stunned, the ir'dan could think of no response. She laid a hand briefly on his, then rose and returned to her grandfather's side. Numbly, he picked up the plate. The food had no taste and it was almost impossible to swallow. Because Lady Shieann had cared, he forced it down, but it sat no more easily in his stomach than the fear already there.
At the entrance to the apartment there was a small commotion. A clansman came in, spoke urgently to Mzara. After a moment, the clanlord rose and beckoned to Cthilian. The ir'dan jumped up at once. It was time. Someone lit another sphere. There was tension in the tired faces of the high blood insurrectionists. In silence, they began to gather their weapons as he went to rouse the Lady.
The room was dark, but she was awake. Cthilian found her seated on the edge of the bed, elbows on knees, head bowed. She did not look up. "Time to go, I take it?"
"Yes, Lady."
Silence stretched between them. He wanted to beg her again to be included among the Sixteen, but unexpected pride and a certainty of failure kept him still. Finally, she straightened. Her eyes glittered in the dim lighting. Then she was on her feet, fastening the collar of her shirt, buckling the belt. "What's happening, Cthilian?"
He told her what little he knew. She smiled ruefully, slipping the las rod into its sheathe at her hip. "So it's up to me now, is it? Do you know, Cthilian -- if I get back to Earth, I'm going to take the cure. I've had enough to this."
"Lady?" He had no idea what she was talking about, but she only shook her head.
"Never mind. Let's go."
There were ir'dan waiting by the barricade with Mzara and the others. Cthilian counted them. Only ten and all were alorin. They watched the Lady as she approached, but if she noticed them, she gave no sign. He should be among them. Benara would almost certainly have the traditional sixteen, but the Lady had refused to hear him.
"Cthilian, I am not killing my friends. That, at least, is a choice I can make. And yes, you're right. You will probably die anyway, but it will not be by my hand. Don't bring this up again!"
Two Protectors stood in the barricade's opening, giving way to her at once. She looked neither right nor left, but walked straight through. More waited on the other side, and these fell in quickly around her. The ir'dan, after a moment's hesitation, were pushed after her. They were quickly herded together and bound: The Sher'dana was taking no chances. Then, to Cthilian's astonishment, Mzara handed his weapons to his lieutenant and followed them.
The Protectors moved at once to stop him, but the clanlord brushed off their hands. "I am ir'dan," he told them coldly, "and in service to the Lady of l'Shylian."
There was a ripple of shock and consternation among the rebel clansmen. Shieann cried out in protest, but Lord Mzara only shook his head. He let the Protectors search him, made no protest when they bound him with the other ir'dan. A moment later, they were gone.
Cthilian turned and walked away, trying to swallow his resentment. She had refused his service and accepted Mzara's. Why should he be surprised? Because she bothered to show him a little kindness? In the end, it was always the same. He was alorin. Mzara was clanlord. Turning a corner, out of sight of the others, he spun and slammed his fist into the wall. The pain shocked him out of his anger. He gasped, clutched throbbing knuckles to his chest, and sank to his haunches.
He could leave. It would be chaos out there; a man could easily disappear into the countryside. No one would miss him. Maybe there was a life to be made when the fighting stopped, if he could only get out of the tarns. He remembered an old alorin text, a drawing of power routes throughout the two buildings. Perhaps he could use one of the old service tunnels, sneak through the new Tarn and out into the mountains?
Service tunnels.
The pain was forgotten in a rush of excitement.
Why hadn't he thought of them before? What a fool! The Lady was absolutely
correct to find him wanting! He drew a steadying breath, willing
his racing heart to slow, his whirling thoughts to settle. There
was a tunnel that connected the generator rooms in the New Tarn to a transformer
unit in the Old Tarn. It came out right under the main transmat.
The Sher'dana's desire for historical purity did not extend to giving up
running water, light spheres or any other of Vis' gifts to the Dev.
Whether it was possible to get
into it -- therein lay the uncertainty.
"Cthilian?"
He started. Shieann!
"Lady?" He tried to keep his voice calm. "Lady, who is in command now?"
"What? I -- I' don't know. Lord Sulinar. Cthilian, wait!"
***
The Sanctum was a TARDIS. It didn't look like the Doctor's, but Danner recognized the feel of the place as they crossed the threshold. That the small, otherwise innocuous box in the middle of the flowers was infinitely larger inside than out was another pretty good hint.
He was one of sixteen blackstones in milady's delicatessen. His companions were alorin, silent, curiously detached - well aware of what lay ahead. The Sher'dana, he remembered, never bonded. The poor bastards had probably been seeing each other disappear all their lives. Stripped naked, bound and coffled together, they were herded into the strange TARDIS like the cattle they were.
Warwitches stood guard in the room beyond, a bare, soulless chamber with silver walls, floor and ceiling. The light had no obvious source. It cast no shadows and did nothing to warm this frigid place.
Danner had entertained the thought of making a break for it . . . briefly. Each of the warwitch guards had biocrystals sparkling with thousands of facets. Some of these danae, he suddenly realized, might even be as old as Benara and with the same fearful power. Lady Clayre was the youngster among them. She caught his eye. Murmuring something to her companion, she turned away and crossed the dully gleaming floor to his side.
"Tell me, iri'dan, does this remind you of l'Shylian?" She gestured at their surroundings. Across the chamber, a door slid noiselessly into the wall and two alorin came out. They were clothed and holding what looked like electronic clipboards. For a moment, they consulted with a warwitch, then vanished back into the other room. Danner returned her gaze coldly and refused to answer.
"Still defiant. As you wish. Soon you will be on the Field of Challenge. We'll see how brave you are then, l'Shylian."
There were no Protectors here. The blackstones were the only males in sight. Danner tugged uselessly at his binders as the witches shouted and sent them stumbling forward -- toward the door through which the clothed alorin had come.
His heart almost stopped on the other side. Here was another large room, but it held a familiar object. In the center was a round console with a squat, transparent cylinder rising through its center. A time rotor! But it was the familiar figure standing beside the console that sent a cold shock through him.
"Doctor!" he cried.
The Timelord did not even look up. The warwitches drove the alorin ruthlessly forward, through the room and out another door.
Here, all resemblance to the Doctor's TARDIS ceased. Granted, Danner had not been in every part of that venerable machine, but he doubted if it contained anything like this. A great plain stretched out before him. There were no walls, no ceiling to put boundaries to this place. The sky was oddly colorless. He felt a breeze, however, cold, filled with strange, alien scents. It raced across the plain, rippling the sea of ankle-deep grass, blew his hair into his eyes and set him to shivering.
On the left and right were two low stone circles standing twenty yards apart. Behind each was a broad tower of the same stone, perhaps six feet high. The blackstones were herded toward the circle beneath the leftmost tower. Stone paved its interior. Embedded in the paving was with a smaller circle of iron rings . Each blackstone was separated from the coffle and chained to a ring. Shoulder to shoulder, they knelt. Still no one spoke.
What was the Doctor doing in the control room? He had not been chained, even had his clothes back, for Chrissakes! Looking around, considering where he was, the blackstone had the sinking feeling that loyalties had shifted since he had last seen his friend.
Danner turned back toward the door leading to this amazing place. It was still there, although it was now surrounded by a low building occupying that approximate spot. As he watched, the door opened. Around him, alorin struggled to their feet. Obstinately, Danner remained where he was.
Danae -- eighteen of them -- emerged from the building. Each was dressed in a black gown identical to her sisters, long, straight. Their hair hung free, bright against the gowns. They formed two rows, hands folded before them, turned inward to face each other and bowed their heads.
Benara appeared. Like the others, she was clad in black. In one hand, she carried a staff, in the other a silver cord. Down the center of the danae's aisle she came, unhurried, face serene, golden eyes fixed on the unseen horizon. Without looking at the blackstones, she mounted the curving stair to the small tower and stood quietly.
Now more blackstones appeared. Forgetting his defiance, Danner was on his feet. Mzara was among them! Naked as the others, long silver hair hanging down his back, his proud bearing him set him apart from the slaves around him. Across the field, their eyes met. The clanlord nodded briefly.
Danner felt Palas before he saw her. Her energies were as fierce and restless as the vivid coloring that set her sharply apart from the Dev. As Benara did, she held a staff and cord. Her gaze was not serene, it swept back and forth over the plain - the conditioned response of a warrior judging the terrain.
Danner.
The voice whispered at the edges of his thoughts. Unmindful of the watching danae, he opened his mind, brought all the carefully nourished barriers and defenses crashing into dust. The response came at once - surprise, the unexpected warmth of joy, regret and pain. It lasted a fraction of a second and was gone. Around him, the ir'dan were staring. Danner bent his head to the stone, felt their startled, disapproving eyes on his back. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered now -- nothing but the woman he held in his heart.
***
The Timelord checked the chronoscillator interface, found it viable. Without looking at either of his alorin "assistants," he calmly entered the sequence. The alorin on his left, Bastar, leaned forward, frowning perplexedly.
"What was that?" he demanded. The Doctor winced, hearing the suspicion in the other's voice. Miyel heard it, too and came quickly to the console. She seized his wrist, pulled it away from the keypads.
"Answer him, Doctor!"
"This ship has lain dormant for over a thousand years," he replied calmly. "Even in a TARDIS, materials do eventually degrade. Unless you want to find yourself trapped in a timeloop or materializing in solid rock, I would suggest that all systems be thoroughly evaluated."
Her grip tightened painfully. He forced himself to remain still while she thought about it. This creature was on the ragged edge of a very tall cliff. The last thing he could afford was to have her fall off.
"Very well! But do not attempt trickery, Doctor!"
"I am not about to risk the lives of my friends," he replied stiffly.
She stepped back. He turned to the other alorin, Kam. "Do you see that black button there? The one with the two silver circles?"
Across the console, the alorin nodded.
"Turn it clockwise fifty degrees."
Holding his breath, the Doctor watched the locator screen in front of him. A column of numbers on the left scrolled swiftly.
"Another five degrees," he called out.
There! On the right of the screen, a new column of numbers blurred past.
"Two-point-five degrees....not a fraction more!"
With a gentle flicker, the columns fell into sync with each other. Relief made him dizzy. Still, he must not betray himself.
"Excellent, Kam," he congratulated, and felt an uncomfortable twinge of conscience when the alorin smiled happily back. A familiar and much-loved asthmatic wheezing filled the console room. He cut off Miyel's startled exclamation, turned to her and said impatiently: "I need my things. The Lady Benara promised they would be brought from the Protectors' quarters!"
"What is that?"
He gave the blue police-box an indifferent glance. "Auxiliary transformer and relay. You can thank your lucky stars the thing works. It's the touchiest part of the ship. I honestly did not think it would still function. *Where are my things?"*
"Get them!" she snarled, not liking it a bit. Fortunately - or unfortunately - Benara was not around to consult.
An alorin hurried forward with a small box. He took it and, setting it on the console, careful that everything he did could be easily seen, he took out his TARDIS key.
The beating of his hearts was painful. His hand held a fine tremor and he gripped the key so tightly the edge cut into his palm. Keeping his expression bland, he beckoned to Bastar. "Bring those scanners, please, and those by-pass plugs. Rassilon only knows what shape this thing is in. Kam, keep an eye on this screen. Tell me immediately if these columns de-synchronize!"
The distance to the TARDIS seemed immeasurable, but he must remain calm and unhurried. He reached the time ship, inserted the key into the lock and turned to Bastar. "There," he said, standing back and pointing to the gently pulsing blue light on the roof. "Climb up and make sure all the couplings are stable."
"DOCTOR!"
The Timelord spun about and glared at Lady Miyel. Exuding irritation, he gestured toward the door and snapped: "Would you prefer to clean the verilium neurals, my lady? Any fool can do it and it would give me more time to check the rotor chips."
"Have a care how you speak to me, Doctor!" she returned waspishly. "Clean your neurals and be quick about it!"
"Humph!" Turning on his heel, back stiff with annoyance, the Doctor thrust open the door and stepped inside. He slammed it immediately and locked it. His hearts were threatening to burst from his chest. There were far too many unknown variables to make this anything but the wildest and most desperate of chances. All he could do was pray that Benara's clever alorins were still mystified by the program running on the Beacon. Certain his knees would give way, stumbling a little, he raced to his console and started entering coordinates.