He was almost finished. The Beacon's holographic display revolved slowly overhead, showing him one star system after the other. Each point of blue light was a danship. Ten were lifeless hulks, caught in eternal orbit around distant gravity wells. Five more were viable, although it was impossible to tell their condition. The latter were clearly on course to Devia; two would pass by Earth on their way. None of them were running on dan energy, but all had their main interface crystals in place.
"Doctor?"
Alysia's anxious voice disturbed the Timelord's narrow field of concentration. He pushed back from the computer, shaking the wig's long hair impatiently out of his eyes. Coaxing data from the ancient machine was tricky business, but it helped keep his mind off other, even more unhappy thoughts.
"A few of your Clans still exist," he said, rubbing his aching temples. "Are you certain you want me to do this, Lady Alysia? Nothing will ever be the same again for you and your people. Had circumstances been any different . . ." he hesitated, " . . . I would not even consider doing this."
"You can bring them here? You can really do that?" She was stunned, awed.
He nodded tiredly. There was not much time left. He was distantly aware of a Seeking, hungrier and more powerful than any he had yet sensed on this world. Perhaps Alysia was aware of it, too. Her eyes kept slipping from one corner of the room to the other. The Timelord turned back to the console.
"Prepare to accept a program alpha," he instructed. A blur of lights ran across the screens. "Override sequence four-oh-nine-six-zed."
The image above him went blank. Deliberately, he began reciting strings of numbers. The machine hummed, the tone rising and falling within a specific range.
"End sequence."
The dana had risen and was standing again at his shoulder. She said nothing, but he was aware of her tension as he set down the next equation. The humming changed, getting higher and fuller.
Across the room, the door banged open. Alysia cried out, spinning around. Slamming his fist onto the touch pad, the Doctor spun about as Protectors swarmed into the chamber. Alysia snarled and the men nearest to her screamed and went down.
"Lady Alysia! No! Wait!"
More Protectors. They surrounded him, pushed him away from the computer. Alysia gathered her strength, raised her head -- and screamed.
Horrified, the Doctor watched her body lift from the ground and hang, thrashing in the air. Her scream was abruptly cut off. Alysia's throat worked, eyes starting from her head. A hideous choking noise forced itself past her lips. Blood spurted from her nose, trickled from her ears.
"Stop it!" Trying desperately to fight free of the restraining hands, the Doctor struggled to reach her through the wall of implacable bodies separating them. "Please! My Lady Benara! STOP THIS!"
A hideous snapping filled his ears. The dana fell in a boneless heap to the floor. Wide eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling, pupils swallowing the iris in black. He sagged back in the arms of his captors, sickened.
"Good evening, Doctor."
The Protector ranks parted silently. The Doctor drew a deep breath as a small woman, exquisitely lovely, walked through the men to stand before him. Her eyes moved at once to the machine that sat silently, lights flickering here and there.
"What have you done?"
"Nothing. There was no time."
The Sher'dana pushed him aside, checked several screens. So she knew something of this computer. It was not welcome information.
"I will know if you're lying, Doctor."
He shook his head. Hands tightened on his arms. She smiled and his skin crawled.
"You make a handsome Dev." She came closer "But I prefer a more exotic look."
Reaching up, she snatched off the wig. His own burnished curls tumbled down. He met the hot gaze without flinching.
"It's useless, you know," she continued. "Mzara is already in my hands - the remainder of the traitorous clans will soon be prisoners as well. There has not been a high blood execution on Devia since before Vis. This should be interesting."
He shrugged. Her eyes narrowed and the psi attack he had been expecting came. He met it and his barriers held, although, like Palas, Benara's strength was fearsome. To his surprise, she broke off almost at once.
"You -- you'll have to do better than that, Benara," he gasped.
"And waste my strength before l'Shylian's whore is captured? Clever, Doctor, but not clever enough."
She motioned to someone. The Doctor, already shaken by Alysia's murder, received another blow as Ksirin appeared. Gripped in his gloved hand was a small, frightened boy.
"Djan!"
"Doctor!"
Again, the Timelord's guards were forced to hold him back. Djan stared beseechingly at him. Quickly, the Doctor stopped struggling and managed an encouraging smile. The small, tear- streaked face lightened a little.
"A short time ago, the Temple of Vis caught fire," Ksirin said, grinning. "When last I saw it, the entire place was engulfed in flames. A dreadful calamity."
"Where is she, Doctor?" Benara cut across the nobleman's gloating, indifferent. "Has she run north?"
"Who?"
"By all means, Doctor, continue to annoy me. The brat is not the only one of your friends in my custody."
"I don't know where Palas is. My last sight of her came just before I was, er, arrested. Is Djan all right? Djan?"
"I'm 'oh-kay', Doctor!" A trembling smile.
"Brave chap!"
Fastidiously lifting the hem of her robe, Benara stepped over Alysia's body to come within an arm's length of the Timelord. This made her guards very nervous; the already painful grip on the Doctor's arm tightened.
"Do not waste my time! I thought, at first, that it was the witch who was in charge, but I know better now. There is something familiar about the structure of your thoughts. You are not like l'Shylian's other servants. The witch, that magnificent animal of hers -- they dance to your tune, don't they"
"Unfortunately, no," the Doctor sighed. "But you make me curious. Have you truly encountered another mind like mine?"
Her jaw tightened. "I have said so, have I not?"
"Might it have been from before the Exile? You were alive then, weren't you?"
In her eyes, something unreadable moved. Turning her back on him, the Sher'dana commanded: "Bring binders and a lead. If he gets away again, someone dies."
*****
Cthilian stumbled as the transmat spat him out. Fighting vertigo, he drew several deep, even breaths.
The Old Tarn.
Ice trickled down his spine, although he had braced himself for this. Memories engulfed him, twisted his gut and made it difficult for a moment to breathe. Deep breath. Another. Lifting his head, he forced his attention back to his surroundings.
Guards lay like broken dolls across the floor, a few warwitches among them. His throat tightened. The Lady was using far too much precious dan. He jumped off the platform and started for the door. Something picked him up and slammed him against the wall. Slowly, he slid to the floor, ears ringing.
"Cthilian!"
She was furious. He tried not to think about that as he picked himself painfully from the floor and met her blazing eyes. A las rod gripped in one hand, she glared at him.
"What the hell are you doing here? I almost killed you!" Her voice shook, whether from rage or alarm, he was not certain. "Who else is coming?"
His lip was cut. Cthilian wiped away the blood and replied defiantly: "No one! Lady. You need an ir'dan! I know I will not be enough for you, but I can buy you time until Mzara comes with reinforcements."
"How noble," she mocked. "And when you've been the martyr, what of Djan?"
"Lord Mzara was right. Better we all are dead then servants of evil." Then he spoiled his fine words by adding unsteadily: "Please, Lady. You must be victorious."
The anger melted from her face. Her shoulders slumped. With a faint, sad smile, she reached out and laid a hand briefly on his shoulder. "You're a fool, Cthilian, but I guess that makes two of us. Find a weapon and let's go."
* * *
Awareness returned suddenly. For a
moment there was only pain and confusion. Anna struggled clumsily
to her feet, reeled this way and that before reason regained control.
Falling against the wall, she pressed her hand to her chest. It came
away covered in blood.
"Oh, God," she thought. "Oh, God, what's happened?"
There was a banging on the door. Anna gave it a cursory look, saw the lock mechanism fused and melted in the wall beside it. Flavia lay face down across her desk; Romana sprawled nearby, blank eyes turned toward the ceiling. Dead, both of them. A groan from behind a chair told her Alan was not. Yet.
Pushing away the chair, she caught her breath. There was a gaping hole in his chest, just a few centimeters from his heart. From the looks of it, considerable damage had been done to the lungs, as well. Anoxia was already setting in. Swearing under her breath, Anna dropped to her knees and set her hands on the wound. The power flowed along her nerves and down into the dying blackstone. It met his own powerful energy and she felt the life essence flicker, then strengthen. Bowing her head, she summoned more, kept pouring it into him.
Whoever the shooter had been, he was damn accurate. Probably it was only his lack of familiarity with the human cardiovascular system that saved either of them. She was in pretty bad shape herself, but he hadn't been quite as accurate with her. Although each breath was painful, the discomfort was less than it had been and was getting better.
By the time the Timelords managed to break down the door, Alan was up and spitting blood, in very poor humor, indeed. A tall, handsome man in a guard's uniform, more guards at his back, took one look around and shouted: "Medics!"
"She's dead," croaked Anna as the handsome guard lifted Flavia's body from the desk. Another dropped to his knees beside Romana.
"The Lady Romana is regenerating," the other man called urgently. "Sergeant Andred!"
"Get her to the hospice at once." The sergeant lifted the President's frail body and looked over at Anna. "Who are you? What has happened here?"
She watched as he took in her own battered appearance, remembered at the last moment that her chest wasn't the only thing that had been ripped asunder. Clutching together the edges of her torn bodice , she replied: "I'm Anna Taylor and that is Professor Alan Masterson. And the man who did this is Tiberius. He -- he was here just a minute ago."
"You are wounded."
"It's healing. Romana isn't dead?"
He shook his head. Of course, she remembered, Timelords regenerate.
More Timelords pushed their way into the room. Voices demanding explanations rose, quickly giving her a fierce headache. Alan, pale as a sheet, sank into a chair, still coughing blood. It would take a while to clear out his lungs. He looked up at her, frowned and got to his feet.
"Sit," he said.
"SILENCE!" A strong female voice rose above the hubbub, quelling it instantly. Anna looked around and saw a stocky, middle-aged woman striding through the crowd. Guard and Timelord alike hastily gave way. "Sergeant Andred, what is this?"
"Murder, sir." The young sergeant saluted and stepped aside to let her approach Anna. "But how and why is unclear at the moment."
"Flavia?"
Sergeant Andred looked down at the body in his arms. "Gone, Captain."
For a moment, the woman's face was touched by sorrow. "So," she said, "one by one, they take his friends."
She and Andred exchanged enigmatic looks, then turning to the humans, she said: "You're from Earth, aren't you?"
Anna nodded.
"Friends of the Doctor?"
"Yes. YES! Is he here?" Anna tried to jump back to her feet, but dizziness overwhelmed her. Alan caught her, eased her back into the chair.
"No, however . . . "
"Captain!" A Timelord of some rank had appeared, and at his arrival, the others started up again. It took Anna a moment to realize he was addressing the female guard "What is this outrage? What have these humans done?"
Was that a warning glance the captain threw her? Anna shut her mouth. Alan laid a hand on her shoulder. His glasses were missing, the thin, fine-boned face oddly vulnerable without them.
"Cardinal Vole." The captain saluted.
"Report please."
"The President is dead . . . " A collective gasp ran through the room. "Lady Romana is in regeneration. These humans were also shot, but are apparently recovering."
"A likely story," sneered the Timelord called Vole. "Humans do not recover that quickly."
"They are the modified humans as described in the Doctor's report."
"Nonsense! Examine them! Anyone can see they are trying to cover their heinous crime. That was the President's last life!"
Anna's hands were shaking. She clenched her fingers around the arm of the chair, suddenly frightened. This was neither fear nor weakness, but a neurological signpost of dan deficiency. Recovering from this attack was taking more out of her than she realized. The familiar ache in her temples grew more pronounced. Desperately, she tried to put a brake on her body's blind healing, but it continued to drag energy up from her dwindling supply, mending muscle and veins, automatic as the machine it was.
". . .not likely, sir," the captain was saying. "All evidence is that blasters were used and we have yet to find one anywhere in the room . . . "
"Than they had accomplices!"
"We have sealed off the Panopticon, Cardinal. If there are others, we will find them."
"And in the meantime, what shall we do with them?"
All eyes were fixed on the humans. Alan sat suddenly on the arm of her chair; not as hale as he would like, either.
"I don't think they're going anywhere," began the captain drily. "I'll take responsibility for them. "
Vole was having none of it. "Remove them to the detention unit in the west tower," he ordered.
"With all due respect, sir." The woman returned the florid Timelord's glower with a darkling look of her own. "But you are not in authority. Timelord Argoanadium is vice President. He has been notified and in a few minutes you may put your suggestion to him yourself."
"You stupid woman! You dare countermand my orders?"
"Yes, sir, I dare and, furthermore . . . "
"Captain!" the sergeant cried, despair tinging his voice. "MOTHER!"
". . .I would not be at all surprised to find out that you, Cardinal, have more than passing knowledge of all this!" The woman ignored the sergeant's very sensible alarm, bearing down on Cardinal Vole with a determination that sent the Timelord scuttling back into the safety of the fold. Her men fell in behind her and, for a moment, it looked as if things would get interesting.
"Vice President Argoanadium," growled the captain, "is my immediate superior now, Lord Cardinal. Sir."
"And he will hear about this insubordination, Captain - you may count on it!"
Routed, Cardinal Vole withdrew with what dignity he could muster. The room was once more in the possession of the Gallifreyen guard. Dusting her hands briskly, the captain returned, bending a stern eye on the humans.
"You look done in, both of you."
Alan, eyes wide, nodded mutely. Anna said: "A little."
The woman gave a bark of laughter and turned to her son. "My name is Leela. I, too, am an old friend of the Doctor." She straightened and beckoned to Sergeant Andred. "Sergeant! Take them home and hand them over to Luella, then get me your father - pronto."
"Yessir!" The young man's sympathetic eye had been wandering frequently to Anna. He leapt forward now to help her up.
"And sergeant?"
"Sir?"
"Keep your mind on your duty."
The sergeant blushed.
* * *
They brought the Doctor to a place not far from the royal suite. A drunk nobleman staggered by, gaping openly at them, and the Timelord could hear the faint sounds of revelry in the distance. One of the nine Protectors assigned to guard him flung open a door, pushed him in. He caught his foot on something, and went to his knees as the door slammed shut behind him. It was dark. Utterly silent. Shaking hair from his eyes, the Doctor instructed: "Light!"
At once a soft glow appeared by the door. It did not do much to alleviate the gloom, but its presence was comforting nonetheless. It revealed only seven or eight feet of stone walls and floor, but from the echoes attending his entrance, the Doctor estimated the room to be five or six times larger. On the wall to his right, an ancient, tattered tapestry moved sluggishly in a faint breath of air. There was a suggestion of ornate columns standing further off in the deep shadows.
He concentrated on getting out of the binders - a mere minute and five seconds, this time. Thinking wistfully of his many-pocketed frock coat, he yanked off the lead and knotted it loosely around his waist. There was a sound from somewhere near the shadowed column. He stiffened.
"Who's there?"
No answer. The Doctor listened hard, but the sound was not repeated. Getting to his feet, he nudged the sphere until it drifted toward the middle of the room.
This was truly an old place, perhaps some remnant of an original structure predating even the Old Tarn. The stone exuded a clammy chill; there was no careful temperature or humidity regulation here. There were more tapestries, all so old that the small eddies of air caused by his movements sent powdery bits of rotted cloth drifting to the floor. The room had the feeling of a shrine.
His sphere finally reached the first of several columns marching through the center of the room. It was, of course, magnificently carved, a masterpiece of stone-craft, but those perfectly rendered images sent ice up his spine. Faces peering out from the tiny leaves and branches were twisted into expressions of malevolence or agony. He saw figures in positions of unspeakable torment. Chains, whips, and other instruments of oppression were worked into lovely rambling vines. Here and there along the column's length were embedded great iron rings. Shuddering, the Doctor gave the carvings wide berth.
The sound came again. At the same time, the sphere reached the room's center. There, the floor rose in a series of shallow steps, and at the top of the rise he saw a nude body The Timelord started running.
Danner lay curled on the dank stone, head buried in the crook of his arm. A chain ran from am iron collar to a ring embedded in the floor a few feet away. He had been beaten -- repeatedly, and there were wounds in places that turned the Doctor's stomach.
"Danner?"
A brief clenching of shackled hands was the only response. The Doctor moved closer and heard a small, animal sound. Dropping to his knees on the flagged stone, the Timelord hesitated, unwilling to frighten his friend further. Then, carefully, he brushed dark hair away from the blackstone's face. Beneath his fingers, Danner's skin burned with fever.
"Danner? Can you hear me? It's the Doctor."
This time, something got through. Dark eyes opened. Luminous with pain, they fixed blankly on the Doctor's face. Bruised and bitten lips parted, but no sound came out.
"Don't try to talk," the Timelord said in a low voice. "Rest. I'm going to have a look around."
A faint nod. Obedient as a child, Danner
closed his eyes again. Reaching down, the Timelord took one of Danner's
hands in his; a moment later, there was a brief, answering pressure.
The blackstone's augmented physiology was already hard at work. The
worst of the wounds were closing as he watched. About the damage
to Danner's spirit the Doctor was less optimistic. Standing, starting
forward, the Timelord sent the sphere soaring again. The cavernous
chamber, drenched in shadow, still gave up little of itself - trusses carved
into massive, straining arms
supported the lofty ceiling. Dimly
perceived pits of greater darkness lined the room's distant end -- arched
portals, perhaps leading into an adjoining chamber.
"Doctor?"
The Timelord spun about at the thready voice. Danner had lifted himself to hands and knees, but looked in imminent danger of collapsing again.
"I'm here." Returning quickly, he urged. "Don't tax yourself. Concentrate on healing."
Danner sank back onto his heels and winced. 'I'm OK," he lied, ash-pale and shaking. "I'd hoped this was a rescue, but from that very fetching outfit, I'd guess otherwise."
The Doctor collapsed on the step beside him and admitted that he was, at least for the moment, a prisoner, too.
"Damn." Faintly. "I guess that means I have to go back to the party. Are you....are you on the entertainment roster now, too?"
"Entertainment?" The Doctor made no effort to keep the contempt from his voice. "Who did this to you?"
Danner made an airy gesture, but his eyes were stark. "Hard to say. It was quite the group effort. On the other hand, there was one in particular. Her name is Miyel. Watch out for her, Doc. She looks like the girl next door, but I'd swear she's a direct descendant of the Marquis de Sade. Add to that a knowledge of humanoid nervous systems that a neurologist would envy and you've got a really fun date."
"Indeed." The Doctor was not deceived by the light tones. "Let's see those shackles."
"What's the point?" But Danner thrust his hands out anyway. "What's going on, by the way? I've been -- out of the loop."
"Not much that's good, I'm afraid." The chains were much newer than the room, their lock quite sophisticated but mechanical nonetheless. Unlocking one of his gold wristbands, the Doctor examined its fastener. A bit of metal protruded slightly from the clasp. Seizing the end with strong teeth, the Doctor tugged hard. After a moment, it gave, sliding out -- three inches of fragile wire.
"They have Djan and Mzara. From what I could gather, the Sher'dana is in the process of crushing Mzara's insurrection. There was some mention of the Temple burning."
"Ah -- we're doing as well as usual, then. Palas?"
"Got away. Hold still, please."
"Of course she did." Then, anxiously: "You're sure?"
"Benara demanded to know where she was. There!"
The heavy iron manacles fell with a clatter to the floor. Danner let out a long, sighing breath, rubbed gingerly at the angry galls. "Thanks. Now what?"
"I don't know," confessed the Timelord, starting in on the chain at the blackstone's neck. "Let's see if this room offers any possibilities."
"I think I'll stay here," Danner informed him faintly. "I'm still feeling a little, er, under the weather. Yell if you need help."
As the Doctor had expected, the archways at the end of the room opened into a narrow, rectangular antechamber. Windows, tightly shuttered, ran the length of the opposite wall. Reaching for a hatch, the Doctor gave a sharp tug. Badly corroded, it opened grudgingly and in a shower of rust. Hinges screeched as he pushed the shutters wide and looked out onto a blaze of stars.
In all directions, the land fell away in gentle folds, steep hills softened by forest and, beyond it, the flat, silver expanse of sea. Their prison was a hundred feet, at least, above the rocky crag. Nothing broke the seamless expanse of wall above or below them. No escape this way.
At the narrow ends of the room were two broad support pillars, each sculpted into a single, towering figure. Calling the light sphere, the Doctor directed it toward the one on the left. A woman with wide eyes bent her head slightly to one side, in gentle contemplation of the figure opposite. Her arms were crossed over her breast in a way that reminded the Timelord of ancient Egyptian figures. In the right hand, she held a bouquet of flowers and grain. In her left was a lightning bolt. The One, most likely, consort to Vis.
The Doctor turned about and sent the sphere floating to illuminate the other pillar. It was also a statue, but of a male holding a scroll from which he appeared to be reading. Yet the long-dead sculptor had fashioned the eyes in such a way that they looked over the scroll and into the woman's gaze.
"Up," the Doctor commanded the sphere. It bobbed gently toward the face, illuminated gaunt hollows beneath strong cheekbones and deep-set eyes. The stone curls clustered around a high forehead. Against the broad chest rested a medallion, the graceful, stylized figure unmistakable. On Devia, it was common - the holy symbol for Vis, their Scholar Saint.
On Gallifrey, it was the Seal of Rassilon.