Prologue: Terminus
Nyssa of Traken, Chief Administrator of the medical satellite known as Terminus, sat in her office. The only illumination came from the small light on her cluttered desk. The face revealed by the partial lighting was that of a young woman, but one on whose shoulders life had settled some heavy burdens. Her skin was smooth and unlined, auburn hair untouched by gray, falling in thick curls against her face, but her eyes were shadowed by more than the dim lighting, the frown she wore as she read through one of the day's many reports adding to the illusion of age brought on by a life spent in the care of others.
There was an air of authority to her that belied her obvious youth, the indefinable aura of one who has traveled a great distance from home yet managed to avoid cynicism in the process. Idealism could still be glimpsed, although she was far from feeling idealistic this night. The administrative details of running a major medical station could wear down even the most optimistic of people.
A cold cup of tea was half-buried under the mound of paper and computer disks that littered the desk's surface, and a half-eaten biscuit lay next to it, as forgotten as the tea. She should have gone to bed hours ago; she would have a busy day tomorrow, as she'd had a busy day today and the day before that and all the days before that. Busy days were par for the course on Terminus, even after she'd been forced to give up her research to devote herself full-time to administrative duties. Especially since then.
She rested her head on her hands, scrubbing tiredly at her eyes before leaning back in her seat for a stretch that did nothing to relieve her aching back. For every crisis resolved, ten more seemed to crop up. "I think I need a vacation," she murmured to herself, but there was no real conviction in her voice. For one thing, where would she go? The Eye of Orion came to mind, but she instantly discarded it. Too many memories.
That was her real problem; no matter where she went, her memories traveled with her. The one thing she couldn't escape was herself, and a simple vacation wouldn't give her the peace of mind she so desperately needed.
Terminus had seemed like a godsend, when she first arrived and saw how badly the space station needed to be taken in hand—had it really only been five years ago? Now, in spite of the avalanche of paperwork on her desk, everything was actually running smoothly. Her efforts had attracted notice; that notice had generated first scorn, then curiosity, and finally admiration. That in turn had led to much-needed assistance, when it became obvious that the radiation treatments for the plague were actually working. The first shipload of volunteers had made a tremendous difference, and more and more came every year.
Soon, the plague itself would be completely under control. One of her researchers had achieved what Nyssa had despaired of ever accomplishing; he'd created a vaccine. It was still relatively untested, but the hope it generated was almost as good as the vaccine itself. Fewer and fewer victims arrived too late for help; more and more came when they first discovered their condition, voluntarily. And every year, more of them left, healthy, with renewed hope and faith. Some even stayed on to assist with the other patients or the day-to-day operations of the station; most of her engineers and technical staff were, in fact, former patients and members of their grateful families.
But even with all the people who passed through the station, all the researchers and technicians and support staff and doctors and nurses and medics, Nyssa still felt alone. She had no friends, no one she was truly close to. There were times when she regretted that more than anything else; on the TARDIS, she'd at least had friends. Here, she had no one, and she wasn't really sure why. Part of it was because too many people treated her with a respect bordering on awe she hardly felt she deserved.
But, loathe as she was to admit it, there was more to it than that. At first, there simply hadn't been enough time for her to form relationships of a personal nature; later, she admitted in the silence of her private office, she used her work and the frequent awe with which people regarded her as an excuse to keep her distance. It was the one thing she couldn't quite figure out how to fix, this...reticence on her part. She'd gained a reputation as a miracle worker by what she considered simple persistence and a desire—no, a need—to turn Terminus into the medical station it should have been from the start, to save the lives of the people who ended up there. But she couldn't fix her own life. It was ironic, really; Nyssa found herself wondering how the Doctor had managed it. His responsibilities were infinite, compared to hers; yet he somehow managed to form the relationships she had trouble with. Friendships, anyway. Her lips twisted wryly as she admitted that he'd never seemed to form any romantic attachments.
No matter how other people might have felt.
"That's it, Nyssa; off to bed with you." She pushed the chair away from the desk and rose to her feet. "Once you start getting maudlin about the 'good old days,' it's time and past time for you to get some sleep."
"I couldn't agree with you more." Nyssa whirled at the sound of that soft voice; her desk faced the door, she would have seen anyone enter her office, how could someone be in the room with her? She tried to get a good look at the speaker, but his face was in shadow. Before she could move away from her desk, he moved forward with blinding speed, and she felt something hit her with enough force to bring her to her knees. A second blow sent her already reeling consciousness quickly to oblivion.
The TARDIS
The Doctor came slowly to consciousness, inexplicably finding himself lying by the base of the console on the floor of his TARDIS. Why he had collapsed, how long he had been unconscious, what had transpired during his blackout, all were questions that demanded answers. And all were questions that might not be answerable, he dizzily admitted as he brushed away several strands of blonde hair that had fallen across his eyes. Time for a trim, he thought irrelevantly, then winced as a wave of dizziness and nausea passed over him.
When it passed, he managed to raise his head and roll over on his side. From there it was just a matter of pulling himself to his knees to take a cautious look around. Nothing seemed out of place, except for his pounding head and protesting stomach, of course. He ignored his body's complaints, pulling himself to his feet through sheer force of will, leaning heavily against the console as he waited for the dizziness to subside.
Once his head felt as if it would stay attached to his body and not go floating off at the slightest movement, the Doctor forced himself to stand fully upright in an attempt to take visual stock. He scanned the small console room, wincing as a few, residual waves of dizziness and nausea passed over him. Nothing seemed out of place, nothing appeared to be broken or missing...
He froze as he finally turned enough to see the TARDIS view screen. Instead of the surrounding landscape of whatever planet it was he'd landed on—if, indeed, he had landed somewhere, and wasn't still floating in the swirling void of the Vortex—it showed the interior of another TARDIS console room, a console room with a single occupant. The Doctor stared incredulously at the image of the Master lounging elegantly in a throne-like chair ostentatiously arranged in front of his own console. He leaned forward, his face breaking into a welcoming smile that made the Doctor's skin crawl.
"Ah, you're awake," the Master greeted him. "I must admit, I was tempted to simply kill you while I had you at my mercy, but—" he shrugged elegantly, "—I decided it would be better if I remained with my original plan." He settled back comfortably in his seat, fingers steepled, a mocking smile on his lips.
The Doctor wasn't having any of it. "What is it this time?" he demanded, residual nausea giving his voice an edge he normally wouldn't have allowed his enemy to hear. "Have you hidden a bomb on my TARDIS? Or is it a more elaborate booby trap?" He didn't bother asking how the Master had knocked him out, or what he had used; it wasn't important, not right now, and would only give the other Time Lord an opportunity to brag.
The Master made a tutting sound. "Not even going to congratulate me on my cleverness, Doctor? It took me quite a while to figure out how to connect our monitors." Another smile as the Doctor's eyes darted over the edges of the screen, as if the Master's words were to be taken literally. "Electronically connected, Doctor, rather symbolic of our own relationship. Connected, yet worlds apart. And now all we can see is each other."
"Very ingenious," the Doctor agreed through clenched teeth. The Master rarely needed an excuse—or encouragement—when it came to boasting. "I hereby congratulate you. Now, if you would be so kind as to answer my question?"
The last sentence was almost shouted, and the Master's eyebrows rose in an exaggerated gesture of surprise. "Really, Doctor, you astonish me. I do believe you're losing your temper."
The Doctor made an effort to rein in his impatience. He would get nowhere by shouting, and the Master would play his little games no matter what. He relaxed his combative stance, settling his face into a more neutral expression as he reached deep inside himself for the control he would need to continue this conversation. "Very well," he said pleasantly. "Forgive my lack of manners. To what do I owe this...honor?"
The Master ignored the sarcasm that virtually dripped from his adversary's tongue. "I thought you'd see it my way," he smirked. "It does my heart good to know that you haven't completely forgotten your etiquette." The smile vanished. "But enough of the social graces; on to business." The Doctor leaned forward at those words, bracing himself for whatever it was the Master happened to be up to this time, readying himself for the usual round of demands and ultimatums.
The Master rose from his chair, and the Doctor noted with part of his mind that he had shed his habitual black velvet for a loose, belted robe of deep gray whose billowing sleeves barely revealed his still-gloved hands. "We've known each other a long time, haven't we?" the renegade Time Lord mused. "Always adversaries, always representing opposite sides of the coin, you and I. I'd go so far as to say that we've never agreed on anything, have we?"
When it became obvious that he expected some sort of response, the Doctor shook his head. "No, we haven't. Even at the Academy. Even when we were supposedly working toward the same goal."
The Master nodded regally. "I'm sure you'll be delighted to know that I've finally discovered something we can share. Or rather," he added deliberately, "some one." He stepped back and pulled the massive wooden chair aside with a theatrical flourish, to reveal the unconscious form of Nyssa of Traken on the floor behind him.
The Doctor drew in his breath sharply at the unexpected sight of the woman he hadn't permitted himself to regret leaving on Terminus. Nyssa's arms were held awkwardly over her head, incongruously shackled to the TARDIS console with archaic iron manacles. She half-sat, half-lay in the cramped space beneath the mushroom-shaped control board, auburn curls tumbled in uncharacteristic disarray. The Doctor glimpsed her face through the partial screen of her hair, enough to see the dried blood and yellowish-purple of an ugly bruise on her temple.
The Master returned his attention to the view screen, caught the look of stunned concern the Doctor didn't bother to hide. "Oh, she is quite unharmed, I assure you." He glanced back down at his prisoner. "Well, mostly unharmed," he amended with a shrug. "I admit that the shackles are a theatrical touch, but they appeal to the showman in me." He returned his mocking gaze to the Doctor.
"What have you done to her?" the other Time Lord demanded, all pretense at patience gone.
The Master raised his head regally, shedding casualness—and his congenial mask—like a cloak. "Your problem has always been your emotions," he said disdainfully. "You foolishly allow your sentimentality to get in the way of your sensibility." A reflective pause. "Actually, I've gotten rather used to your emotional outbursts, and I must admit, I've never been one to turn down a weapon. Especially one that's been handed to me by my enemy. My only regret is that I didn't think of this sooner. Of course," he added, "I was never handed this particular weapon before."
"What weapon? Kidnapping?" the Doctor sneered. "Hostage taking? Oh yes, very original, that. Nothing you've ever tried before."
The Master frowned at the insult in the Doctor's voice. "Not just kidnapping or hostage taking," he corrected sharply. "Not this time."
The Doctor hid the chill that passed over him as he asked with feigned casualness, "Oh? Shall I dare to presume that you are going to inform me of your intentions sometime in the near future?"
The smile that spread slowly over the Master's face terrified the Doctor to the core of his soul. "Oh yes," came the low-voiced response. "Oh yes indeed."
"Where are you?" Suddenly, the Doctor was weary of the eternal game of cat and mouse he always seemed to be playing with his former school-mate. "What do you want me to do? Trade myself for Nyssa? Very well. I surrender. Just tell me where you are."
"Oh no, Doctor," the Master purred. "It's not that simple. I don't believe you've fully grasped my intentions yet." The Doctor stiffened at these words, staring speculatively at his adversary as he continued: "I told you this wasn't a simple hostage-taking." He made a dismissive gesture. "For once, you're actually right; there's no real imagination involved in that. No challenge. Which is exactly what I propose: A challenge. To begin…now." With that, he stepped over to the console and pressed a series of buttons. "I have just locked the signal between our screens. It cannot be turned off—or at least, not from your end." He touched his console lightly. "Only from here."
"To what purpose?" the Doctor asked, blue eyes narrowed suspiciously.
"It can be traced," the Master continued, ignoring the question. "I'm confident of your ability to home in on it...eventually."
"And—?" the Doctor prompted. "Surely that isn't all of it."
"Certainly not," the Master replied, offended. "That would be too simple a task for so mighty an intellect." His voice rang with mockery once again. "I intend to make it more...interesting."
"I would use many adjectives to describe this conversation, but 'interesting' would not be one of them," the Doctor snapped in exasperation. "What do you want to do? Put money on it?"
"I make no such petty wagers, Doctor," the Master sneered. "I bargain with nothing less than this woman's life." He let that sink in before continuing. "This all began on Trion, when I happened to run into someone you used to know. I wonder if you realize just how bitter Turlough is about you." He cocked his head inquisitively, then shook it in mock sympathy. "Perhaps not. At any rate, he and I met at a drinking establishment, one that catered to outworlders; he said he felt more comfortable there, after spending so much time away from his own world. I of course felt it prudent not to disclose my identity; you know how it is." He touched his chest in a self-deprecating manner, his gaze moving down to Nyssa. "I managed to get him talking about his travels with you, a fabled Time Lord." The Master's eyes hardened. "But not so fabled to a disillusioned young Trion nobleman..."
A/N: Another story I've dredged up from my past. I wrote this around 2005 and just had it beta'd (thanks moonmama!) in order to offer it up for your reading pleasure. It gets dark and angsty and made me squirm a little while writing it, to be honest, but I think it holds up. Let me know what you think as well.