Author's Notes - A very sincere thank you to ceeare and Wannabe Darklord for reviewing. It's nice to know people are interested in this story. Yes, the rescue is in this chapter, but if you've read any of my other stories, you'll know that nothing is that simple, so don't expect a resolution anytime soon. The writing for this is going very well. I will try to update more often. Hope you enjoy!

Though extremely stressful, Rick's debriefing went better than he could have ever expected. The disastrous session with Ninety-Six where he had begged for his cellmate's life was not part of the surveillance footage. Without that key piece of evidence, his outward actions could all be explained away, which he did with alacrity.

Sitting between the two senior agents, he spun a plausible yarn. "Yeah, Ninety-Six and I decided to play good cop/bad cop almost from the beginning. His position was perfect for the position of bad cop, while mine was more suited to comforting the girl and gaining her trust."

Agent One, a thin brunette who looked hot even at eighty, quietly interrupted. "From reviewing the footage, it's my understanding that your partner wasn't open to the suggestion at first."

Rick played with his empty coffee cup. "Well, Ninety-Six's proclivities have always clouded his judgment. He likes pain, not that there's anything wrong with that, but it does sometimes make him more resistant to other methods of interrogation."

Agent Two, a portly man who looked to be in his early fifties (complete with a receding hairline) quickly interjected. "We're well aware of your partner's appetites, Agent Sixty-Nine. Rest assured that you may speak freely here. His pleasure in others' pain has its place within the Agency, and nothing you say to us will be used against him. I'm more interested in knowing what you gave the prisoner the first night of her incarceration with you, and why."

He smiled affably. This was a question he could handle; the Agency wasn't going to punish him for saving her life, not after she had promised to talk. "Her hearts were slowing to the point of stopping. Let me tell you, that sounds weird to say even now. I've never seen a humanoid that didn't have reptilian ancestry with two hearts. Still wondering about that, to be honest."

When they didn't comment, he swiftly continued. "I smelled the Serum 78 on her breath, and figured she was having a reaction. One of the scientists had given me a packet of stimulants as a thank you for . . . ." He paused searching for a word that wouldn't result in a reprimand.

"We're aware of your appetites as well, Sixty-Nine," Agent One impatiently informed him. "You will not be punished for performing sexual favors for the staff. Does that help your answer?

Rick deliberately flushed, deciding that an appearance of chagrin might not go amiss. "A thank you for a favor, then. I used the stimulant to save her life. I didn't think the Agency would lift my sentence if she died the first night under my care."

Agent One scribbled furiously on an old fashioned piece of paper with an antique ballpoint pen. Reading upside down, Rick could see her latest note: Serum 78 has detrimental effect on subject. She noticed his scrutiny and blandly asked him to continue.

"So, you saved her life and fed her in an attempt to create a bond with her. Very good initiative, Agent. Now, we have a question about this scene here."

The video shifted to the point when he had attempted to carry Ilsa to the infirmary, and had fallen unconscious for his pains. Rick shifted in his seat, hoping his nervousness didn't show. He had a feeling that the two most senior agents had been much more observant than the morons in lab coats. He would have to be somewhat honest, and very, very careful.

"That's when I attempted to enter her mind. She had a concussion, and I thought that if she didn't talk, it might be easier to communicate with her telepathically. It was a stupid plan, I admit. I ended up passing out."

The agents suddenly became very interested. "Were you able to make contact?"

"Nah, her barriers are really strong. No idea whether they're natural or practiced, but I couldn't get into her mind at all."

"They're natural and practiced, Sixty-Nine, and I would have been astonished if you had been able to breech them. She's not human, and her psi ranking is at least a hundred times greater than yours. Kudos to you for trying, though. You really did give your assignment some thought."

"Thanks." Alarm bells were sounding in his head. They had known she was a telepath. What else did they know about her?

"Um, no offense, but did Ninety-Six know she was a telepath? 'Cause, I've got to tell you, he didn't take that fact into account at all during his interrogations. She should have been subjected to the mind probe."

"Your partner had no need to know of her telepathic abilities, Agent. A standard mind probe would not have been powerful enough to breech her defenses. Rest assured, her interrogators are overcoming that obstacle even as we speak. She will divulge her secrets."

"Great," he gushed as his stomach clenched. The stupid girl—she could have saved herself so much pain by simply refusing to speak. Why had she felt compelled to save him? His life wasn't worth anyone's, much less hers.

"Just a few more questions, Agent. Why do you believe the terrorist saved your life? She compromised whatever mission she had undertaken by speaking."

"Believe me; I was as surprised as you." He grinned flippantly. "Maybe my charisma is stronger than I thought."

Sobering, he added, "If I had to analyze her reasoning, I'd say she's a zealot rather than an anarchist. She might commit acts of terrorism, but they're within her own skewed moral code. Dying for the cause was acceptable, but allowing someone else to die on her account was not. That might make her more dangerous than your run of the mill terrorist, but I have to say that I'm glad she turned out to be a zealot. I really wasn't looking forward to three days of torture before being executed."

The two senior agents shared a long look before Two asked, "Your partner didn't explain to you that you'd be freed no matter the outcome? Your death sentence was only meant to be a cover."

His lips compressed into a hard line. "What can I say? I guess he thought I lacked the proper motivation."

Agent One straightened in her chair, furiously scribbling notes that Rick couldn't decipher. After a few minutes, she looked up.

"Agent Sixty-Nine, you have been scrutinized by the two of us and upper management ever since this situation began to unfold. I must say that we have been impressed. You've seen combat, successfully completed ninety-eight percent of your missions, and are a keen observer and judge of character even when flirting outrageously enough to put Casanova to shame. From the surveillance we've watched, it's clear you know how to manipulate a situation to your advantage, and you're not afraid of enduring pain to reach your goals. Have you ever considered becoming a candidate for the upper echelons?"

"Sure. Who hasn't? While I'm flattered, I think you've forgotten why I was in jail in the first place."

"As we stated earlier, Sixty-Nine, we're well aware of your tendency to screw anything capable of giving consent. We both know the real reason you're in jail is that you publically suggested that Agent Forty-One had been killed by a Dalek."

"Yeah, well . . . ." He hastily schooled his features into an expression of contrition. He had to appear truly ignorant.

"There's no need to apologize, Agent. You are, of course, quite correct. The Daleks have indeed returned. We have attempted to keep this information under wraps in order to prevent widespread panic. They have not attacked as of yet, and we have taken steps to ensure that they never will. Really, I must applaud your keen powers of observation. Nothing liquefies the internal organs quite like a Dalek particle beam."

For the first time in a long while, Rick was completely flummoxed. He had a suspicion that the Time Agency had cut some sort of deal with the Daleks and were now collaborating with the enemy. Why else would the Orgons have taken over the prison?

"I don't know what to say. I mean, you've told me that they aren't a threat, and yet . . . ."

"You wish to know why they killed Agent Forty-One?" the woman suggested.

"Yeah, that pretty much covers it."

Unfortunately for Forty-One, he was the first to encounter the Daleks. Let's just say the meeting was somewhat hostile. However, he was able to send a message to headquarters before he was shot, and several agents, myself included, ambushed the three Daleks before they could harm anyone else. We are convinced they are not the advance scouts for an invasion, and after we finished with them, they understood that cooperation was the key to remaining in this sector of space. The situation is well in hand."

He had to stifle a snort. Daleks didn't cooperate unless they had a reason to do so, which meant the situation was well in hand only so long as the Daleks needed something. Then, they'd crush Tempus Tor like it was made of talc. And, he had a horrible feeling that once Ilsa talked, they would no longer need the Time Agency. Really, he was going to do them a favor by rescuing her.

"Okay, I can buy that. I mean, they were god knows where for over two hundred years. Considering weapons' development in the last two centuries, they're probably not as intimidating as they used to be. So, were you serious about the upper echelon, or were you just trying to flatter me?"

As an aside, he winked. "Which worked, by the way. Any time you want to go out for drinks, I know this cozy little bar on Balhoun that has the best flaming mojitos."

Agent One sniffed disdainfully. "Please spare me, Agent Sixty-Nine. I'm old enough to be your grandmother, great-great-grandmother actually, if the rumors about the Shanii are true. Your people do tend to breed quite young."

His good-humor faded. "They're not my people, not anymore, and you know why if you've read my file. So, you'll understand my reasoning when I request the back pay and leave that was promised if I got the girl to speak. I need some time to—"

The balding man curtly interrupted him. "We know about your brother, Agent. You do understand how dangerous it is to meddle with your own timeline, don't you?"

He bristled. If there was one thing he took seriously, it was the Laws of Time. "I'm not trying to prevent the attack, Two. I'm simply trying to track my brother. If he survived, and if he was taken onto the attackers' ship, then I want to know about it. Rescuing him from those raiders now will not affect my timeline. I never had the opportunity to do much more than make inquiries when I was younger, and it's not going to cause a paradox if I take a few weeks off to do some research in the archives."

"Agreed," One said briskly, already standing. "You have three weeks, Agent Sixty-Nine, and unrestricted access to the archives. Your back pay has already been credited to your account. Report to Headquarters in twenty-one days to begin your training."

"Yes, ma'am," he grinned, giving her a jaunty salute.

He had every reason to be happy. He was not about to die a slow and painful death for disloyalty. Best of all, he had twenty-one days to manipulate in order to stage Ilsa's rescue.

Whistling merrily as he left the debriefing, he vowed to show Jeanie a very good time that night on Balhoon.

After a day spent deep in the bowels of the Time Agency archives, Agent Sixty-Nine was more than ready for some food and sleep. With the ease of long practice, he disabled the chronometer on his wrist strap. For the next twelve hours, he wouldn't exist, at least to his superiors.

Briefly, he debated his dinner choices before deciding upon a restaurant he had discovered while on a mission to Sto. Their fruit flambé would be the perfect dessert to accompany his mussel pie. Plus, the restaurant had the added bonus of being off the beaten path. As far as he knew, he was the only Time Agent ever to visit the dull planet, so there was little chance of running into a rival during his unofficial visit.

Once he had eaten, he walked to a hotel near their main space port. There he rented a room, paying with an untraceable credit stick that he had acquired on Balhoun the night before. Jeanie had been much too inebriated by then to notice the quiet transaction, and he was in no danger of discovery.

Still, it paid to be cautious. Making a discreet circuit of the monstrosity of a building, he easily determined that no one was following him or interested in his whereabouts. For the rest of the evening, he did calisthenics while listening to data recordings that detailed humanoid species with two hearts.

There were more species with two hearts than he had realized, but as he had suspected, the vast majority were reptilian. The only reference he could find that came close to describing Ilsa was a rather sketchy article about a species known as Time Lords under the heading Myths and Legends of the Milky Way.

Listening to it had been akin to hearing a fairytale; the species was godlike in its powers. In fact, the author had asserted that they had created the Time Vortex itself. Dismissing such outlandish tales as nonsense, he skipped the rest of the entry.

He did find one ostensibly promising record. The species had a binary cardiovascular system and were purported to be telepathic. Unfortunately, they lived in the El Gordo galaxy cluster and were said to be quite reclusive. They identified themselves as Blue Bloods, as opposed to the red-blooded mammals that inhabited their planet.

When he read a detailed description, however, he knew he was on the wrong track. The males were an electric blue, almost neon, while the females were purple with long patches of white hair on their chests. Since the majority of Ilsa's hair had been on top of her head and she was a pale peach color, he dismissed the record as well, leaving him as ignorant as before as to which species she belonged.

Mildly disappointed, he took a quick shower under the sonic jets before crawling into bed. He planned on sleeping for eight to ten hours before returning moments after he left. With the necessity of sleeping out of the way, he could spend the entire night researching the history of Galbon. If he did manage to free Ilsa, he would need somewhere safe to hide her. Where better than with her family?

As the Dalek mind probe tightened around her head, Emma fought the urge to scream. She had read detailed reports of the fate of Time Lords who had been subjected to the new, more powerful mind probes. The five who had been unfortunate enough to survive had had their minds shattered by the force of the mental intrusion. Two had committed suicide not long after their rescue, and the remaining three were now housed in the Citadel infirmary under a suicide watch. She had no desire to share their fate.

Struggling uselessly against the Orgons who held her, she felt the psychotropic drugs seep into her cerebrospinal fluid as the mind probe pierced her flesh. Her mental defenses went first, her time perception second. It was an odd sensation, as if she had been blinded or had amputated her limbs. She could not say if she had been in the chair for minutes or hours, and she felt panic clawing at her throat.

Then, she felt the pain. It was as if someone had poured molten steel down her spine. She writhed in agony, screaming until she was too hoarse to make a sound. As abruptly as it had begun, it stopped, to be replaced by a relentless assault against her mind.

The Daleks wanted the code to the transduction barrier, something that she could not afford to give them. So far, Gallifrey had been spared the brunt of the war, but without the protection of the transduction barrier, the planet would be vulnerable to a military assault. Thousands of civilians would be killed, including the six thousand plus children who sheltered at the Time Lord Academy.

She could not allow them to be casualties. Their deaths would demoralize her people. No child had been loomed or born on Gallifrey in eight years, a silent testament to the people's dwindling morale. To lose their future would be to lose their last hope.

Desperate, she did the only thing she could do. She retreated into her mind, burrowing her consciousness so far down that the Daleks would have no hope of finding her. Of course they would try, and her psyche would suffer untold damage, but it was better to die broken than to live as a coward. Unexpectedly, she felt content. In the end, she had no reason to be ashamed.

Rick blearily eyed his chronometer. He couldn't remember if he had slept in the last thirty hours or not, but desperation drove him. He only had seven days left, and he was no closer to finding the species to which Ilsa belonged than he had been on that first, wildly optimistic day. Nor had he discovered any new leads on Gray. It was as if the raiders had simply vanished once they had completed their attack.

After much pilfering of the archives, however, he thought he had found the best time to attempt a rescue. In sixteen days, Tuem would be hit by massive solar flares, knocking out long-range communication for at least six hours. It would be the perfect opportunity to free her—if she was still alive.

Ignoring his doubts, he disabled the chronometer yet again. Holding tightly onto his sonic blaster, he teleported directly into the interrogation room. It was depressingly empty. Not letting that deter him, he scanned for double heartbeats and found her unique signature coming from the lowest level of the prison. Dodging the other life signs, he sprinted towards her cell.

With a cool efficiency, he blasted six Orgons out of existence as he descended deep within the prison. He'd never been to the lowest levels before, and he couldn't say he was impressed. Many of the cells had long since been abandoned. They were filled with outdated equipment and broken piles of junk. He hadn't even registered so much as a heartbeat on the last five floors, but Ilsa's double pulse was a distinct signature drawing him ever downwards.

It took him another twenty minutes, but at long last, he was facing the entrance to her prison. Instead of an efficient force field, however, her door was made of nothing more than thick steel. Almost casually, he disintegrated the last barrier to her freedom and stepped inside.

In the dark, the smell assaulted him first. Gagging, he retreated to the fresher air of the corridor until he was certain he could hold down his lunch. Fearing the worst, he lit his torch.

"Ilsa?"

She was huddled in the far corner, one arm held protectively over her head. While it was impossible to see her face under the tangle of wild, filthy hair, he knew something was horribly wrong. She didn't acknowledge his presence at all. Instead, she rocked rhythmically back and forth, humming a childish tune he didn't recognize.

"Ilsa? Sweetheart? I'm here to take you someplace safe."

The rocking didn't stop. Overcoming his instinctive revulsion at the sheer amount of filth covering her, he gently touched her shoulder. She had no discernible reaction, so he tenderly moved her left arm from atop her head.

He noticed several things at once. Her skin was dry, cool, cracked and bloodied. Her nails had been chewed past the quick. She had no bruising to speak of, but her flesh stretched too tightly over the bone, as if every ounce of fat had melted away. He had to stifle a curse.

As carefully as he could, he placed his hands on either side of her head, forcing her to look into his eyes. This time, he choked out a strangled sob at what he couldn't deny.

"Sweetheart, no."

There was no spark of intelligence behind her green irises. Her withdrawal from reality had been so complete that she didn't notice him kneeling before her. With a desperation born of crushing guilt, he cupped her cheek and deliberately attempted to enter her mind.

Much later, he would describe the experience as walking through a dust storm full of broken glass. Everything was a chaotic, jumbled mess, and he could feel the jagged remnants of her mind pierce his own consciousness in a futile attempt to make a solid connection with reality.

"Ilsa! Ilsa! ILSA!"

He searched as swiftly and systematically as he could, hoping that he could find enough of her identity left intact to bring it to the surface. Eventually, he discovered her in the form of a small child crying in a bleak landscape of broken, rust colored boulders. Unhesitantly, he wrapped his arms around her and fought his way with her to the surface of her thoughts.

His haste had most likely damaged her further, but he had been forced to act quickly when he had felt his own consciousness begin to fray. He had only done the best he could to give her a fighting chance at reintegrating her psyche. If he hadn't acted when he did, she would have been lost forever.

Wrenching himself out of her mind, he lay panting on the concrete floor, too exhausted to move. After a few minutes rest, he warily opened his eyes, afraid of what he might see.

She had stopped her rocking to stare at him. There was a frank curiosity behind her gaze, but no recognition whatsoever. Reaching out to her, he held her hands.

"Hold onto me, Ilsa. I'm going to take you someplace where you can get better, but I need you to keep holding my hand."

She cocked her head to the side as if that would allow her to better understand. After a moment's consideration, she hesitantly remarked, "I don't think that's my name."

He smiled out of sheer relief. At least she could speak. Perhaps hoping for a complete recovery wasn't such madness after all. It would simply take time, and with his Vortex Manipulator, he had plenty enough of that.

"I know, princess, but it's the only one you gave me. When you remember, you can tell me, okay? Right now, though, you need to hold on tight."

Immediately, she flung her arms around his chest. Hoping she wouldn't panic, he engaged his Vortex Manipulator and vanished from Tuem with a loud pop. The guards wouldn't notice her absence for another two weeks, having been given strict orders to open the door only to retrieve her corpse.