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TEN

When the Doctor finished showering in the morning, he stepped out into the state room and announced, as expected, that he was in shape to continue with the Tactile Sessions today, in spite of the fact that the extra-long, previous day had drained him, in every possible way.

"Are you sure?" Martha asked, guiding him over to the wardrobe by the upper arm and shoulder. "Do you remember what it was like last night?"

He cleared his throat uneasily. "Yes, I do," he said softly. "I freaked out. But you helped me calm down."

She took her hands off him for the moment. "I did. I mean, I tried. Ultimately, I didn't do anything that... anyway, Doctor, don't you think you should just take a day?"

"Isn't that why you're needed in this with me?" he asked. "To calm me? To keep me on an even-keel and motivated to continue pushing forward with this holographic forestation thing, agreeing to the very thing that makes me miserable?"

"I suppose."

"Well, you did a brilliant job of it," he told her, pulling open the wardrobe and reaching to the right. Blue suit and accessories today.

"So are you trying to motivate me now?" she asked.

"I suppose I am!"

Pointedly, neither of them discussed how the calm had been achieved. There was no mention of the acute sensory experience the Doctor had had, his blindness having isolated him. They did not speak of how he had been needing, viscerally, to compensate for his lack of vision. He had felt her, listened to her breathe, smelled her, and if he could have done so with any sort of tact, he would have tasted her. After three days, the memories and the blindness and the sadness and the mucking-about with his brain chemistry, it all had him feeling adrift. Who else could he cling to, to reel him back in? But as he had said, he felt he needed to know her again...

In spite of himself, part of the pleasant experience of knowing Martha Jones was seeing her. He couldn't know her visually just now, so, he'd had to reach out for her.

"Are you really on a full tank today?"

"No," he told her, with a sigh. "Not even close. In fact, I feel melancholy, like... all the space I occupy in the whole universe has turned to chalky black smoke."

"Oh, God," she moaned.

"But it's a hundred times better than the way I felt last night. At least I don't feel like a whole chimney of chalky black smoke trapped in a thimble anymore. And, I think this is as good as it gets, until I cut ties with this lot. And, I don't want to take a day off because it actually does mean one more day in the bag with Vissa and the gang."

"Fine," she agreed. "I'll let you get dressed then. Just shout when you've got clothes on. I'll come and deal with your hair if you want."

She slipped out onto the balcony to sulk a bit.

She was glad he felt she'd done a "brilliant" job of it. She did know that her role in this was to help boost his morale and keep him motivated to keep returning to the thing causing him pain. She did think this was an important responsibility, and she had, more or less, committed to doing it.

But what no-one had bargained for, not the Doctor, not Vissa, not even Martha, was how much, how thoroughly, how violently, the process would drain her, the escort, the support system, or whatever she was called. There was the worry, the mistrust, the lack of sleep. There was the emotional strain of watching him suffer. There was dealing with the unwanted holographic debris, arguing with Vissa, fighting for the Doctor's rights, being expected to be such a damn rock all the time... and it was hard, and she had no idea when it would be over.

Though, the more she thought about it, the more she doubted that this situation would be unique to them, or to her, just because she had these unrequited feelings for the Doctor. Watching any loved one go through something like the dreaded and storied Welling, the heart-rending depression that they now knew so intimately, it was bound to take its toll on anyone. Sure, Martha knew that the subject him (or her-)self was far worse off in the long-run, and the ultimate considerations and/or say-so should fall to him or her. But she felt that the person at the subject's right hand did deserve some input. And, she felt that if she pointed this out to the Doctor, he would probably understand, as he had last night, but something inside her just would not let her bring it up. She already felt guilty for "shirking" her duties the afternoon before.

So, there she was, pouting on the balcony, mentally trying to steel herself to go back inside the Tactile Room for another foray into the Doctor's past, both conscious and unconscious.

How in the world could she stand another glimpse at the Mystery Woman? Especially after allowing herself to take rather a delicious, languid pleasure in her tactile encounter with the Doctor in the middle of the night? Especially now, when all she felt was anger at the whole blasted lot of it?

She was not angry with him for initiating it - how could she be? It was her job, her role, plain and simple. She was his companion, and she was a healer. The treatment he had needed, which he had more or less administered to himself with her help, had been almost as cut-and-dry as if it were an epinephrine shot for a seizure.

Almost. At least, it was easier to tell herself this.

No, her anger was with herself, for enjoying it. For letting down her guard, and letting it take her and make her forget for a while. For letting it pervade everything.

Until it had happened, she had been merely jealous of the woman in the Doctor's hologram. Sure, it had been real and visceral, but explainable.

Today, it was something else. She felt sick over it. She felt rage and sadness and despair and bemusement all at once. It made her want to crawl in a little ball. Being touched last night had changed it all. It had changed the colour of their strange, but working rapport, at least from her end.

And on the Doctor's end... well, even when he wasn't blind, he'd never seen any colours at all in their rapport, so what did it matter to him?

He freaked out, she helped calm him, and that was all. On to the next day's work.

"Well, good morning, you two," Vissa said in a sprightly manner as the Doctor and Martha arrived outside the Tactile Room.

As usual, she was standing at the door to meet them. What was not usual was the fact that she was backed by three thuggish types, all dressed in black military uniforms.

But the Doctor did not see them, nor did he see the bitter, on-guard expression on Vissa's face. And so, he answered as he usually would. "A jolly good morning to you, as well, Vissa."

Martha, fully realising the nuances of the exchange, observing what the Doctor could not, nudged him with her left arm and said, "No, no. Shh."

She couldn't help being condescending. She couldn't explain just now.

"I trust you had a restful night," said the white-haired, white-skinned woman, almost with a growl.

The Doctor heard it that time. "Whoa, what is that?" he said, with a confused frown. "As a matter of fact, no we didn't - neither one of us. What's with the tone?"

"Tell me the truth, Doctor, Miss Jones. Who are you? Who are you, really, and why have you come here?" To accompany her loaded questions, Vissa crossed her arms over her chest, and stuck out one hip, as a show of bravado. Though, in her display and rhetoric, both Martha and the Doctor separately received the sense that she was attempting to hide fear.

"Vissa, what are you on about?" the Doctor asked, before Martha could fire back something a bit less tactful. "You know who we are! You're the one who recruited us - you know why we're here!"

"A likely story, Doctor," Vissa seethed. "But there are some holes in it, alas."

"What holes?"

"Admittedly, you've been... transparent in your way," Vissa said. "We have checked the Veridic probe, and there has been no evidence of tampering, other than the initial tests you performed on day-one with your sonic screwdriver. So you have been letting us extract images from your tactile memory as promised - thank you. I'm not sure why you have been allowing it, but then again, the game has changed, has it not?

"Evidently," he muttered.

"But in your arrogance, what you had not bargained for was the incidental debris that seeps in from your subconscious."

"No, I hadn't," the Doctor said flatly, letting go of Martha's hand and taking his typical defensive stance, of hands-in-pockets.

"From it, we learned much... though we didn't know how much until this morning. No doubt, Miss Jones has been keeping you well abreast of that bit."

"Yeah, for his own good," Martha protested.

"Against my orders," Vissa pointed out.

"Your orders? Who do you think you are, exactly?" Martha asked, her temperature and tone rising.

"A very good question," the Doctor pointed out, again, muttering.

"Your front is indeed impressive," said Vissa. "But now that I have found out more about you, I must ask what you are hiding." Her eyes darted back and forth between him and Martha, and once again, Martha got the distinct feeling that Vissa was covering her own, very real, trepidation.

Martha pulled her emotions under control, making the quick decision to give Vissa the benefit of the doubt, at least for the moment. Whether she was frightened of something, or whether she was hiding something, either way, one could catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.

"All right, all right, everyone just... slow down," she said, taking a deep breath for herself. "Vissa, please tell us what you think you have found out about the Doctor."

"It's not just the Doctor, it's you, Miss Jones, if that is your real name."

"As it happens, it is my real name," Martha said, patiently. "But what is it you've found?"

"Allow me to introduce you to my friends," Vissa responded, gesturing to her three large bodyguards. "The four of us will be glad to show you what we mean."

Two of the military men moved behind Martha and the Doctor, and the third got between them and Vissa. They all faced Vissa's left, the Doctor and Martha's right. Martha grabbed the Doctor's arm and tugged, as he did not receive the follow us cue that their hosts' body language had suggested. Vissa led the way down a side corridor, just as warm, pink and as much like the inside of a whale as the rest of the foyer area, only narrower.

After a relatively short walk, they came to a door, which Vissa opened with a key, and all six parties went inside.

It was a large conference room, all black on the inside, much like the Tactile Room. A large, shiny, amoeba-shaped table had chairs situated so as to direct the sitters' attention toward a large screen.

There were already two others inside the room when they arrived, a man and a woman, both dressed in warm colours, more or less like Vissa, both sitting. They did not bother to get up when the Doctor and his companion were escorted in.

Martha recognised them both as "experts" who had been in the gallery of the Tactile Room during the Doctor's holographic sessions.

"This is Gruner, he is our environmental impact expert," Vissa said, gesturing toward the man already in the room. "This is Zefura, our military strategist."

"You had a military strategist in the Tactile sessions?" Martha asked, unable to stop herself. "What for, just in case the fake trees should attack?"

"That, Miss Jones, is none of your concern at the moment," Vissa answered. "Gruner, Zefura, I assume you recognise our guests."

"Perhaps," said Zefura, silkily. Her skin was as blanched as Vissa's, but her hair was jet-black, shiny and domed like a helmet. She wore triangular eyeglasses, and the overall effect was quite severe.

"Okay, okay, just show us what you've come here to show us," the Doctor insisted, with a tired tone. "Or... show Martha what you've come here to show us, so she can tell me what the hell is going on."

"There is a threat, Doctor," said Vissa, pulling out a chair between Gruner and Zefura, and gesturing to Martha to have him sit. "And I believe the vessel posing the threat will be of particular interest and familiarity to you."

"Oh, okay... now... listen..." he said, protesting as Martha tried to get him to one side of the irregularly-shaped conference table.

"Did you really think we wouldn't eventually find out, Doctor?" asked Zefura, in a maddeningly singsong voice. "The question is, what is it that you, and/or whoever is in that ship, want?"

Martha managed to wrestle him down into the chair, and she took her place in the empty seat beside him. He said, "I don't know what sort of madness you've picked up on your scanners, but you've got to understand, it's a very old vessel, and if she's gone haywire, and is sending out some kind of signal... well, she needs attention, that's for sure, but there's no threat! Not from me! All you had to do was tell me, and I'd have quieted her. I'm sure it's just an energy malfunction, or a leak of some kind. Just let me into the storage space. You don't even have to give me my sight back - I can show Martha how to fix her!"

Zefura laughed, again, maddeningly. She looked at Vissa and Gruner. "Can you believe this? He's trying to convince us that blue box is his ship." She crossed her arms over her chest and sat back in her chair. "The arrogance."

"Well, yes, I am trying to convince you of that... I suppose... now you mention it, because, in point of fact, it is my ship. It's called the TARDIS."

"It's an escape pod, and you know it," Zefura lilted. "Or, at the very least, some type of extension of a parent vehicle."

The Doctor's face went stony, as if in disbelief of the stupidity, egotism, ignorance, et cetera, he was experiencing. "Well, you do seem sure of yourself. What you're saying fits neatly into whatever scenario you've decided is occurring in spite of the evidence and whatever is actually occurring, so you must be correct, because as everyone knows, all belief-systems that are bent to accommodate previously held 'knowledge' are flawless and have withstood the test of time. Oh, by the way: apologies for using air-quotes," he said. He sniffed, as if with finality, then asked, "So what do you say Martha, time to confess our evil plan?"

Zefura laughed, while Vissa stiffened with the tension mounting in the room.

"Doctor, you can vomit sarcasm on me all you like," said the dark-haired woman. "But I am a trained military strategist with over a century's worth of experience."

He smiled big. "Oh, then, ho ho! You must know an escape pod when you see one. Or, what did you call it? At the very least some type of extension of a parent vehicle. Now that ladies and gentlemen, is specific, applicable, real-world knowledge you can take to the bank. Yes siree-Bob."

"It's a two-passenger jettison pod," Zafura said, unamused. "I'd bet my life on it."

"Seriously?" he asked, squeaking a bit. "Five seconds ago, you were calling it an indistinct some type of extension of a larger entity. Now you're betting your life on some fairly specific mumbo-jumbo."

"Escape pod. Otherwise, why would it be as small as it is?"

"Er, I'm a Time Lord, haven't you received the memo? Have you looked inside the escape pod? I think you might be surprised."

"No need, Doctor," Zefura informed him. "Just look. Miss Jones? Vissa?"

Vissa activated some kind of large screen. "This is the threat," she announced. "It is currently orbiting our planet, and closing in at a speed of eighteen-thousand miles per revolution."

Zefura commented, "We have intercepted malevolent signals from it, belonging to certain electronic weaponry that is, in fact, illegal in this galaxy."

Vissa placed her hands on her hips. "You lied to us. You said you had never seen it before, and yet, here it is, turning up within a week of your arrival. And we know it has been at the forefront of your mind, since it's manifested as psychic debris on the holographic field, now three times. This is not a coincidence. You tricked us! What do you two have to say for yourselves?"

The Doctor had absolutely no idea.

Martha was too busy staring in disbelief to say anything.

Because, on the screen in real-time, there glowed a purple, undulating, tentacled spaceship.