Chapter 11 – Strange Bedfellows
The blasts of energy from the laser cannon barrage were deafening. Darginian was following him, as the Master made his way through the maze-like rubble field, searching for the next Dalek minefield. He ignored the CIA agent, his mind bent on his task. He scanned the area, checking the readings on his laser screwdriver with a frown.
"Found something?" the Captain asked him, his brown eyes doing their own more primitive scan.
"Yes, now keep quiet, so I don't blow us both up," he snapped and Darginian leaned against the remnants of a wall with a sigh. There was an audible click and the Master spun to see Darginian slowly close his eyes.
"I seem to have leaned against a bomb," the agent told him in a perfectly calm voice. "You'd better start running."
"Nonsense," he spat back. "Where will I find anyone as rational as you are to spy on me?" He stepped back to where the other man was leaning and ran a scan up the wall.
"Master, you really should just leave me," Darginian murmured and those brown eyes were watching him with curiosity and interest. He shrugged back at him.
"When have I ever done what I should?" he countered and slipped his micro tools behind Darginian, working to disarm the bomb. This close to him he could smell the nervousness on his skin. Despite his composed attitude, the spy was scared and the Master's respect for him increased. With a few deft motions he disarmed the bomb and let out his breath. "All done, Captain." He informed him and, with no hesitation, Darginian straightened.
"Thank you." There was no breathless gratitude in his words, but there was also no expectation of future favors either. Darginian continued to take him exactly as he was and that was novel enough to make him smile.
"I'd hate to have to break in a new spy, Captain," he waved off the whole interlude and continued on.
Darginian watched the Master moving forward again in confusion. He had no idea what to make of a homicidal narcissist who seemed to have no compunctions about killing people, yet had just risked his own life to save him.
There were depths here that he didn't understand and he hated his ignorance.
He followed after him, placing his feet more carefully this time, aware that he'd almost died from sheer carelessness.
The Doctor stood by the High Council's table, Susan beside him, and listened to the latest planning session with a sick feeling in his stomach.
Rassilon was staring at a Sim Board, moving armies and fleets around, discussing strategy and tactics with his ministers and generals. The Doctor was appalled as he listened, wondering when Rassilon had gone mad and how he'd missed it for so long. Why did madmen always sound so calm and reasonable? He'd pondered that one for years.
"Well, we'll lose half a million defending it, but if we don't push them here, they can slip around us…" He let the words fade out of his mind as he tried not to think about the terrible costs that had been paid already in this war. They'd already fought for nearly a hundred years, or five hundred, or a thousand, depending on which collapsed time lines you counted.
It wasn't as though Rassilon was alone in his madness, either. Mental Collapse was now the biggest problem on Gallifrey, as people who'd lived through a thousand collapsed time lines, who'd lost too many people, died too many times, and suffered too much pain, finally lost their ability to cope with the cumulative horrors of a time war.
The Doctor could feel it in his own mind, the tearing of sanity in those around him. So far, he'd held it away from himself, kept his mind intact, but he was starting to wonder. Was this what it felt like in the Master's head? Was this what it had been like for him at the Academy, feeling himself unraveling and not knowing how to stop it?
"We may simply have to sacrifice Golgotha, if we want to save Avalon, which is of far greater strategic importance," General Goethe was saying, a frown on his patrician features. Councilor Flavia shook her head.
"But the Golgothans have been our staunchest allies!" she protested. "If we abandon them, not only will we have broken our word to them, but our other allies will cease to trust us!"
"Then find me the resources to hold them both!" the General shouted back and his grief and anger were suddenly apparent. Up until now, the conversation had been polite, amiable, but the cracks were starting to show now.
The War was not going well and everyone in this room knew it.
"We have other problems as well," the Doctor interrupted. "Probability is starting to shatter; we're getting time line leakage into the main stream."
"How serious is it?" Rassilon asked and the Doctor handed him the equations he'd been working on. No matter that Rassilon was no longer completely sane, he was still one of the most brilliant minds that Gallifrey had ever birthed and he flipped through the Doctor's work swiftly, eyes going hard as the problem became apparent to him.
"We might be able to install Probability Stabilizers and run them off of the Eye, but even that will probably only hold for a few decades, after that, I cannot be certain the integrity of our Time Line will be supportable," the Doctor told him, face bleak.
"I can make some adjustments to your designs, get at least ninety years out of the stabilizers, but that will be all," Rassilon confirmed. "There might be a way to bend the probability curves, prevent complete fracture, even then, but it will be difficult."
"We could possibly set up dampeners or even siphon some of the energy off," the Doctor suggested and the Lord President nodded.
"Excellent idea, get to work on it, as quickly as you can."
"Doctor, may we have the report of the Surgeon General's Office?" Councilor Flavia asked her with a smile and Susan handed her the reports with a polite bow.
"My Lord President, My Lords and Ladies of the Council, the Surgeon General sends me with his report and requests," she began. "We are short on beds on several of the platforms, there is a rising incidence of Mental Collapse in front line soldiers, fifteen percent of our fighting force is presently incapacitated by it, the good news is that from our estimates at least twenty percent of the Dalek forces are also suffering from it…"
Andred felt the wrenching loss, even though they were far from Gallifrey. His hands clenched on the edge of the table and his face turned to stone. It felt as though someone had ripped his arm off in a moment and the agony was nearly overwhelming. The gaping hole in his mind hurt and he felt suddenly reduced, less than he had been even a moment ago.
"Love?" Leela murmured, stepping up behind him and wrapping her arms around his waist. "What's wrong?"
"My brother had a mental breakdown and killed himself. He refused to regenerate." The words were like stones on his heart and Leela began to weep behind him. He turned and clutched her against him, holding onto her like she could vanish from his arms.
He was missing a piece of his heart, of his soul, and the terrible feeling of emptiness where once his brother's mind had lived in his was a gaping wound in him.
Even if he survived the war, how much of him would be left?
Darginian followed the Master, as had become his habit on these ground missions, making sure to step where he stepped and not touch anything before he'd seen the Master scan it.
The Dalek's slaves were swarming over the city and the dark haired madman in front of him had just released a Nanite swarm that ought to destroy most of them. Dar felt a certain disgusted sympathy for the slaves. They'd been sentient beings before the Daleks had gone in and re-written their brains. However, sympathy was academic when someone was trying to kill you.
A Converted Draconian leapt over a wall at the Master and Darginian's shout of warning proved unnecessary, as the Master flipped the slave over him, grabbed the wires that stuck out of the creature's head and ripped them out, all in one smooth motion. Bits of brain and a gush of blood erupted from the slave's head and he sank down, shrieking and thrashing from pure reflex for several long moments.
"Disgusting," the Master clucked, brushing with futile gestures at the gray and red mess on his pants. He seemed uninterested in the plight of the Draconian, or in his death agonies, and Dar felt a little sick watching his callous disregard.
Another slave, this one human-looking, leapt from the darkness and Dar tracked it and killed it with his gun before it had a chance to land on the Master.
"Nice shot," the Master commented and Dar could see the calculations in his eyes. If he'd not fired, the creature most likely would have killed the Master, possibly permanently. So, they were now one for one on life saving.
"We should keep moving," he told the dark-haired man, who was smirking at him with a knowing look. It didn't make them friends, of course. The Master didn't have friends, after all. Still, he wasn't exactly sure why he felt protective of a man who'd just ripped out another man's brains. It made no sense at all.
"This used to be a nice planet, they made excellent croissants," the Master told him with a frown as he looked around at the devastation. "I liked it here." There was anger in his words and Darginian watched him carefully step around the corpse of the Draconian.
It occurred to him that callous disregard wasn't enjoyment. Thinking about it, the Master never seemed to enjoy the actual killing. What he enjoyed was the challenge. He seemed to like pitting his will and intellect against the Daleks, using his ingenuity to escape from danger and defeat his opponents. But, he wasn't a sadist.
"Maybe, once the war is over, they can make them again," Dar replied and the Master shook his head.
"Unlikely. The man you just shot was the Master Baker for this world. There won't be anyone left who even knows how to make a cracker, by the end of this," he informed Dar and the CIA agent felt sick. He glanced down at the man he'd killed. The Baker had once been plump, well-fed, and prosperous, but now he was a half-starved corpse dead in the middle of his home town, which had been turned into a battlefield.
"You knew him?" he asked the Master and the dark eyes looked down at the dead man with something akin to regret.
"He had two daughters, both ugly as sin, but they could bake like angels," he answered and his voice had that curious gentleness that Dar had heard there before. The Master shook himself and shot Dar a wry glance. "Even as ugly as they were, I was willing to bed them both for a half dozen croissants," he laughed and Dar found himself laughing as well.
There were days when he really wanted to hate the Master, yet he found it far harder than it ought to be. The other man chuckled as they moved forward again and shot Dar a grin of pure joy that seemed to warm the world.
He was a bundle of contradictions that all together made no sense at all. Dar just couldn't seem to get a handle on him. It was enough to drive an agent insane.
The Council meeting had finally dragged to an end. Her grandfather, Romana at his shoulder, was headed straight back into the fighting. He hugged her good-bye and she made herself smile brightly at him. Visions or no, there was always the chance, each time he went to off back to the Front, that he might not ever return. She didn't want his last sight to be of her crying. Still, it was so hard to watch him walk away. Romana waved a good-bye and Susan waved back, before turning to gather up her things.
"My Lady, Susanatrevalar," Rassilon addressed her and she turned and bowed to him. She made certain that it was absolutely correct, the precise angle that expressed his rank and her own high standing, but giving not even a tiny bit more to him. He smiled at her, but his jaw was clenched just a bit. He had come to expect a certain amount of worship from his people and her resistance seemed to irritate him.
"My Lord President." Her voice was cool, yet polite. She didn't want to anger him, her family would pay too dearly for that, but this man was not her friend and she knew it.
"Walk with me," he commanded and her hearts froze in sudden apprehension. He extended his arm and she was forced by protocol to accept it, even though touching him made her skin crawl.
He escorted her into the gardens outside the Council chambers and she walked beside him, face emotionless, and hearts racing in fear. The gardens were walled and soundproofed and very empty. She was immediately on edge.
"You wished to speak with me to some purpose, My Lord President?" she finally asked, unable to stand the silence any longer.
"Is it necessary to have a reason to want to talk to the grandchild of an old friend?" he retorted with a genial sounding chuckle and she felt a jolt of terror going through her. When Rassilon was making an effort to be charming and suave, it was a sure sign that he wanted something.
"I have twenty patients who await my presence, my Lord President, my duties are as pressing as your own," she answered, drawing away from him as much as she dared. She did have patients waiting for her, but she also desperately wanted to be anywhere else.
"You make conversation with you rather difficult, my Lady, when does a doctor not have patients?" She had too many secrets she needed to keep; she couldn't linger here around this man. She knew too much.
"My Lord President, with a war on, all doctors find conversation difficult on any subject other than their patient's welfare," she replied, trying to keep as much mental and verbal distance between them as she could.
"Then I shall get to my point quickly, my Lady, you have a reputation for being a slave to your work, but you should think about the future of your gene line as well. To keep your genes from being passed on would be a crime. You must consider the future, my Lady," he murmured, his eyes mocking her. Did he know that her mind had been damaged by the torture she'd gone through? Was this just a small cruelty, with which he could while away the hours? Or was there some other, more sinister thought behind his words. Confusion and fear moved through her, but she forced a look of distant calm onto her face.
"I have no interest in anything outside of my work," she assured him, pulling away from his arm, and he frowned.
"You have long been of interest to me, My Lady, your genetic pattern has been studied by the experts and they all seem to think that you are the Arkytior, yet you show little sign of such power," he mused idly, watching her with the eyes of a cobra. "The last two who manifested the power did so at an early age and their abilities were most impressive."
"Perhaps they are mistaken in their analysis of me?" she suggested and he shook his head. He had bright blue eyes, that should have been beautiful, but their coldness and calculation made them repellent to her. That he could easily recall the last two Arkytior, which were to her creatures from distant legend, was rather disturbing.
"I have thought on it for a very long time, My Lady, and have come to a different conclusion," he returned and his smile was razor blades and blood. "I think that the power is something that resides dormant in the recipient until it is awoken."
Terror flooded her, the Master might be the strongest telepath amongst the Time Lords, but for absolute power, Rassilon was far more potent. He had none of the Master's finesse and skill; his had always been a brute force approach. He could flatten her in a moment, crush all that she was, and leave her witless and drooling.
"I don't understand," she lied, throwing up a façade of confusion and fortifying her defenses.
"I think that what is needed here is a guiding hand, someone with a better understanding of the situation," he replied through a shark's grin.
"I am quite content with being a Doctor, my Lord President; I have no interest in anything or anyone outside of my professional labors. I don't need any more powers than the ones I already have," she reiterated and tried to pull free.
"But, my Lady, your people do need that power. You could save them from the Daleks!" he promised.
"My Lord President, I have read the tales and know full well that the Arkytior was an uncontrollable force, as likely to kill her own kind as to save them. Do you not recall that part?" she asked with a touch of desperation
"The legends do not tell us everything, my Lady, there was most certainly a way to control that power," he contradicted her. "If the woman be mastered, bound, before the power comes to her, then it can be contained." He leaned in close to whisper to her. "A bond-mate, my Lady, could channel that power properly. A husband for you ought to be found. Even if the power never manifests, your children might have that potential as well." He stood up and smiled, playing the role of a genial uncle, and she wanted to throw up from sheer terror.
