"Promise me you'll protect her."
Doran stared out the window of Rouchmel's study that overlooked the formal gardens. Encased in snow, the bare hedges gave the impression of stiff corpses lining the open square. Unnerved by his melancholy, he looked away.
"I tried to convince her to stay."
He had. After waking up to her screams that horrible night, he'd listened to all the reasons why they had to return to the Time Agency. And, he'd agreed with all of them, except the necessity of her return. For hours, their fierce shouting had echoed off the walls of Blevel Lodge.
Then she had begged. Eyes bloodshot and glassy, she had quietly pleaded that he not abandon her. She'd said she would rather die than live without him, confessed that she'd rather be killed by a Dalek particle beam than waste away on Galbon. She'd told him she couldn't imagine anyone's hands on her but his, couldn't dream of having a life without him. At that point, he'd conceded the argument—because he felt the same.
He felt the comforting weight of Rouchmel's hand on his shoulder. "Doran, Melina only thrives on Galbon because of you. With her memories restored, she is her mother's daughter. No matter the reforms I have made, she would find my world stifling without you."
"She could die."
"Nonsense," the older man assured him before turning to search the cluttered shelves that lined his study. "I made you her knight, did I not?"
"Try telling her that."
The older man paused in his search. "You will protect her. I know this. She knows this, even if such knowledge frightens her. Allow me the fantasy that both of you will come through this whole and together. I do not like knowing that my children go to war, Doran."
The former Time Agent found it impossible to answer with the tight lump that had lodged in his throat. Rouchmel didn't appear to notice. Fingering a small leather book, he sat wearily at the massive oak desk.
"I fear for her people if they must rely on their women to fight, my son. They used Gemma in such a cruel way. I thank the ancestors every day that she found a small measure of peace here with me before she died. She would not want her daughter to walk the same treacherous path. Promise me above all that you will protect her from her own kind."
"I promise," he solemnly vowed, stunned yet again by the older man's insight. The Time Lords had used Emma cruelly. He wasn't about to let them exploit her again, especially now that she was time blind.
Picking up the red book from his desk, Rouchmel abruptly changed the topic. With a hint of wistfulness, he handed the leather tome to Doran. "This is Julig the Third's personal journal. Gemma unearthed it on the first dig she led. With it, she found my ancestor's lost depository of knowledge. I'd like you to have it. Give it to your daughter when she's old enough to appreciate it. Tell her that her grandmother was a stubborn, brilliant woman, just like her mother."
"Rouchmel, I . . . ." Before he could think of an appropriate response, the king had removed a heavy gold ring from his finger. The large ruby in the center glittered in the light. He pressed it into Doran's empty hand.
"This ring has been passed down through the Blevel line since the dawn of our rule. I can think of no one better to wear it, Doran. When the time comes, tell your son that his grandfather wished he could have met him, but he is certain that any child of yours will be both brave and compassionate."
"I can't take this," he stammered, completely overwhelmed. "This isn't right. It doesn't belong to me. You should save it for your own son, Sire."
Rouchmel's gaze never wavered as he closed Doran's fingers around the ring. "The Blevel dynasty is at an end, but you are my heir in all ways that matter, my son. Take the ring. Let a foolish man pretend it will protect you from harm, the way it has protected our family for countless generations."
"I . . . ." He didn't know what to say. Rouchmel, as much as Emma, had restored his faith in humanity. He owed the solemn man so much, much more than he could ever repay.
"Thank you," he finally murmured, hoping his sincerity would make up for the brevity of his response. "Sorry, for once I'm speechless."
His honesty pulled a laugh from the king's throat. "You mean to say that I have found a way to silence Lord Rick's infamous glib tongue? I wish I had thought to record such a feat. The public will never believe it."
Slipping the ring and book into his pockets, Doran relaxed as he led the conversation into more familiar territory. "Hopefully, they'll believe exactly what they need to. Is everything ready for the launch?"
As soon as the question registered, the king turned businesslike, his face a calm façade. "The charges on the shuttle are set for forty-one seconds after liftoff. You're certain your teleport will engage before then?"
Doran flashed him a cocky grin. "Have a little faith in your knight, Sire. When the ship blows up, we'll be on another planet." And another time, he added regretfully in his mind. When he and Emma returned to the fifty-first century, Galbon would once again be the purview of archaeologists, its secrets, like its people, dead and buried.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Holding Emma's hand, Doran waved to the vast crowd that had gathered to wish their new ambassadors a safe journey to Skaro. They would never reach that hellhole of a world. Their shuttle would explode seconds after launch, spurring a carefully crafted rumor of alien conspiracies to sweep the globe. In his grief, Rouchmel would sever ties with the other worlds in the sector, declaring his planet off limits to interstellar contact. Galbon would flourish in isolation for thousands of years—until the day the Daleks invaded to kill everyone on the planet.
Aware of his thoughts, Emma squeezed his fingers. Just a few minutes more and they would be safely away from Galbon and all the temptations it posed. She would miss the world that had become her second home. At least the shuttle explosion would ensure the planet's safety for thousands of years. And with the reforms Rouchmel would push through in her memory, his people would experience their golden age.
Finally strapped into her seat, she reached out again for her husband's hand. If they both made it out of the Time Agency alive, she wanted her dream to come true on a different world. She had no intention of returning to Gallifrey. Her torture on Tuem had transformed her from a confident killer to a broken shell of a woman. Even so, she preferred to remain broken than continue as a provocateur and spy. If she had to kill, she would do so facing her enemy rather than knifing a supposed friend in the back. While ignoble, at least it was honest.
Closing her eyes, she listened to the countdown. Seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, ignition—she landed face first on hard concrete, her injured arm stretched painfully out in front of her.
"Shit."
Carefully turning her head in the direction of Doran's voice, she noted gratefully that he stood in more or less one piece. The knees of his breeches had ripped, and she felt an irrational pang of disappointment. She'd quite liked the way they hugged his thighs. Ignoring his bloodied knees, he limped towards her.
"Can you stand, Emma?"
She pushed herself up with her left hand in answer to his question. Lightheaded, her stomach roiled, but she managed to keep her breakfast down. Her right humerus had definitely split along the previous fracture. With a supreme effort, she ignored the pain to take a look at their surroundings.
Concrete stretched as far as she could see. Twisting glass edifices aglow with blue, pink and red scraped the nighttime clouds. Sharp, metallic abstract art lined the wide streets along with more surveillance cameras than she cared to count. Passersby ignored them as they strode past, too intent on the financial news being streamed to their visors to wonder at the appearance of two strangers.
So this was Avarice, the planet where anything that could be sold was. It certainly didn't look like the seedy underbelly of the Milky Way, but then looks were oftentimes misleading. If she remembered her CIA briefing from a century ago, the colors on the buildings represented the category of items for sale.
"We need to get out of here," Doran abruptly announced as he wrapped his arm around her waist. Too many of the buildings are blue."
Blue—the designation for sentient life. Lovely, they'd teleported to the notorious slave markets of Avarice. Suddenly, the surveillance cameras made much more sense. Slavers weren't too picky about the pedigree of their merchandise. Obvious outsiders like themselves would be easy targets for those trying to fill a particular desire. Doran was right; they needed to leave before someone tried to complete an order for a female with auburn hair or male with blue eyes.
Without appearing to be in too much of a hurry, they walked briskly towards the yellow zone to the east. At least the weapons dealers didn't sell their customers. Sweat beaded on Emma's forehead as managing her pain took more and more of her concentration. When the agony became too great to ignore, she looked in vain for a green building. If she could buy a basic tissue regenerator, she could modify it for healing bone.
Soon they walked down a busy street comprised entirely of yellow buildings. Many passersby wore special eyewear to enhance the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums. The vast majority were visibly armed, from the sharp hunting knife strapped to a Spartan's thigh to the bulky plasma launcher shouldered by a Verox. Doran carried the sword of a Galbonian Knight Protector at his side, while his sonic blaster stayed holstered discreetly underneath his jacket. Weaponless, Emma wore his Vortex Manipulator on her left wrist, though her newly broken arm negated the advantage such technology offered.
Stopping ostensibly to admire a display of incendiary devices, Doran quietly hissed in Emma's ear. "Sweetheart, you look like you're going to faint. You sure you're up to this?"
"Yes," she promised, her voice ragged to her own ears. "I reinjured my shoulder. I'll be fine."
Cursing under his breath, his eyes swept the surrounding buildings. "I can't keep Blix waiting, but as soon as the transaction's complete, we'll look for green. Think you can hold on until then?"
"Not much choice," she grunted.
Nodding, his jaw tensed in that way she'd come to define as determined but anxious. Making a disparaging comment about the imprecise nature of Molotov cocktails, he led her down an unlit alleyway. From the hired thugs lining the darkened street, she guessed they were minutes away from meeting the infamous Blix, former First Captain of the Viking Brigade of Valhalla Seven.
Trailing Doran two steps behind and to the left, Emma shoved the stabbing pain of her broken arm to a tiny corner of her mind and then firmly bricked it away. She walked submissively, her head bowed as she counted the feet of fifteen guards present in the spacious, wood paneled room.
"Sigurd, my friend! What devilment brings you to my Hall? I'd thought you'd have quit this business long ago."
Taken aback by the genuine warmth of the greeting, Emma peeked at the battle-hardened warrior turned arms dealer. Tall and broad-shouldered, Blix wore his long blond hair tied back with a leather cord. His simple forest green tunic hit mid-thigh, covering the best view of his snug black leather leggings. She thought his lack of armor odd considering his profession, but she supposed the sheer number of guards more than made up for its absence.
As the two men clapped each other heartily on the back, Blix's eyes bored into Emma's. Hastily, she dropped her gaze. If the Time Agency had put a price on her head, he would be in the position to claim a substantial bounty. Although Doran had assured her of the man's honor, she wasn't willing to trust a stranger with her life. Deliberately, she hunched her back in an attempt to appear as small and nonthreatening as possible.
"I see you're still rescuing strays, Sigurd. She's captivating. How long have you had her?" The Time Lord didn't dare raise her head, so she couldn't see Doran reaction, though she could feel his anxiety surge from across the room.
"Not nearly long enough," he remarked flippantly in an innuendo laden voice.
"Oh? That's high praise coming from you. Perhaps you'd be willing to share? Ten percent off for one night, fifty if you give me the week. There's just something about her eyes."
She stiffened at the touch of his finger on her chin. Doran's anger flared, but he remained outwardly blasé. As she met Blix's frank stare, Emma unwillingly conceded that she might be forced to play her part in much greater detail. While it was a role she'd played convincingly before, the thought of a stranger touching her so intimately now made her stomach churn.
For the first time since entering the soldier's stronghold, her partner sounded less than congenial. "She's not my whore, Blix."
"Perfect. Then, I'll ask her myself."
The warlord cupped her cheek as he brought his lips to hers. His kiss, though quite tame by fifty-first century standards, brought back memories best forgotten. She suddenly felt trapped like she had been on Tuem.
"What do you say, little dove? Spend some time in my bed? I can sate you like no other."
Grinning, he undid the buttons of her wool jacket to expose her frilled linen shirt. With a mocking tsk, he soon exposed her breasts. Frozen in place, her throat closed in a strangled scream, leaving her with no voice to protest. When his hands followed the path of his eyes, her vision blackened. In one instant, she stood frightened and exposed, vaguely aware of a high-pitched shout; the next, she lay securely in Doran's arms, her shirt and jacket shut tight.
"Doran?"
She didn't understand why they sat on a faux stone floor. Or why a bunch of burly men in Buggoth battle armor ringed them. Or why the blond stranger with the split lip kept glancing at the little girl standing next to her. She did know, however, that her shoulder bloody well hurt, and she felt peculiarly drained.
"It's alright, Sweetheart. Don't try to stand just yet."
"Damn it, Sigurd. You could have warned me. I am not an assaulter of women."
Before she could puzzle out that the stranger referred to Doran, the young girl dressed in the achingly familiar purple robes spoke up. "He lied to protect her. She is her queen, and he her knight. It is a measure of your worth that he trusted you enough to approach at all."
Breaking out in a cold sweat, Emma stared at the seemingly young child. Although she'd never laid eyes on her before, she recognized the significance of the purple robes. Yet another colleague had been lost to the Time War, and with a pang, she allowed herself to briefly mourn the ancient Arcadian Elder she had come to respect and admire.
Ignoring the irate arms dealer, the little girl in the braids and purple clothing knelt by her side. Doran hugged her closer to his chest in an effort to shield her from the Arcadian's penetrating gaze, but he needn't have. Her memory of the time before her embarrassing blackout had returned. She realized the Elder had defused what could have quickly turned into a deadly situation.
"Do you know who I am, Lady Emissary?"
Emma managed a weak smile. "Don't you already know the answer to that, Elder?"
The girl reacted with much more mirth than her predecessor would have dared, tittering with childlike laughter. "Then, perhaps you could explain to your Knight Protector that he need not protect you from me or his friend. First Captain Blix means you no harm."
"It's alright, Doran," she assured him as he maintained his defensive posture. "This is the Elder of Arcadia."
"You've got to be kidding me," he exclaimed, and even the tense Viking relaxed. Emma smiled at her lover's unchecked reaction. Arcadians were almost as mythic as Time Lords. Orbiting around the same suns as Gallifrey, the inhabitants of Arcadia had developed many of the same abilities as their celestial neighbors, although their dedication to the Web of Time had led them down a different path. Most were true seers, and none could lie, although they were not above using silence to hide the truth. They were also an exceedingly private people, rarely leaving Arcadia except in the direst of circumstances.
Emma's breath hitched as agony pulsed through her shoulder. Before she could dismiss the pain, the Elder sternly addressed the blond warrior. "She'll need a regenerator sophisticated enough to mend bone. I suggest using your private rooms in the Green Zone since her face is known. Though the nexus grows ever more fixed, it would not be wise to tempt fate, else two queens perish instead of one."
Well used to the enigmatic nature of Arcadians, Emma didn't speculate on the Elder's pronouncement. Doran tensed, but wisely kept silent. Even Blix didn't seem perturbed by the cryptic warning, leading the Time Lord to wonder how long the Elder had been in his company.
When they reached the private hospital a mere ten minutes later, the attendant on duty greeted First Captain Blix by name. With a polite smile that faded as quickly as it had appeared, the sturdy Viking requested that his private physician meet them in his usual rooms. After pressing a few buttons on a counter console, the unflappable attendant gestured for the group to follow. Without a word, he led them through a spacious lobby bedecked with purple flora and the fifty-first century's version of a coffee shop tucked into the corner. Emma thought it looked much more like an upscale hotel than a hospital, but that impression shattered as soon as they entered Blix's usual accommodations.
The gleaming white floor twinkled with the reflection of a thousand colored lights. The flashing monitors recessed into the walls reminded her of an ancient Earth discotheque, but she grudgingly acknowledged the sophisticated technology behind the bright display. The monitor closest to her had turned an angry mauve, exposing her deficiencies for all to see. Ignoring it, she studied the screen closest to Doran. Reassured that he, at least, was the model of health, the Time Lord bit her lip and waited for the physician.
Doran wiped the sweat away from Emma's brow as he silently cursed the tissue regenerator. Blix's private physician had been forced to modify the machine to compensate for a Time Lord's denser bone structure. While the alterations proved effective in knitting the spongy tissues back together, the process was a slow and agonizing one. For the first two hours, he'd managed to distract her from the pain with some rather fantastic mental sex, but in the midst of a particularly pleasant fantasy she had firmly pushed him out of her mind as she fought the urge to scream. When she finally did cry out from the pain, the Arcadian came running from the hallway, an unnaturally grave expression on her strangely youthful face.
The former Time Agent paid little heed to the interloper as he stroked Emma's cheek. "You scream if you need to, Sweetheart. No one's going to mind. I know it's tough, but you're doing great. Just a few more hours and you'll be as good as new."
The Arcadian brusquely pushed his hand away. Without a word of explanation, she put her fingers to the Time Lord's temples. A second later, the grimace on Emma's face disappeared as her tense muscles relaxed.
"What'd you do?"
"What you could not. She won't be aware of the pain now."
Stiffening at the implied criticism, he pondered his visceral reaction to the Arcadian Elder. He'd met over a hundred species during the course of his life, and none had bothered him as much as the young seeming girl with the knowing eyes and sharp tongue. He didn't consider himself prejudiced, far from it, but some instinct told him the alien would be trouble. If nothing else, the foreknowledge she possessed tempted him more than the mythic Pandora's Box. Resolving to ignore her, he watched the ever changing monitor covering the wall next to Emma's bed.
"You are not what you seem."
He glanced sharply at the seer, not quite knowing what to make of her terse observation. "Yeah? Well, I'm not the only one, am I? Or are you going to try to convince me that you're still young enough to enjoy a good game of tag?"
"All women like the game of chase, Sir Knight. But you are correct. I am older than my outward appearance."
Turning his attention back to Emma, he wished the Arcadian gone, but she seemed blissfully unaware of his ire. Instead, she studied him as if her were some prized lab specimen waiting for dissection. After an hour crawled by and she still hadn't ended her scrutiny, he let out an aggravated sigh.
"Look, I consider myself a pretty confident guy, but even I get self-conscious. Either spit it out or leave or both, 'cause I've got to tell you the evil eye is starting to get annoying."
She laughed, apparently amused by his temper. Doran counted to ten in as many languages as he could while he reminded himself of all the reasons he didn't hit little girls, even little girls who might be older than he. Before he could start on ancient Pashto, the Arcadian walked calmly out of the room, but not before pausing at the door to make one final pronouncement.
"If we don't all die in the Time War, I look forward to meeting you again, Sir Knight. You truly are an enigma."
A look of smug satisfaction crept upon his face to be quickly replaced by a sickly frown. A seer used to dealing in absolutes had said the dreaded word 'if'. So, the Arcadian couldn't foresee the outcome of the Time War any more than Emma could. Suddenly, his wife's theory that the Time Lords might be forced to self-destruct in a noble blaze of glory didn't seem so farfetched.
Kneeling by her bed, he smoothed Emma's tangled auburn hair. Gallifrey could go straight into the abyss for all he cared. He would kill the Dalek to give her peace, and then he would take them to a place far enough away where no one, Time Lord or Time Agent, would ever think to look.
x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x
Flexing the fingers of her right hand, Emma considered the irony of fate. Months ago, she had walked into Tempus Tor with all the confidence of a Pyroville high on Krillitane oil. Now, she skulked in the shadows praying to the Lady Time that she not shame herself by turning tail and running to the nearest space hopper. She'd called herself a coward more than once since her blackout on Avarice.
Doran, however, refused to do the same. In fact, he assured her time and again that fear rather than reckless cockiness was a natural, healthier reaction to everything she had endured. Waiting at the door of the armory, she wasn't so sure, but the time for debate had passed. They were seconds away from blowing up the storage facility and beginning their assault on the blackened heart of the Time Agency.
When the first grenade ignited the plasma weapons deep within the armory, instinct overrode thought. Emma braced herself against the corridor as the force of the explosions rocked the building. Shouting out Doran's name, she made certain he hadn't been injured before racing to the empty lift two corridors over.
A smaller grenade destroyed the passenger cage and propelled toxic gas throughout the shaft. The sound of a similar explosion to the south brought a relieved grin to her face. A sonic blaster fresh from the factory at Villengard gripped in her hand, she sprinted towards their rendezvous point, determined not to be left behind.
As soon as she entered the archives, another blaster pressed against her temple. Spinning out of the way, she pushed down the hand of her would-be assailant. "No shooting me, Doran, I don't have time to regenerate right now."
He chuckled as he quickly pulled her into his arms. "Sweetheart, you'd be nothing but pieces, and I don't think you can regenerate from that."
"Rassilon, but the sonic blaster is an ugly weapon. It reminds me of a De-Mat gun, except that erases whatever it hits from the time stream. . . ." Emma doubled over as she realized what she had said. Is that what he had created—a dematerialization weapon powerful enough to unmake Gallifrey? Was that why the High Lord President no longer displayed the Key of Rassilon?
"Emma? Emma? Sweetheart, I need you to focus."
Straightening, she shoved that thought to her subconscious for later inspection. "Sorry, it won't happen again. I'm alright, really." She said the latter as his eyes raked her face to search for any weakness hidden there. When he didn't look convinced, she hastily added, "I'm fine. Really, Doran. Just a stray thought about the De-Mat gun. I've put it out of my mind."
"Good," he answered with a false cheer that didn't reach his eyes. "'Cause I've got to tell you, I've gotten used to that face again. Try to keep it today. Okay, Sweetheart?"
She tossed a few grenades towards the data information terminals just so she wouldn't have to reply. Unrepentant, she grabbed his wrist to teleport them to the top floor. She felt the all too familiar disorientation from exposure to the raw Time Vortex before falling to her knees in the middle of the temporal control room.
Their counterfeit blue uniforms confused the technicians for only a second. But he only needed a second. Doran fired at the critical temporal data core she had damaged on her first rampage through Tempus Tor. The sonic blaster left a precise hole in the middle of the mainframe, shorting out the entire system with a few satisfying sparks. Not bothering to stand, Emma lobbed a flash grenade towards the dozen terrified technicians, stunning them before they could draw their weapons. Only then did she accept Doran's hand.
She stood on shaky legs to survey the damage. The data core was beyond repair. A quick check of the mission logs assured her that no agent had been sent on assignment since their first trip to headquarters a (relative) week prior. She'd expected to feel jubilation after destroying the Time Agency, but the sight of the dozen technicians sprawled on the floor in front of her tempered her exultation. Last time, she'd killed without a thought. This time, she took out a thin purple cylinder from the front pocket of her blue jumpsuit. Pressing the button, she watched in satisfaction as the technicians lying on the floor were encased in sticky, stringy goo.
"Nasty, remind me never to get on your bad side."
She flashed her husband a wicked grin. "What? Never had sex with a Yoog-ki?"
"Getting stuck to my partner for several days isn't really my style. I'm more of a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy."
She pointed the empty cylinder towards him, and he held up his hands in mock surrender. "Was a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy. I'd never leave you, Sweetheart."
"Better."
Grinning, she tossed the container to the floor. As it clattered to the ground, an alarm began to sound throughout the building. Emma swallowed a lump of terror as Doran pulled her into the hallway that led to the executive suites.
"We need to interrogate One and Two. They'll know the location of the Dalek. If we're really lucky, One took advantage of the chaos last time and killed it herself."
"I doubt she did anything so sensible. She's arrogant enough to think she could control it."
The whine of a laser pistol drowned out his reply. Another flash grenade quieted the corridor. Warily, the two stepped over still bodies to approach the opulent reception area that marked the seat of power for the Time Agency's upper echelons.
Upon reaching the empty foyer, Doran let out a string of curses. Over the blaring alarm, however, Emma heard what sounded like a thud coming from one of the rooms farther down the hall. Signaling her intent, she led her partner on a methodical sweep through each room. Inside the last office, they discovered a familiar face cowering underneath his desk.
"Hello, Two. Didn't peg you as spineless. Or did you drop some spare change on the floor?"
Doran's dig pulled the sweaty man to his senses. "That madwoman you brought last time slaughtered Upper Management! One and I are the only left! I thought she'd come back to finish the job."
Emma rolled her eyes. She found it impossible to fear the balding little man blubbering on the floor. "That was the Daleks' doing, not mine, you idiot. Although, I did kill everyone in the temporal control room. And, the Ogrons who got in my way. And, the Daleks, mustn't forget the Daleks."
He gaped at her, his jaw hanging open like a broken window. Only after Doran mentioned that they intended to kill the last Dalek did he appear capable of speech.
"You're a Time Lord," he breathed, his expression teetering between horror and awe. "One was so sure, but you kept silent for so long that I had my doubts." Abruptly, the agent's demeanor changed. Ignoring her completely, he coolly addressed Doran. "What did she offer you for your help? Your brother's life? I swear we can give you Gray seconds after the raid. You can have your baby brother back, just like he was before."
The sonic blaster shook in Emma's hand. She could no longer sense her partner's emotions, and found the tic that had begun just under his left eye impossible to interpret. She wanted to kill the bastard before Doran listened to any more of his lies, but couldn't bring herself to pull the trigger.
Her partner's lack of protest emboldened the other man. Standing confidently, he pointed at Emma. "Think of what we could accomplish if we unraveled the mystery of regeneration. We could be gods among men. I know of a medical facility on Bleak that specializes in vivisection. They'd pay a fortune to get their hands on a Time Lord, especially a female.
A neat square hole appeared where the Agent Two's torso had been. Holstering his weapon, Doran grabbed a nearby chair to smash the senior agent's head. Emma reeled under the burden of his fierce rage. In all her days, she'd never been bombarded by such raw emotion. Their eyes met, and his fury immediately banked, replaced by devoted anxiety. She drew in a steadying breath as he blinked stupidly before dropping the bloody chair.
"I'd find Gray if I could," she began, but he pulled her to his chest, smothering her apology before it could properly begin.
"I'd never let anyone hurt you," he whispered into her hair. "You have to believe me. Gray's gone, and there's nothing I can do about it right now. I know that. I just hate the way he tried to manipulate me."
After few moments of comforting her in his arms, he stiffened. "Hell, we still don't know where to find the Dalek."
Pulling out of his embrace, Emma repressed a shudder as she caught a glimpse of the mangled remains on the floor. "We should check the artifact room. If nothing else, I owe the Time Lord trapped in that hourglass my life. Besides, if the Dalek recognizes the Seal of Rassilon, it won't let it out of its site."
"And, if it's not there?"
"You'll program your Vortex Manipulator to track One," she answered with more confidence than she felt. "I should be able to get her bio signature from her personnel records."
Without waiting for his agreement, Emma took the lead. Choosing her path from memory, she carefully led him through the empty corridors. The deserted hallways unnerved her as they ran towards the hidden treasure trove. Either the Agency had been left to operate with nothing more than a minimal repair crew or they were about to walk straight into a trap. Neither scenario boded well for their mission.
Doran sprinted past her as soon as he saw the entrance to the cavernous artifact room. No shots rang out as he cautiously stepped inside. Warning sirens continued to blare ineffectively in the distance. A step behind, Emma was a second too slow to detect the trap.
"Wait," she warned as he rushed forward to claim their prize. Heedless, he touched the hourglass, and a containment field flared around him. Trying her best not to panic, the Time Lord ignored Doran's wild gestures to take careful aim at the corner of the force field. Before she could fire a shot, however, the sharp tip of a sword pressed against her spine.
"Put the blaster down, ginger, or I'll remove the oxygen from lover boy's prison."
The sonic blaster slipped through her fingers. That voice, the one of her nightmares, the voice that could paralyze her with a single word—this wasn't a flashback; the voice was real, here, now. Dazedly, she looked to Doran; she couldn't confront the face of that horrible voice just yet. The man she loved slammed against the force field in a futile effort to reach her. His shouts were muffled, but his anguish flowed through the barrier to settle like a shroud around her.
Putrid, fetid breath blew against her neck. The world dimmed. She existed in a gray nothingness occasionally punctured by the slash of pain and the froth of terror. Retreating from both, she clung to the numbing haze that encased her.
An explosion of seething fury shattered her comforting oblivion. Reality intruded with a horde of stinging, shallow cuts. She wanted nothing more than to curl into a protective ball, but the demon of her nightmares had her pinned beneath him. With vicious glee he sliced again through the thick fabric of her jumpsuit, leaving a thin trail of blood to run down her left thigh.
She sought to disappear, to surrender to the welcome void that had sheltered her, but Doran's rage blocked her retreat. Turning her head, she watched her husband ram the containment field again and again. No matter how futile, he still fought.
He still fought-and so must she.
She looked straight into the dead eyes of the man kneeling on top of her—man, not demon. Wrenching away, she kicked with all her might, connecting solidly with the Time Agent's unprotected groin. Before he could react with anything more than a grunt, Emma picked up her sonic blaster and took aim at the far corner of the containment field. Hands trembling, she took the shot.
Doran ran out of his prison to encircle her in his arms. After a tight squeeze to reassure them both, he pulled back to examine the nicks and cuts bleeding onto the tattered remnants of her clothing.
"You're okay. You're okay," he promised as he pressed his palm against a deep gash on her hip.
She shook too violently to answer. Now that it was over, the brief surge of courage deserted her, leaving her empty and bereft. Yet with every gentle touch, Doran bolstered her. As he bandaged her cuts, his relief, love and pride seeped into her skin until finally, she found her voice.
"You didn't let me give up."
Tenderly, he pushed aside a strand of hair that had come undone from her braid. "Of course not. You're a fighter, remember?"
"Sickening," the downed Time Agent groaned, shattering her tenuous peace. "What are you now, Six? Her fucking pet? Did you tell her you got your lover killed last time you were here?"
Taking a purple cylinder out of her torn pocket, Emma showered Ninety-Six with the strong, sticky goo. Unfortunately, she failed to seal his mouth.
"One set you up, you know. She wanted the Agency destroyed. There's only five of us now, and she manipulated you into killing Two. Hell, that artifact isn't even real. She took it and the Dalek to Tuem."
"Why?" Doran demanded while Emma irritably knocked the hourglass off its plinth. She didn't need to examine it to know it was nothing but a cheap copy of the original. No Time Lord consciousness had attempted to breach her mental shields. The sand that spilled from the broken casing was nothing more than sand.
The blond's feral grin sent a frizzle of fear down her spine. The smug brute knew something, something so momentous that it gave him the advantage even as he lay glued to the floor. Clutching the empty pedestal, the traumatized Time Lord braced herself to hear of a new, fiendish Dalek plot.
The truth was so much worse.
"One doesn't need the Agency any more. Why bother with Time Agents when she has her own little pet and a TARDIS at her disposal?"
For the second time that day, Emma's world went gray.
