Turlough glanced over the papers that were laid out, quite meticulously in
his estimation, on the table. His old maths teacher was bent over the
table. The light from overhead was reflecting into his spectacles and
Turlough was haunted of visions of his last exam. He also had visions of
his little foray at stealing his man's last car. With a sigh, he lowered
his eyes to stare at the papers.
Something caught his eye and he moved about the table, coming to a rest next to the Brigadier. The small building where UNIT had taken up its residence was nearly empty and quiet. The Brigadier shook his head, disgruntled, and looked at his old student. "Turlough?"
"Sir," the boy repeated, more out of habit than respect. The Brigadier grunted as Turlough raised his pale blue eyes to return his probing look. He pointed at the small listing of numbers and map coordinates. "The assassination attempts?"
"And bombings," the old army man answered.
"But they are all over the place. Paris…London…LA and Washington,…Ontario….and Athens?"
"As well as New Delhi, Rome and Budapest," the Brigadier answered, leaning forward to draw a small line on the larger map. "If we had not heard or intercepted the transmissions, we would not have seen the connection."
Turlough nodded, silently studying the map. He tapped his finger against his lips and pointed toward map. "And in what order did these all occur?"
"What? Oh…randomly," the Brigadier answered, looking at the map.
"Really?" Turlough answered. "One thing traveling with the Doctor has taught me, nothing occurs by chance or by lack of design."
The Brigadier sighed, pressing his lips together. He nodded as another elder officer entered the room. "I suppose you will be on my back until I tell you….so…." he leaned into the map and disinterestedly pointed at the locations. "First New Delhi, then Athens, then Rome,Budapest, Paris, London, Ontario, Washington and finally, just this last week, LA."
"And it doesn't bother you that they are moving in a westerly pattern?"
"No." the Brigadier answered.
"Then in a westerly and temporally pattern as well. Athens was the center of civilization before Rome…they are following a westerly and temporal pattern." Turlough answered, leaning into the table. "I'm not entirely sure of the temporal pattern though…because by all rights Moscow and Tokyo should have been…before….Europe….proper…" Turlough sighed. "The Doctor will have a better idea."
"I wonder what is keeping him," the Brigadier groused. He looked at the clock. "For a Time Lord, he never did have a good understanding of schedule."
**
"We are safe here, Tegan."
The Doctor was crouching, just outside the driver's side door. Tegan rested against the passenger seat, her chin resting on her chest and her arms around her legs. He leaned forward and placed his crossed arms on the seat and stared at her. Her breathing was normalizing; she wasn't hyperventilating anymore. With a sigh, he finally lowered his eyes. "Tegan?"
She shrugged and averted her eyes from him.
"I've never known you to be this quiet."
"You haven't known me for quite some time," she answered back. The force in her voice made him smile. The old Tegan was there, just hiding.
"Very true. But it was once said that good friends are never apart in spirit. And we were/are good friends, aren't we?"
Tegan nodded once, curtly. She raised a hand to wipe the last of the tears from her cheeks. "I just seemed to have gotten out of the habit of nearly dying in the company of my good friends."
"Yes, well…we all have our special abilities, and that seems to be mine." He rubbed his chin on his arm.
"Too right."
He nodded and rose, walking around the car to open her door. He held out his hand to help her up and she eyed it suspiciously before taking it. "Are you better, Tegan?"
"If you mean, am I not nearly paralyzed and can breathe normally, yes. If you mean, do I feel normal…no." She said with some sarcasm.
He took her spout in stride. "Do you have night terrors? Long periods of anxiety? Do certain sounds, visual stimuli cause distress?"
"Yes, yes and sometimes," she answered, releasing his hand and walking away from him. "Why? What's wrong?"
"I think it might be something like a post traumatic stress disorder, Tegan…from the symptoms and reaction you had just a few moments ago. I would like to talk to your therapist, however."
"What therapist?"
"How long has this been going on? Haven't you sought help?"
"Where? And from who?" she asked, stopping, glaring at his back. "How would you propose that I get help? Waltz into a shrink and say: Hi…I've been bumming around the universe with my chum, a Time Lord, in his time and space machine. I seem to be having trouble sleeping, can't think, can't function… I wouldn't get any further…they would have me locked up in an institution so fast my head would spin."
He rolled his eyes. "Then answer how long, Tegan. You can do that can't you? Was it before or after you left me?"
"What do you think?" she asked, loudly.
The Doctor spun around, his arms flying wide. "I don't know…that is why I am asking you." His voice was as loud as hers. He waited a beat and then approached her. He stopped within feet of her. She wanted to shout at him; the look he was giving her was one that he reserved for problems he figured out. "It was before you left. That look on your face in the warehouse when you left was terror, not remorse or pain. It was pure terror." He didn't wait for an answer and bent to stare at her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"How?" She stared back at him. After a moment, she shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it. I just want to go home."
"I can't take you home, Tegan."
"I know that; don't you think I know that?" she was livid. "It seems as though that is ruined too. First my travels with you ruin my career, then my emotions, then my mind, marriage and now my home. It was just a matter of time before it bled through everything and made a total muck of it."
"Tegan. Be reasonable. Please?" He opted for humor and said the words with a winning smile. She boiled, but at the last minute, caved, staring at him in disbelief coated in comfortable familiarity.
"I hate that you can do that to me."
"What? Win an argument with logic?" he continued to smile. She shook her head and lowered her eyes. His smile died quickly. "We need to talk about it, though, and we need to address what is going on with your emotional and mental distress. And all of this should be very soon, Tegan. But we are under pressure and under the UNIT headquarters…we should go upstairs. Do you need time?"
He started to walk away again and stopped after a steps to glance at her. She stood where she was, wet, barefoot and shivering. She was looking at the stairwell tucked in the corner of the garage as though it would bite her. Her eyes met his. "I can't…just…"
"You can do it, Tegan. I'll be with you. I'm not going to leave you; and I'm not going to let you leave me again until we get this sorted out…"
She sighed, hoping to turn and run away into the rain, away from all of this. But looking at the Doc tor and his clear earnestness that she had missed seeing on another human's face these four years, she saw that maybe it was possible. There was nowhere to run. And no one to run to. With small steps and then with a few jogged steps, she stood next to her friend. He nodded and laid his hand at her back to lead her up the stairs. "Thank you," he said, for her ears only although they were alone in the garage.
"For what?" she asked back, feeling the cold metal steps below her feet.
"For not running," he said.
"I'm scared." Tegan stared up the stairwell in all its metal inhuman structure. "And saying 'brave heart' won't help, you know," she confided. "I've been saying to myself everyday for four years and it hasn't helped."
He frowned, looking stricken and pushed/led her up the stairs. As they rounded the first landing, he reached for her hand and led her the rest of the way.
Tegan frowned at his back and allowed him to pull her up to the UNIT room.
**
The rain was clearing up as a black car pulled up in front of a simple residential house. Three men piled out, their black suits conspicuous in the casual atmosphere of suburbia. They walked up the small path, past two other men standing listlessly on the doorstop of one of the flats. Several minutes past before a loud series of gunshots were heard from within.
One man reappeared; his companions called him Commander Reynolds. He nodded back into the house and walked down the path to the car. Pulling his suit back into shape, he lowered himself into the car. It sped away quickly. Minutes later, two body bags were carried from the house. One contained Lindon; the other Jameson.
As the car sped away, Smith glanced over his shoulder. The body bags were glistening with newly fallen rain. He looked over at Reynolds. "They failed."
"They not only failed; they lost her," Reynolds sighed. The old adage – 'if you want something done right, do it yourself' came to mind.
With a frown, Smith looked down at the notebook he held in his lap. "And the Doctor?"
"Has her and is with UNIT, obviously. I should have anticipated that," Reynolds shook his head. He appeared very weary as he rubbed his temple. "It really makes no matter. The woman has a history of instability and inability to act and cope."
"It is no surprise…"
"Yes," Reynolds nodded. "Travels in the fourth dimension by a society member as yet unable to comprehend space flight, beings from other planets, and generalized five dimensions in math would have an adverse effect on their mental well-being. We will continue with plans. Radio the air field and let them know we are on our way."
"Yes, sir," Smith answered and reached for the cumbersome mobile phone. He began to dial the numbers.
Reynolds glanced at his younger, more naïve companion. "I want the plane ready and the flight plan registered for LA…we don't need to leave a path to Tokyo…the Doctor will have a good guess already, why help him?"
Smith nodded and said a series of incomprehensible words into the receiver. He covered it and replied: "But sir…we were going to Bejing…"
"Change of plan. Flight to Tokyo then back to LA," he nearly smiled at the bewildered look on Smith's face. He laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Just do it."
Smith nodded, recalling the sight of the body bags. With a clipped voice, he did as he was bidden.
**
Pendrall adjusted his white coat over his shoulders and stretched his arms over his head. One of the guards standing near him cleared his throat and gestured with his gun back to the microscope. Alfred groaned and bent back over the eyepiece with a grimace. His back was killing him and he needed coffee badly. And he was lonely; the equivalent of scarecrows with guns did not constitute company in his estimation.
The door to the laboratory opened and a small woman in a white coat like his entered. It was long on her, covering her to knees. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. It was almost comical the way that she carefully made her way across the room, two cups of coffee in her hands. "Here, Al…I didn't think the boys here would let you out for your daily dose of the bean."
"My thanks, Penelope," his deep accented voice compared to her bland American accent was as different as his shock white hair was to her dark hair.
"No problem, sir…" she sipped her cup and smiled and waved at the guard nearest them. The man ignored her. With a shrug, she leaned against the lab table. "What's new?"
"This strain of virus," he pointed toward the microscope. He and she pointedly ignored the 'no food in the lab' sign daily so it did not bother him to lean back and sip from his mug as well. "It is like the viriods that I studied at Cambridge…"
"Amoebic infectious agents? Your dissertation?"
"You read it?" Alfred asked, surprised.
"I always read the work of people that I am going to work with and for, Al…call it American paranoia." She put down her mug and leaned sideways to look in the eyepiece. The microscope showed Paramecium both infected, and non-infected. The infected side of the slide showed the organisms almost writhing, curling…in death throes. It was quick. As she watched, two cells were invaded, disabled from moving and reduced to lifeless, curled vacuoles of nothing. The cells on the other side were fine. She whistled lowly. "Would not want to invite these guys to a party. Terrible guests. But such virulence and pathogencity…killing the host that quickly…its evolutionarily not…well…smart."
"No…it is not. And the funny thing," Alfred knocked back another swig of coffee and eyed his younger assistant. "Is that it has a genetic code that is decidedly different than anything I have ever seen. It is very short; Duncan in coding was able to decipher the code very quickly."
Penny smiled. "But we are here to come up with a antidote to it, Al, not to write odes to it. I know you are enthralled, but…"
"What was the first thing I told you when you started, Penny?"
"That a bad penny always shows up?"
"After that…"
Penny sipped her coffee. "That the first step to beating a virus is the same as the first step at beating an opponent in chess. Understand the motivation and the plan…"
"Correct. Why would it kill so quickly?"
She shrugged; she had thought of that already. "It is not natural…anywhere. And with a weird genetic code…its been engineered."
"Correct again. And how do you combat an engineered virus?"
Penny crossed her arms over her chest. "Engineer something to counteract it. Modeled, hopefully, on an existing biological model."
"Yes." Al drank the last of his coffee and handed his mug back to his young friend. He waved an impatient hand toward the twin microscope across the table "Now…make yourself useful, Pen, and sit down and make some drawings of the infected paramecium."
Penny smiled and shook her head. As she settled onto the stool, she leaned into the table. "Al…but have you thought of the reason behind creating a virus like that in the first place?"
"I can figure out viriods and viruses, Penny," he answered, not looking at her. "Men are much harder to even comprehend. Start drawing…"
She sighed and rolled her shoulders, prepared for a long day in the lab.
Something caught his eye and he moved about the table, coming to a rest next to the Brigadier. The small building where UNIT had taken up its residence was nearly empty and quiet. The Brigadier shook his head, disgruntled, and looked at his old student. "Turlough?"
"Sir," the boy repeated, more out of habit than respect. The Brigadier grunted as Turlough raised his pale blue eyes to return his probing look. He pointed at the small listing of numbers and map coordinates. "The assassination attempts?"
"And bombings," the old army man answered.
"But they are all over the place. Paris…London…LA and Washington,…Ontario….and Athens?"
"As well as New Delhi, Rome and Budapest," the Brigadier answered, leaning forward to draw a small line on the larger map. "If we had not heard or intercepted the transmissions, we would not have seen the connection."
Turlough nodded, silently studying the map. He tapped his finger against his lips and pointed toward map. "And in what order did these all occur?"
"What? Oh…randomly," the Brigadier answered, looking at the map.
"Really?" Turlough answered. "One thing traveling with the Doctor has taught me, nothing occurs by chance or by lack of design."
The Brigadier sighed, pressing his lips together. He nodded as another elder officer entered the room. "I suppose you will be on my back until I tell you….so…." he leaned into the map and disinterestedly pointed at the locations. "First New Delhi, then Athens, then Rome,Budapest, Paris, London, Ontario, Washington and finally, just this last week, LA."
"And it doesn't bother you that they are moving in a westerly pattern?"
"No." the Brigadier answered.
"Then in a westerly and temporally pattern as well. Athens was the center of civilization before Rome…they are following a westerly and temporal pattern." Turlough answered, leaning into the table. "I'm not entirely sure of the temporal pattern though…because by all rights Moscow and Tokyo should have been…before….Europe….proper…" Turlough sighed. "The Doctor will have a better idea."
"I wonder what is keeping him," the Brigadier groused. He looked at the clock. "For a Time Lord, he never did have a good understanding of schedule."
**
"We are safe here, Tegan."
The Doctor was crouching, just outside the driver's side door. Tegan rested against the passenger seat, her chin resting on her chest and her arms around her legs. He leaned forward and placed his crossed arms on the seat and stared at her. Her breathing was normalizing; she wasn't hyperventilating anymore. With a sigh, he finally lowered his eyes. "Tegan?"
She shrugged and averted her eyes from him.
"I've never known you to be this quiet."
"You haven't known me for quite some time," she answered back. The force in her voice made him smile. The old Tegan was there, just hiding.
"Very true. But it was once said that good friends are never apart in spirit. And we were/are good friends, aren't we?"
Tegan nodded once, curtly. She raised a hand to wipe the last of the tears from her cheeks. "I just seemed to have gotten out of the habit of nearly dying in the company of my good friends."
"Yes, well…we all have our special abilities, and that seems to be mine." He rubbed his chin on his arm.
"Too right."
He nodded and rose, walking around the car to open her door. He held out his hand to help her up and she eyed it suspiciously before taking it. "Are you better, Tegan?"
"If you mean, am I not nearly paralyzed and can breathe normally, yes. If you mean, do I feel normal…no." She said with some sarcasm.
He took her spout in stride. "Do you have night terrors? Long periods of anxiety? Do certain sounds, visual stimuli cause distress?"
"Yes, yes and sometimes," she answered, releasing his hand and walking away from him. "Why? What's wrong?"
"I think it might be something like a post traumatic stress disorder, Tegan…from the symptoms and reaction you had just a few moments ago. I would like to talk to your therapist, however."
"What therapist?"
"How long has this been going on? Haven't you sought help?"
"Where? And from who?" she asked, stopping, glaring at his back. "How would you propose that I get help? Waltz into a shrink and say: Hi…I've been bumming around the universe with my chum, a Time Lord, in his time and space machine. I seem to be having trouble sleeping, can't think, can't function… I wouldn't get any further…they would have me locked up in an institution so fast my head would spin."
He rolled his eyes. "Then answer how long, Tegan. You can do that can't you? Was it before or after you left me?"
"What do you think?" she asked, loudly.
The Doctor spun around, his arms flying wide. "I don't know…that is why I am asking you." His voice was as loud as hers. He waited a beat and then approached her. He stopped within feet of her. She wanted to shout at him; the look he was giving her was one that he reserved for problems he figured out. "It was before you left. That look on your face in the warehouse when you left was terror, not remorse or pain. It was pure terror." He didn't wait for an answer and bent to stare at her. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"How?" She stared back at him. After a moment, she shook her head. "I don't want to talk about it. I just want to go home."
"I can't take you home, Tegan."
"I know that; don't you think I know that?" she was livid. "It seems as though that is ruined too. First my travels with you ruin my career, then my emotions, then my mind, marriage and now my home. It was just a matter of time before it bled through everything and made a total muck of it."
"Tegan. Be reasonable. Please?" He opted for humor and said the words with a winning smile. She boiled, but at the last minute, caved, staring at him in disbelief coated in comfortable familiarity.
"I hate that you can do that to me."
"What? Win an argument with logic?" he continued to smile. She shook her head and lowered her eyes. His smile died quickly. "We need to talk about it, though, and we need to address what is going on with your emotional and mental distress. And all of this should be very soon, Tegan. But we are under pressure and under the UNIT headquarters…we should go upstairs. Do you need time?"
He started to walk away again and stopped after a steps to glance at her. She stood where she was, wet, barefoot and shivering. She was looking at the stairwell tucked in the corner of the garage as though it would bite her. Her eyes met his. "I can't…just…"
"You can do it, Tegan. I'll be with you. I'm not going to leave you; and I'm not going to let you leave me again until we get this sorted out…"
She sighed, hoping to turn and run away into the rain, away from all of this. But looking at the Doc tor and his clear earnestness that she had missed seeing on another human's face these four years, she saw that maybe it was possible. There was nowhere to run. And no one to run to. With small steps and then with a few jogged steps, she stood next to her friend. He nodded and laid his hand at her back to lead her up the stairs. "Thank you," he said, for her ears only although they were alone in the garage.
"For what?" she asked back, feeling the cold metal steps below her feet.
"For not running," he said.
"I'm scared." Tegan stared up the stairwell in all its metal inhuman structure. "And saying 'brave heart' won't help, you know," she confided. "I've been saying to myself everyday for four years and it hasn't helped."
He frowned, looking stricken and pushed/led her up the stairs. As they rounded the first landing, he reached for her hand and led her the rest of the way.
Tegan frowned at his back and allowed him to pull her up to the UNIT room.
**
The rain was clearing up as a black car pulled up in front of a simple residential house. Three men piled out, their black suits conspicuous in the casual atmosphere of suburbia. They walked up the small path, past two other men standing listlessly on the doorstop of one of the flats. Several minutes past before a loud series of gunshots were heard from within.
One man reappeared; his companions called him Commander Reynolds. He nodded back into the house and walked down the path to the car. Pulling his suit back into shape, he lowered himself into the car. It sped away quickly. Minutes later, two body bags were carried from the house. One contained Lindon; the other Jameson.
As the car sped away, Smith glanced over his shoulder. The body bags were glistening with newly fallen rain. He looked over at Reynolds. "They failed."
"They not only failed; they lost her," Reynolds sighed. The old adage – 'if you want something done right, do it yourself' came to mind.
With a frown, Smith looked down at the notebook he held in his lap. "And the Doctor?"
"Has her and is with UNIT, obviously. I should have anticipated that," Reynolds shook his head. He appeared very weary as he rubbed his temple. "It really makes no matter. The woman has a history of instability and inability to act and cope."
"It is no surprise…"
"Yes," Reynolds nodded. "Travels in the fourth dimension by a society member as yet unable to comprehend space flight, beings from other planets, and generalized five dimensions in math would have an adverse effect on their mental well-being. We will continue with plans. Radio the air field and let them know we are on our way."
"Yes, sir," Smith answered and reached for the cumbersome mobile phone. He began to dial the numbers.
Reynolds glanced at his younger, more naïve companion. "I want the plane ready and the flight plan registered for LA…we don't need to leave a path to Tokyo…the Doctor will have a good guess already, why help him?"
Smith nodded and said a series of incomprehensible words into the receiver. He covered it and replied: "But sir…we were going to Bejing…"
"Change of plan. Flight to Tokyo then back to LA," he nearly smiled at the bewildered look on Smith's face. He laid a hand on the young man's shoulder. "Just do it."
Smith nodded, recalling the sight of the body bags. With a clipped voice, he did as he was bidden.
**
Pendrall adjusted his white coat over his shoulders and stretched his arms over his head. One of the guards standing near him cleared his throat and gestured with his gun back to the microscope. Alfred groaned and bent back over the eyepiece with a grimace. His back was killing him and he needed coffee badly. And he was lonely; the equivalent of scarecrows with guns did not constitute company in his estimation.
The door to the laboratory opened and a small woman in a white coat like his entered. It was long on her, covering her to knees. Her black hair was pulled back into a tight bun. It was almost comical the way that she carefully made her way across the room, two cups of coffee in her hands. "Here, Al…I didn't think the boys here would let you out for your daily dose of the bean."
"My thanks, Penelope," his deep accented voice compared to her bland American accent was as different as his shock white hair was to her dark hair.
"No problem, sir…" she sipped her cup and smiled and waved at the guard nearest them. The man ignored her. With a shrug, she leaned against the lab table. "What's new?"
"This strain of virus," he pointed toward the microscope. He and she pointedly ignored the 'no food in the lab' sign daily so it did not bother him to lean back and sip from his mug as well. "It is like the viriods that I studied at Cambridge…"
"Amoebic infectious agents? Your dissertation?"
"You read it?" Alfred asked, surprised.
"I always read the work of people that I am going to work with and for, Al…call it American paranoia." She put down her mug and leaned sideways to look in the eyepiece. The microscope showed Paramecium both infected, and non-infected. The infected side of the slide showed the organisms almost writhing, curling…in death throes. It was quick. As she watched, two cells were invaded, disabled from moving and reduced to lifeless, curled vacuoles of nothing. The cells on the other side were fine. She whistled lowly. "Would not want to invite these guys to a party. Terrible guests. But such virulence and pathogencity…killing the host that quickly…its evolutionarily not…well…smart."
"No…it is not. And the funny thing," Alfred knocked back another swig of coffee and eyed his younger assistant. "Is that it has a genetic code that is decidedly different than anything I have ever seen. It is very short; Duncan in coding was able to decipher the code very quickly."
Penny smiled. "But we are here to come up with a antidote to it, Al, not to write odes to it. I know you are enthralled, but…"
"What was the first thing I told you when you started, Penny?"
"That a bad penny always shows up?"
"After that…"
Penny sipped her coffee. "That the first step to beating a virus is the same as the first step at beating an opponent in chess. Understand the motivation and the plan…"
"Correct. Why would it kill so quickly?"
She shrugged; she had thought of that already. "It is not natural…anywhere. And with a weird genetic code…its been engineered."
"Correct again. And how do you combat an engineered virus?"
Penny crossed her arms over her chest. "Engineer something to counteract it. Modeled, hopefully, on an existing biological model."
"Yes." Al drank the last of his coffee and handed his mug back to his young friend. He waved an impatient hand toward the twin microscope across the table "Now…make yourself useful, Pen, and sit down and make some drawings of the infected paramecium."
Penny smiled and shook her head. As she settled onto the stool, she leaned into the table. "Al…but have you thought of the reason behind creating a virus like that in the first place?"
"I can figure out viriods and viruses, Penny," he answered, not looking at her. "Men are much harder to even comprehend. Start drawing…"
She sighed and rolled her shoulders, prepared for a long day in the lab.