Gallifrey:
"We can't just watch!"
"We can...and we will."
Goth's cold voice washed over them like a winter-sandstorm: Freezing and de-fleshing at the same time.
Even Sardon was unable to hide his confusion. He noted that Ragnar (dour as ever) looked only tired, as though he was about to hear something that was familiar, old, and somewhat stale.
The huge Prydonion remained calm. "We have too many delicate events, Lords and Ladies. These events have the potential to become Events." He pronounced the more vital connotation without breaking a sweat, but several blinked.
"To begin with," he ticked points off his fingers, "The pinhole is not what it seems. The Doctor was very clear about that—though his determination to solve that particular mystery may have to be...postponed for now. It remains to be seen if he is right about the pinhole possessing awareness, but if he is right the foolishness will be upon our own cuirass if we ignore it and are proven wrong. I don't need to remind you all that it never will do if we are caught being less aware than one of our..." He paused just slightly, substituting 'prisoners' for 'men in the field.'
(Sardon rebelliously wondered what would happen if he locked the Doctor and that overbearing orange giant in a broken lift for a few hours. The imagined possibilities were breathtaking)
"Said pinhole was—we believed—the main factor in the missing beings among the Third Zone. Now we can posit this remains the most logical conclusion—after all, even though we are Time Lords, our awesome powers are up against a large amount of space and we have but limited power even in the best of Eras with which to go searching. Because of this, we need to pursue every thread in this tapestry.
"Secondly, there is the problem with the Feathered Sun itself. What if the pinhole had succeeded in destroying the ship? What would have been her eventual fate? The Temporal Forensics Examiners need to pursue their investigations into the Probability Streams. I am aware this is a unique dedication to detail, but this is a unique case.
"Thirdly—the use of the ship to smuggle the dead to Androgums? Once we can look past the grostequeries inherent in the situation, we can see there is much more to be investigated: The Ancel'ak species is not known for being overtly individual. There was a motive to his reprehensible crimes.
"Fourthly—a simple scanning will tell if the "dead" Colonists are merely "dead"-they could yet be revived and since the entire mission's language was written to spare lives and prevent the further loss of lives, we have that duty.
"Fifthly," and at this point even Goth looked as though he were getting tired from listing all the points, "The Colonists' home world will have to be alerted in any case. Does anyone know what world they were colonising—or what their homeworld even was? No? We need to find out before we come bearing the bad news! That will require delicacy as we are a politically and morally neutral party, even though-
"Sixthly..."
Sardon's eyes tried to glaze over in a self-protective instinct. He mastered himself with an effort of self-control that would have made a Cerulean proud.
"Sixthly," Goth persisted, "It leads us to ask the question: If there is one ship of missing Colonists, are there others? There are too many missing lives in the Third Zone!" He sniffed once, annoyed at the complications. "The Ancel'ak's murky dealings may not be the only such murky dealings."
"Surely the Androgums are the primary cause," Ragnar looked ill. The name of the race was a pollution to those who eschewed flesh and fruit.
"We know them for one cause, and that is only by accident. Despite their sterling reputation in butchery, we cannot presume they are the only sources for this problem." Goth paused and looked momentarily drained. "As complex as this is, we cannot spare the power required to maintain the equipment that would let us all be everywhere at once."
"Even before the pinhole, we did not have that much power available." Milvo agreed. His usual humour was dampened. "If we overextend our budget, we will draw unwanted attention to our actions."
"Bad enough those Insurgents..." Someone muttered, and there were many fingers twisting in an aversion of fate.
"Discretion is an increasingly slippery slope," Sardon pitched in calmly. "With the shadows of rebellion drawing nearer to the High Council, we can at least collect as much accurate data as possible."
"And that means leaving the Doctor to his own devices...at least for now." Goth was leaning back in a very Imperial pose of calm nobility.
Leaving Sardon to pick up the reins of power after they'd been spat on. Again. Sardon was used to it.
"We'll take actions to pull him out if things get hopeless." The Grey Lord told the rest. "If I know the Doctor—and I claim to know him as well as anyone else can—he cannot be trusted to behave even in his captivity. He will cause the Androgums great trouble as soon as he is capable. That will at least allow us some time in order to quietly find some answers. In the mean time, we will keep him under watch with the TSV."
"Did you just say you trust the Doctor?" Ragnar blinked.
"My word, no." Sardon laughed at the thought. "I trust him to cause trouble! He will not behave in captivity. He never has, and he never will."
"I thought he was behaving with us rather well." Goth frowned.
"With us—yes. He needs us as much as we find him of use. The Androgums are under no such agreement." His wry smile melted. "We heard a claim, possibly scurrilous bragging, of Androgums eating Time Lords. If I know a pulsar from a pandak, I'm telling you the Doctor will get to the truth of this for himself."
And that was the frightening part, the last bit that Goth didn't want to dirty his hands with listing, so he'd left it to Sardon.
If Brasher had eaten Time Lords, he had eaten either Time Lord renegades like the Doctor...or Time Lords in secret missions or placed in protective hiding.
Either option meant no one dared expose this news yet.
With luck, they wouldn't have to expose it at all.
Sardon slept well. He was too disciplined to not keep himself in perfect working order. Castellans were known for needing one hour naps every 24-36 hours but that was natural considering their active soldierly duties. He woke refreshed, washed, and ate. The fact that he could digest even as he considered Goth just showed his duranium constitution.
Goth was one of the higher keyholders in politics. He had finest blood; he had backing from anyone in a position to help. What he didn't have was the full approval of the Lord President.
Goth was anxious for power, and the Grey Man didn't think he was willing to wade through another another three or four millennial parades to get it. So far he was being the perfect politician and "legally elected official" and lived in his proper "tastefully understated" villa in the perfect neighborhood. He was a tireless advocate for social programs that kept the wheels turning, and always devoting energy and private funds into some Perdition-be-damned scholastic project. Like rebuilding libraries.
It was the libraries that blew Sardon's sleeping suspicions into full-grown confirmation. Everyone had some stake in the many forms of education, research, and information. But rather than achieve fame in supporting art exhibits, cultural appreciation, employment and social progress, Goth poured his funds into areas that were unwanted, boring, and neutral of politics: he paid for the mandated utilities and facilities inspections.
All they had to do was file for one of his grants. And agree to the terms of the grant.
Sardon had been checking into the paperwork as discreetly as he could, but all he could collect was a sense of creeping dread. Goth's grants were painfully easy to file for: All you had to do was submit copies of the buildings in question to make certain all of the power, water, atmosphere, etc., were evenly distributed throughout the facility. If they were not, then Goth would accept the grant anyway on the grounds that a portion of the funds were used in correcting these imbalances. It was very efficient and thorough. Goth knew of struggling research and science sectors who filed just to get those improvements into their impoverished systems!
Someday, Sardon would have to really get down to the bottom of Goth's murky waters. He wasn't happy about it. He would need to be very clever and resourceful—and tricky.
Better yet, have someone who was clever, resourceful and tricky do the work for him.
Sardon was good at stifling anything that resembled a conscience when it came to using the Doctor. All he did was ask himself if his work was for the good of Gallifrey. The answer was always yes.
Thus restored and ready, The Grey Man tucked his daily reports from Kord (his new assistant) under one grey arm and made his way back to the Committee Room a few hours early. It was his thought to sit at the table, go through a few hundred papers, and keep a weather eye on the TSV before the official meeting time.
The doors opened to his Security key, and he paused, realising that the room was not empty after all.
"Good morning, Karnak," He said smoothly.
The woman blinked up at him, her eyes clouded with momentary confusion. "Sir." She nodded. "Good morning to you, Grey Lord." She was draped in wires, components, archiac bits, and holding three different tools in each hand.
"Is that my title now?"
"I wouldn't know about titles...it is merely what you are called and since this is the first time I've met you, I only now realize that may be your title behind your back."
Sardon had to smile. He liked telepaths; they were generally quite ethical (refreshingly so) and straightforward. Lies and deceit in a being that could detect unthruths led to fatal diseases. "Any progress upon the old relic?"
"I can keep it operating," Karnak answered with shabby enthusiasm. "This poor relic must have been through a war—it hasn't been given the attention it deserved. I'm trying to compensate. Give me a few decades and a junk yard and I'll have it running smooth as a quasar!" Now that she'd said the impossible, she looked happier. "She may be a relic, but she'll be our relic!"
"She?"
"Yes. She's definitely feminine." Karnak assured. "Most of this era machinery is female."
"Speaking of relics, the Doctor always insists his TARDIS is female. They're about the same age." Sardon contemplated the peculiar (if accidentally neat) designs of the Universe. "I can only hope we won't be watching the Doctor that long." He carefully set his papers down, and dialed up a cup of the first hot drink his brain could encode.
"I've checked on him a few time whilst I was upgrading. They've gotten him in some sort of holding cell—no room to move, really. I don't understand the purpose of the equipment."
Sardon sighed and picked up the condensed report the TSV had managed to spit out between non-functional moments. "It's not equipment, my good Karnak. It's not a holding cell, either. It's a holding pen—the kind primitive species use for immobilising beasts selected for slaughter." He grimaced as she turned white. "I shouldn't worry just yet. The Androgums want their prize safe and unharmed and in a place where they don't have to watch over him as they see to the other..." There was no getting around it. "Meals." He finished.
Karnak was still staring at him, white faced and not blinking.
"Androgums are not pleasant people."
"That large one...Brasher...He mentioned eating Time Lords."
"That is why we are watching before we interfere." Sardon sipped his cup and wondered what he was even drinking. "The Doctor will get to the bottom of the mystery here—with or without us."
Karnak's face struggled with credibility.
"It is a matter of power consumption and logistics." Sardon told her. "It is much cheaper and easier on our resources—that includes our nerves—to give him his head. If we were to interfere like Time Lords, half the planet would be aware of it by now."
She looked back at the TSV doubtfully. "A strange business. I hope to have this beast ready to operate without further breakdowns before meeting time."
"As you will." Sardon picked up the first of reports to rubberstamp for the day, and began to read.
The Doctor was not happy.
Travel by Androgum was not going to be on his list of chosen conveyances. Being slung over one hairy shoulder and carried to the T-mat like so much grain made it hard to notice important details—backwards and upside down wasn't the best orientation posture. Finally, they made it to the Feathered Sun's hijacked control room.
The Doctor barely had time to memorise the T-mat coordinates before they re-materilised into the Androgum Ship. One sniff of the metallic air inside the walls and his hearts sank even further. This was an old, almost obsolete pigbear of a ship. Those tended to be a hallmark of creative engineering and other bits and bobs that would make it a bit more complicated for his still-germinating plans. Androgums were jealous of their primitive work; they nurtured and coddled it with their illogical attachments to vanity, and that made it hard to predict.
"Ah, they tidied up for us. Well done."
Brasher stopped in the middle of the room in approval. It had been done up proper: tall spiceplants created a leafy accent in deep pots simulated to imitate the rich volcanic mud-baths of their nutritional needs. Ceiling lights cast down blinding blue-white lights. The carpet, imitating the lush blue fleshgrass of home, had been freshly cleaned and a coat of paint gleamed the pearlescent hues of home in the brightness of mid-morning. Comfortable reclining furniture, tables, and ledges for food and drink rested among tasteful framed images of art: Famous Androgums poised with their Grig weapons, or an artistically mounted lock of hair or bit of tattooed skin from a famous celebrity. A delicate aquarium sat in the wall, permitting assorted small fish to swim in an ever-changing combination of colours. They were Salting-fish, each color holding a different flavour in their skin, brain, fins, and tails. Androgums were dearly fond of good, fresh flavour on their table.
It was, the Doctor thought worriedly, a lot like a waiting room.
Except for that strange glassed-in booth in the far corner. It looked a little familiar, but not quite...
"Master!" An Androgum that was Serrate's twin save for the extra excrescence on his right brow ran in and bowed. "You're back early! We'd hoped to surprise you!"
"And you did, Hollow. Very well done." Brasher approved. "Your taste is exquisite as always. Will you have enough time to prepare a small supper for the guests tonight?"
"Certainly, Master. What shall I prepare?" Despite the over-awing curiosity about the burden on Brasher's back, the young Androgum was manfully trying not to peer too closely or ask questions. Brasher was having just as much fun with not telling him anything, letting him stew in his own juices.
"Good, fresh flesh! We have some Ancel'ak that foolishly walked in front of our path—not the finest of meats, but fine grain!" The two laughed.
"Fresh is a quality that can never be duplicated," Hollow bowed his head with a cheeky grin. "The new pressure-cooker needs to be put to its paces—the maker claims that a raw-pack with herbs and spices will not only infuse the flavour into the meat, but it will also render the meat so tender you can feed it to your own infants!"
"Now there's a claim! How will you pack the meat, boy?"
"I would of course follow your expertise. One rend-leaf per jar for delicacy, and a tablespoon of lemon-ants for a bit of a stimulation upon the tongue, which would be cut into two-centimetre cubes. Cover with boiling, infused water before placing in the canner."
"Excellent. Bring me your first-draft of the menu when you get your kitchen in order. Your brother will be coming along soon for his first high-order examination." Brasher gave the little Time Lord over his shoulder a friendly pat on the leg and got another kick for it, making him chuckle.
"Yes, sir." The ache to ask burned in Hollow's eyes, but he minded his manners.
"Open the pen, my boy. And stand to the side—you have to be quick when you're working with these little hellions. They're a tricky sort sometimes..."
The Doctor was naturally quick and lithe, but he had no idea what happened next: one minute he was chained and over a fat, greasy cannibal's shoulder. The next, he was standing on his feet, compressed into a pen that would let him stand or sit but nothing else. Force fields pressed upon him in all directions—he couldn't even fall down unless he wanted to spend twenty minutes slowly falling-and he wasn't that bored just yet!
And that was where he was still.
The Doctor sighed and tried to look even more harmless than he felt. Moving around the pen was hard, but there were panels in all of the non-glassed parts of his cubical wired for sound and the sound had been piping soothing sub-sonics since his incarceration.
All this calmness was beginning to get to him. Be careful what you think, he scolded himself.
The door to the side was flung open with a big, booted foot. The rest of Brasher followed, bellowing into a strangely-shaped communications device colored an unnerving shade of red.
"Starving the beasts before slaughter?!"
The leaves of the potted plants rippled. Reinforced deck or not, the floor was shaking under his tread. Brasher was well on his way to a long-familiar tirade. "Nothing but sloppy focus!" His voice turned ugly—or uglier, which the Doctor had not known was possible. The other voice on the other side of the device tried to protest—or argue-but Brasher was having none of it.
"It is a proven, scientific fact that a stressed beast means inferior meat! And it takes no time to bring stress to a beast! It's bad enough you've got your kitchen right against your slaughtering-room where the creatures can smell the blood and fear! But starving before the slaughter? Pah!"
Brasher was really getting worked up now. Serrate leaped into the room in concern—and then cowed away from him.
"A period of rest is required of each animal before a proper slaughter! Now that's the first-day lesson every babe has to learn on their mother's knees—before they're even tall enough to reach the cooking-pot they have to have the basics drilled in their heads!"
Brasher spun on his heel and kept going. "Half of the live weight loss due to stress shows up as carcass weight!"
More frantic peeping from the other side.
"And you believed him?"
The fish swam away in panic. The Doctor hoped whoever this 'him' was, had no business being near his person for the rest of his lives.
"He still thinks he can kill with a good knock on the head!" Brasher did not hide his disgust. "Won't listen to his own grig's advice! He's not a young-one any more! You have to leave certain killings to the youth! If they never learn, what's the next generation going to be like? We have to move forward with our craft, not stay in one place!"
Brasher made a sound like a "pah!" at full volume and threw the offending device into the wall adjacent to the Doctor's cell. He watched pieces fly off in all directions, some spattering against the glass. A lozenge circuit sailed across his eyes, pure gold and rare (Granheim's Design, 700's, Common Gallifreyan Era), and he winced at the loss of a very nice bit of antiquery.
In the meantime, Brasher was turning to his cowed apprentice. "I'll be a feast for the grandchildren while there's still enough of me to savour! I will never, ever allow myself to get old enough to be such a drooling idiot as that one! But the good news is, he belongs to our Grig."
"Master?"
"Because if word got out how much I hated a rival Grig's cook, there'd be open warfare." The huge alien sniffed loudly.
"Oh."
As one, the two turned to look at the Doctor (which he had hoped they would not do). "Terribly sorry for the fuss." The huge master apologized. "It's been ages since I had anything in there worthy to show, er...what is your name, Time Lord?"
"What's your name, Androgum?" The Doctor snapped.
Serrate went stiff with shock, but Brasher was unaffected. "I am Brasher of the Quawcine Grig, Master Fowler!"
"And a Master Fowler, compared to a regular Fowler, is...?" The Doctor didn't feel like playing it safe today.
Brasher (for better or for worse) looked merely amused at his captive's pique.
"Why, a fowler is a hunter, of course. The highest level of hunter among the other hunters. Without a fowler the table would be a sorry sight indeed!"
The huge Androgum rolled forward in his boots, stopping before the glass. The Doctor had a fascinating, up-close view of what Jamie called the heart-spoon of the chest. He was glad he couldn't smell through the barrier.
A button off to the side was pushed, and the Doctor felt the press of gravity appeased; he could move, if slowly.
"And a Master Fowler makes Fowling his life's calling. For him is the responsibility and joy of the hunt—he embraces it into his being! No quarry is too difficult or too dangerous. No objective is too risky."
"Because you Androgums are what you eat, as the proverb says." The Doctor said coolly.
"What a concise way to put it! Whose proverb?"
"Earthers. They have many, many proverbs that would apply to you." The little Time Lord reached up with great difficulty to press his fingertips against the glass of the door. The force-field within was not impermeable, but it was difficult to work with. Short, sharp movements were impossible. "You hunt the deadliest, most dangerous of beings and serve them up because you wish to absorb their dangerous qualities into your own DNA!"
"It is part of the responsibility of being an Apex Predator." Brasher said modestly.
The Doctor wasn't about to waste his breath on that. He humph'd and continued his bored examination of his tiny prison.
"I have given my name, Little Time Lord. I await yours."
The Doctor felt a long-stifled urge of rebellion come to him. The start of a VERY thin plan was bubbling away in that ever-present plotting and scheming portion of his mind.
"Oh, names are names." He drawled. "You can call me John Smith...or Rip Van Winkle...or Gaius Iunius Faber..." He watched the other closely as he spoke. "Mason...Galloway...The Examiner..."
"Oh, are you?" Brasher grinned. "And what do your enemies call you?"
"Lots of things." The Doctor shot back tranquilly. "When they call me anything at all. Let's see... Dok-Tor is one. I've been called Salamander...'That Rotten Little Ragamuffin,'... 'Dirty little Tramp—although I do disagree with being called 'dirty,'" He glanced at his scrupulously clean fingernails with a quick scowl. "Vagabond. Gipsy. Tramp... The variations are limitless."
Brasher stood even closer. Despite the shielding glass, the Doctor could feel the force of his personality on the other side. "And your allies? What do your allies call you?"
"Whatever name they choose. It doesn't matter to me." His eyes narrowed, sliding into a dark sea-grey. "I know who I am."
"A Riddler, are you? Are you clever enough for the title?" Brasher wanted to know. "Then we'll just call you," He bent close. "Trickster." And he grinned. "That should remind us to watch you, Little one."
"Oh, dear. Do I really need watching?"
"All Time Lords need watching." Brasher said with absolute certainty. "And a feral Time Lord? Even more so." He reached up and toyed with a tiny ornamental pin at his breast. It was shaped like a bird's claw. "You're the first Feral I've ever caught. You are obviously good at what you do, or you wouldn't be so healthy." He paused to wipe drool off his chin. "This is not a tame Universe. Those who survive, do it very well." He wiped again. "Power is how to survive...and cleverness...intelligence..." His voice dropped. "And guile. Lots of guile. I sense that about you."