Gallifrey:
"Those Androgums are as stupid as they look..." Het'laup's voice trailed off.
Sardon looked at him. "Yes...?" He asked politely.
The other cleared his throat. "Well, we know he's not half-human. That's absurd."
"I know. Pity. It would explain so much." Sardon sighed wistfully for the what-ifs before realizing this was a guarantee of annoying the two other Prydonions in the room. Well, beg your puffed-up Patrexes' pardon, but not everyone can authorise the use of a Chameleon Arch to legitimize one's House... "He just associated with them for a long time, that's all. He wears their clothing still and eats their food when he's in the field. I'm not surprised the Androgums are confused and that confusion may save his life."
"Humans aren't as harmless as they look!" Jokul protested. "They're violent and mercenary and...chaotic! They're slaves to their primitive natures!"
"They're laboring under a misconception as to his capabilities." Sardon reminded them. "If there is anyone who can take advantage of misconception...it is how he hides."
But right now, the Doctor was hiding from everything, not just his enemies. If he was being observed by the CIA's laughable technology (and one overworked, underthanked telepathic tech who really wished Time Lords would keep their opinions about breeding to a deeper chasm in their skulls), it was all being kept blissfully, fantastically, glorious quiet.
And he was taking swift advantage of this quiet time—he now had a good suspicion as to the source of his previous spells of mindless pain and pressure. There was no telling if and/or when the TSV would hiccup and send him another dose of it all.
The Androgums' freezer was completely unlike that of the Feathered Sun. It was state-of-the-art, and whispered quietly to itself. Its fuel-efficient auxillary cells were powered by beamed in relays from the solar sails stitched in the skin of the ship. It was one of the most impregnable portions of the fortress in the Androgum craft.
Nothing got in the way of an Androgum and a perfect meal, and Brasher was mindful of his duties in keeping that perfect meal perfect so the rightful owners could get it unscathed.
Row after row of Androgum prey rested in processed, preserved death under the cold. Among them the corpses of the Colonists were crammed into the individualised storage units. Rarely one if they were large, but more often two and even three to a chamber—they were locked in icy chests with clear glasstic walls leached of any harmful vapours. Only the barest rime of frost touched the oldest units.
The Colonists were undeniably dead, and his hearts ached for the loss of life. In the better light he could recognise them for the Denilaccan—distant cousins of Tokish, Space Gypsies. Wanderers through space, outcasts from the horrible Minyan War that left their own planet devoid of water. They accepted the contempt other species had for the "planetless" and suffered menial chores and hoped for better. If they had been colonising...they had actually found a planet willing to take them in.
It went against his personal choice to use them...but these people were dead—man, woman and child.
But in death they could save lives.
And if these really were the people he remembered from his original incarnation, they would not blame him for what he was about to do to their mortal remains. After life, the body was so much waste to jettison out the airlock.
He looked at his TARDIS key sadly. It was small, but the metals of its composition were far stronger than the Earth-bound alloys from which it imitated.
When it wasn't a key, it was a fairly passable element in his new recorder: a gift from a few grateful former clients in the Horsehead Nebulae... The High-gravity Technotites took their music very seriously.
He hoped they would forgive him for this...
Already composing a florid letter of apology, the Doctor took a deep breath and yanked on the casing housing an interesting-looking panel. It groaned and complained, and it was sealed with ice as much as metal-weld and adhesive, but using the key-tip as a chisel paid off. With a SPANG! The metal sheet went flying.
There we are...
With a ferocious scowl on his face, the Doctor teased out a few wires, memorised where they were emerging from the console itself, wrapped his hand in his silk handkerchief for insulation. He held his breath and stabbed.
The circuit burst.
The Compressors went out...but there were no alarms.
No attempts at backups.
No alerts, no panicky computer sending panicky messages to its crew.
So far, his earlier sabotage was working.
Already feeling warmer, the Doctor pulled back and breathed. And just for good measure, found what remained of the backup relays in the wall, and ground them to dust. A few quick jabs on the parasitic elements of the circuits and any power would divert back to the source instead of where they were supposed to go.
There.
Now to go find the living victims.
The Doctor had found a map of the original ship's diagram in the computer, but he doubted it was still accurate. Still...it was in the right general area—close to the VIP housing. The Master Fowler would want to stay close to his subjects. Had the Doctor escaped in the opposite direction, he may very well had ran straight into the stockpens. He shuddered and banged the panel into place...and started moving.
Updeck, Brasher had finished glowering at his map.
He was missing something, and it wasn't just the little Time Lord.
The big alien never really looked in a good mood even when he was. His face was noble and ponderously magnificent according to Androgum standards, but it was not reassuring. He stroked his many warts thoughtfully, pausing to tap the one decorating his nose with a fingertip—his usual mannerism of thinking. He toyed with one of the ivory beads hanging from his ear. He made wind-chimes of the bone-names woven into his beard. The names of his enemies tinkled as he thought.
He hummed a low ditty under his breath about the wisdom of being prepared:
"For need of a stone, the edge was gone,
For need of the edge, the knife was gone,
For need of a knife, the hunt was gone,
For need of a hunt, the fight was gone,
For need of a fight, the bets were gone,
For need of the bets, the money was gone,
For need of the money, the beasts were sold,
For need of the beasts, the pot was dry,
For need of the soup, the Grigs came a-calling..."
It wasn't just a charming nursery-rhyme to sing the children to sleep. Like all nursery rhymes, this one was rooted in facts so old it had passed to legend: A proud and powerful Grig had suffered so many economical losses from gambling the rival Grigs had come to visit "and stay for supper"...forcing the host to cook up members of his own hungry Grig rather than shame his guests with a dry pot.
Only the wily old Patriarch had thought ahead, and served his enemies to his starving Grig. Charming story that it was, Crackmarrow Broth was still an undefeated favorite at the table—especially in times of war.
If hunger is the best sauce, the story that goes with the meat is the only appropriate wine.
"Where are you, little one?" Brasher whispered. His nostrils were flaring, his soul aching for the thrill of another hunt.
The Doctor had happily fled the freezer space and was now hiding in a library cranny. As he'd suspected, it hadn't been used in generations. But with a bit of cleverness and some illicit technology, the long-disused data portals would be good for hacking into the ship's mainframe.
Welcome to a life term in the CIA: Infiltration, Interference, and Espionage...
The little Time Lord hurried to the nearest memory portal and yanked out the CIA storage unit. He plugged it in after a furtive glance about, and put his back to the computer wall, just in case some mutant of an Androgum might have the desire to clock in some paid time. While this small act of Data Hijinks was commencing (he had to admit his conscience was surprisingly silent on this subject), he studied the dark, cool room.
He wondered how long the Androgums actually had this ship. It had to be at least a thousand years old; the writings on the walls were Third Zone Standard, and the block-print style was consistent with the first three hundred years of TZS. The fact that the letters didn't look as though they'd ever had a fresh coat of paint since first installation told him the current captain had a shaky grip on priorities.
That reminded him of Captain on the Feathered Sun. He really ought to do something to-
Cheep.
He jumped slightly, then looked. Reassured it was nothing more than a Routine passing through the system, he returned to his thoughts at a hastier speed.
His plans were still in the germination stage—probably still a zygote if one wanted to make a Word Cloud of the concepts floating around his skull...but there was still plenty of room for improvisation and adaptation.
Room, yes. But time...
Hmnnn.
Hunter. So that was the name of the ship. Not surprising. The Doctor's fingers danced over the keys, pulling up page of page of information for future use. The CIA's memory unit had just enough room to pirate everything in the (limited) database.
Luckily for him, Androgums channeled their energy and creativity into but a few fields, leaving the rest (such as computers and aerospace travel) to mendacity and conservatism. The Unit sucked up copies of the banks with such speed he fancied it was insulted at the paltry quality of data it was imbibing.
He chuckled as it cheeped FINISH. It almost sounded like a hiccup after a too-sugary meal.
"This is Master Fowler Brasher o'Quawncing Grig."
The rough, rumbling voice sounded very impressive over the shipwide intercoms.
"Everyone stand by for an important message."
"Drat," The Doctor muttered.
"Search your stations, search your quarters. Be watchful for anything out of the ordinary. We have an escapee from the stockpens." Pause. "A lively little biped, two thrams in height, 60 Gor'tel in liveweight. Hair black going grey. Eyes indetermined colour. This is a Time Lord selected for the Grigs of the Homeworld! I needn't tell you the importance of finding our Lords-and-Ladies' Guest at the Feast!"
"Future skeleton at the feast," The Doctor said under his breath.
The Doctor listened as he imagined the entire psychic imprint of the ship dropped to the belly of the hold.
"This is not your ordinary Time Lord. It is a wild Time Lord. Approach it with caution and do not do so alone. It is vital we catch it. Be warned that it has been lightly wounded from the boarding, and it may be operating on instinct instead of intellect. Again, approach with caution..."
Oh, splendid.
Someone murmured something off-screen to Brasher.
"Don't be silly." Brasher scolded reproachfully. "A wild Time Lord is still a Time Lord. There's no sense in threatening the other beasts. They don't care one whit about any other species. Just their own."
The Doctor exhaled, giddy in relief. Well. That was a useful twist! Normally someone was being held up as a hostage to his good behavior! Nice to know that his people's detestable reputation preceded him! He beamed and wiped his brow with his handkerchief, sending up a mental thought to the Quantuum Forces that are affected by such mental thoughts.
Enough of that. He had to go find the prisoners-and Tokish especially.
Gallifrey:
It was another mess with the TSV, but Karnak was learning to be very quick about repairing the fraying wires. The Committee treated themselves to a quick rest and refreshment as a harassed-looking tech came up with armloads of mysterious and dusty antiquated equpiment that Karnak fell too with a will.
"You took long enough," she scolded him once.
"I was shaking everything out," he protested. "There might have been eggs still inside the-" Overcome, he gulped hard.
"And thus, the Grey Zone has been shortened by one less miracle," the woman grumbled under her breath, wiped a rockcrystal semiconductor on her sleeve, blew on it, tapped it with a fingernail and looked satisfied at the tinkling sound. "This ought to give us a few more hours."
"The Outsiders are demanding we replace the junk we 'stole' with an equal amount of junk." The poor man was telling his superior. "Something about how the cobras need the habitat."
"Outsiders are conservationalists?" Karnak wondered as she found and gave another handful of semiconductors the same brusque treatment as the first.
"I don't know anything about that. They did say something about how responsible environmental management was the key to economic equity..."
Sardon's long fingers rested neatly inside his large sleeves, hidden while he quietly keyed private commands to his assistant. The boy wasn't as smart as the late, lamented Luco, but he at least lacked his initiative (thank Rassilon). Once given a clear problem he would be relentless on it.
As he'd stated earlier, he had seen that look on the Doctor's face before.
So many people wanted that little renegade to 'grow up' and be a 'real Time Lord,' whatever that meant. (Sardon had all he could do not to look at Goth while he was thinking the problem over).
The tragedy of the matter was, the Doctor would never be a 'real' Time Lord. Not while their definition of what a real Time Lord remained so inflexible and uninspiringly dull.
Had he only been born in more...active times, the Doctor would be everything they wanted him to be: a leader of his people, a consultant of wisdom, and a fountain of knowledge.
When the Doctor was a real Time Lord, things inevitably went bad for people around him.
Sardon knew from experience that things were about to get very busy, possibly bloody...and when the stellar dust dispersed...it would be a lot cleaner.
He just had to make certain he wasn't one of the things about to be swept out with the rubbish.
Something crackled. The TSV bloomed back to life.
"We've got it!" Karnak crowed.
And then she gasped.
"Got you!"
The Doctor yelped at the top of his lungs as two large meaty paws clamped down on his shoulders. Just as quickly, his feet left the floor.