Fanfiction: Doctor Who: The Fall 2/?
Title: The Fall
Author: Unknown Kadath, aka kadath_or_bust
Rating: R for language and violence
Words: 3,000
Characters: The Doctor (Eighth), Romana III, original characters
Summary: Long before Gallifrey burned, the Time War and so much more was lost in a single day-the day Arcadia fell.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who. Also, I’ve stolen a character from C. S. Lewis.
Chapter One: Flight of the Wild Jailbird
Chapter Two: Lords of Time
Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in getting this chapter up. Actually, no, I'm not sorry. If you want me to hurry up, you should have said something. Assuming anyone is out there ...
7. Time Was
Long ago, in another life, a woman in a long pink coat and a long scarf ran hand in hand with a man, a tall man with wild curling hair, who wore a long red coat and an even longer scarf. They were more than a man and a woman. They were Time Lords, children of eternity. And children they were, innocent, young as their people reckoned it, for all their long centuries and all that they had seen.
They laughed as they ran, for the world was full of wonders then. And the past was but a shadow falling away behind them, forgotten, and the future was all unknown, a shadow not yet fallen over them.
But all that was long ago.
8. The Lady President
The Lady President Romanadvoratrelundar, in her third incarnation, was a tall woman with elegantly coifed black hair and dark green eyes like jade. She was part of the generation that had come some centuries after the Doctor’s-the generation that had, in a way, been created by the Doctor and his classmates. They’d been renegades, rogues, madmen and aberrations, back then. They’d crossed lines not to be crossed.
They weren’t the first, of course. There had been some wild ones in the depths of Gallifreyan history, the occasional escapee from imposed order. And even before the Doctor, the scientists had begun to question some of the rules that bound them. But that was not from rebellion. They had merely become so small-minded that they were incapable of awe, even of the ancient laws and traditions.
They’d gotten sloppy. Perhaps that was how the Doctor and his ilk came into being. A bit of delayed maintenance on the gene looms, an inattentive eye in the preparations, a careless hand in the programming.
And while Gallifrey condemned the renegades, the Doctor and the Master alike, the High Council had seen the results of change and interference. They’d seen how stagnant Gallifrey had become. They’d seen what was possible.
They’d seen that they’d gotten away with it.
So they’d used the Doctor. Manipulated the timelines, with him as the tongs in their ever-so-clean hands. They told themselves that it was he, not they, who bore the taint of it.
And they’d allowed their researchers more leeway. Some of those researchers came from that year, as the Doctor’s class at the Academy became known. They made great progress in genetics, among other things. To the Time Lords of antiquity, their work would have been laughable-they discovered little that was wholly new, often only recovering what was lost. But in these latter, lesser days, they were revolutionaries.
Romana was one of the products of their researches. Her genetics were impeccable, every triple helix of her DNA spotless and precise. Her regenerations were not the stuff of luck and mischance that the Doctor had to make do with-no, hers were planned. Controlled. Guided. Her body was as she imagined it, flawless, a work of art. Her mind was her own, clear and unclouded.
Of course, what could be guided could also be misguided. Take her last regeneration. The Doctor had called her “the noblest Romana of them all.” Romana preferred to think of it as her irresponsible youth. She’d been hardly a child in her first regeneration (looking back, that is-the incarnation in question had thought herself quite mature for her years) when radiation exposure had made a change, if not inevitable, then a wise option. And she’d become a counterpart to the Doctor.
Perhaps there had been a touch of youthful infatuation there. Certainly, there had been hero-worship. She’d been the obedient student in her first incarnation, knowing nothing but facts and figures, until the Doctor had opened her mind. She’d not learned rebellion from him, but questions. Question everything, instead of assuming it was right. And she’d learned the courage of doing what must be done, regardless of personal cost.
There had been a child-like wonder, then. She remembered that. But that was of the past. Sometimes, she still felt hints of it, but it was always closer to the satisfaction of a difficult scientific puzzle unraveled in the laboratory than to the Doctor’s glee.
So she’d wandered, even after she’d left the Doctor. In retrospect, from the vantage of her third incarnation, she’d outgrown him. But not the travel. That had taken longer.
Still, it wasn’t entirely time wasted. She’d been learning, maturing. And eventually, she’d brought that knowledge back to Gallifrey and put it to the good of her people.
She’d still been the noble blond woman, then. Still the idealist. But time cured much of that. Time and Daleks and politics. And the thought of the prophecies, the predictions out of the Matrix-of the coming end-had weighed on her more heavily than she could bear. She’d wanted nothing more than to run away.
She’d known she couldn’t abandon her people, just as she’d known she wasn’t up to the task ahead of her. She still had too much of the carefree wanderer in her soul-and her soul had grown so tired. So she’d given her life, channeled her being into this body. This mind. A mind not ruled by the old romanticism, a mind cold and clean and ready to wage bloody war without flinching.
Someone who wouldn’t hesitate.
She’d crystallized her mind into something cold and hard, like diamonds. She could look down on her people (and on the lesser species) as parts of a greater whole. As equations-lives saved versus lives gained, resources expended versus casualties. Yes, war was a terrible thing. But she did not agonize over her choices, and they didn’t haunt her dreams, except rarely.
Perhaps she just had to admit that there was a sentimental streak in her makeup.
9. Negotiations
“Gentlemen,” said Romana. “For half a million years, your trade-vessels have plied the Shimmering Way in safety. Not only with the permission of the Time Lords, but with our protection. In fact, without our intervention, the time-corridor would have long since collapsed.”
“We are most grateful for your long friendship, of course,” replied the Voice of Charalin. He was a small hominid, of a delicate blue shade, in long somber robes the color of smoke against a winter sky. “And it is certain that without your assistance, the Way would be far more difficult. But, my Lady President, our scientists find the Way more stable than you seem to think. There is every possibility that it would have survived quite well on its own.”
Romana dismissed this with a languid wave of her hand, making the tiny crystals stitched to the sleeves of her emerald robes glitter. It did not do to show one’s feelings in these situations. She leaned back slightly in her command chair, hoping that the Voice’s comm equipment was sophisticated enough to convey the self-assurance of the movement.
“But no certainty,” she said. “And you must admit, our scientists are more practiced in these matters than yours.”
“Perhaps, Lady President,” said the Voice, admitting no such thing.
“There is, of course, the matter of right-of-way. You have been allowed free use of that time-corridor as part of the Azure Accord. An accord which also binds you with certain duties to Gallifrey.”
“Among which death in your wars is not stated. Nor is ownership of the Shimmering Way strictly established.”
He’d dropped the honorific, she noticed. She straightened in her seat, mentally cursing the over-elaborate robes. She preferred something more streamlined-functional, yet elegant. These weren’t quite either. But it was necessary, in these times, to remind the vassals of Gallifrey of the power and antiquity of their lords. The Lords of Time.
It would have been better, of course, to have this conversation in the ancient halls of the Capitol itself, in the heart of her power, instead of broadcasting from the bridge of the Skylark in flight. But needs must, when the devil drives.
She shouldn’t have to have this conversation at all, come to that.
“May I remind you that of the seven black holes forming the Way, four were created or placed by my people?”
“At least two were merely … adjusted.” The Voice raised a hand to forestall her response. “But this is beside the point, Lady President. True, you have the power to block us from the Way as you please-regardless of ownership. But this war-this war is yours alone. We have no obligation to fight and die for you. We will survive the loss of the Way. We will not survive the Daleks.”
“You presume Gallifrey would not protect you.”
“No.” The Voice narrowed his eyes. “We presume you could not protect us. You have done battle for years, and you cannot defeat the Dalek threat. And how many worlds have you lost to them? Too many.”
“The Daleks are in retreat. They destroy worlds out of spite as they go-spite that could be thwarted, with your cooperation.” Romana’s voice grew cold. “And if Gallifrey were truly weak enough to fall-do you think that if the Daleks defeated us, they would leave you in peace? Is that what you really believe? You’d be fighting for your own safety, as much as ours.” Couldn’t he see that?
“I think … this is your fight,” said the Voice. “And a possibility of life is better than the certainty of death. I am sorry, but we will not be a part of this.”
The certainty is that without Gallifreyan assistance, there will be nothing to stop the Daleks destroying all of creation. Including your backwards little world. “But you will at least attend the summit at Arcadia?”
She spoke as if this should be taken as a given, though in fact she expected his answer.
“My apologies, Lady President.” He looked slightly nervous, as if expecting an ultimatum. “But this is none of our affair.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Romana gave him a curt nod. He was an arrogant fool, but he had some courage to defy the Time Lords. She could respect that. “Good day to you.”
She flicked a control switch in the arm of her chair (she preferred physical switches to such nonsense as psionic controls, easier to dislodge if they jammed) and the image of the Voice vanished from her screen.
The fool. Who was he, to defy the Time Lords? To tell her how to wage this war? To take her aid and then abandon his allies? The Charalin couldn’t hope to survive without Gallifrey. But by the time they realized that, the remaining Daleks could have done untold damage to the timelines. (She did not allow the word “regroup” to cross her mind in relation to Gallifrey’s enemies.)
Romana would not, would not, allow her people to suffer with his, because he was unable to confront the facts.
“Your orders, Lady President?” said Commander Elah.
Romana looked up and smiled slightly, despite the situation. Her second-in-command on the flagship was yet another new breed-a tall young woman who’d inherited her human mother’s unruly red mane and her Gallifreyan father’s angular face, along with all the loyalty and courage of both parents. Leela had been with Romana through many adventures, but humans were a short-lived species. Even with the help of Time Lord medical technology.
Elah would not be short-lived. Part human, part Gallifreyan, all Time Lord. And not just a new breed. The first of the next breed. The future of a world.
“We can’t allow this challenge to stand,” said Romana. “Of course we could manage without them-but it won’t do to have our other allies following their lead. Get me Palanzar. Get me Coriakin.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Elah gave a short nod. Neither woman liked it, but it was necessary.
In that way, Romana was glad that Elah was with her, and not Leela. Elah didn’t have her mother’s human cultural biases, didn’t argue with what must be done.
So why did she find herself wishing that Leela were here to stand in her way?
10. The Assassin of Dreams
“Yes, Lady President,” said Captain Palanzar. “At once.”
The tiny, perfect hologram of the President nodded. “Tell Coriakin to scan the timelines. I want only the bare minimum of changes.” Her voice fizzed and cracked, in contrast to her form. There had been a great deal of interference in this sector lately. Coriakin suspected that it was either the result of the shifting timelines or the shields that protected Arcadia’s past from change.
“Of course, Lady President.”
The hologram flickered once and was gone. Pity. It was quite decorative-which was about Palanzar’s only use for his President. To him, she represented the worst of both modern and ancient Gallifrey. The disregard for tradition of the younger generation, coupled with the sentimental whims of a woman-the whims that had ruled Gallifrey in those primitive, superstitious days before Rassilon.
Perhaps they needed another Rassilon to save them from themselves.
Palanzar himself was an unremarkable-looking man, on the slight side, with a thin face and mouse-colored hair. He was not entirely pleased with this regeneration, but he made do. And it was not without its advantages. Very few people, on meeting him in person, realized the immense power he held.
They called him the Assassin of Dreams.
He preferred to think of himself as the Architect of Dreams. An artist, a surgeon, skillfully making small, precise incisions in the fabric of history. Making it better. And all done quietly, behind the scenes. The only reward he asked was a brighter future for his people.
“Lieutenant Fradan.” He turned to the young man standing at his side. “Prepare the intervention team.”
“Yes, sir.”
Good man, Fradan, thought Palanzar. Arcadian-born, but loyal enough for all that. He was one of those rare individuals in which the Gallifreyan blood ran nearly pure. Only the matt black hair and the faint gray sheen to his skin showed his ancestry. A throwback to better days.
Palanzar strode from the sleek, shining communications room and headed, not for Coriakin, but for his own quarters. If anyone asked, he could think of any number of harmless explanations for the detour.
His quarters were in one of the newer parts of the Orb. He’d had them redecorated from the original Arcadian style of bright colors and asymmetrical shapes. Now they resembled the cloistered rooms of the Capitol, dark metals and Spartan furnishings.
He went to his desk, ignoring the comm unit built into it and pressing his thumb into a small depression on the side. The concealed scanner verified his bio-print with a bleep, and a panel popped open to reveal a second comm unit. A rather less official one.
“Report,” came a tinny voice. There was no picture. It used unnecessary bandwidth and increased the odds of detection. Then, too, it was safer if the Brotherhood did not know each other by sight.
“The President has ordered an intervention on the Charalin Hegemony,” said Palanzar. “Minimal, of course. How should I procede?”
“Her instructions were explicit?”
“Explicit that the intervention was to be minimal. I am to alter as little as possible.”
“Bend that instruction if you can do so without being detected. But do not disobey. Take no risks. It is too soon to move against the President openly.”
“Understood.”
11. Shadows
“Suit check,” barked Fradan.
The men of Palanzar’s intervention team formed up into pairs, checking the circuits embedded in each other’s shield-suits. It was a dangerous job, and a malfunction at the wrong moment during a mission could expose the wearer to the Time Winds or worse.
There were twenty men on the team, including Fradan and Palanzar. In the beginning, most of them had been natives of Gallifrey. But as team members were transferred or lost, Fradan had encouraged the selection of Arcadian replacements. It was easier to interview local candidates, and he argued that they were better adapted to the work. Palanzar had to be convinced on a case-by-case basis, but the team was now over half Arcadian. And Palanzar was increasingly willing to trust Fradan with the details of the operation, while he preoccupied himself with grand schemes.
So far, he seemed to suspect nothing. Except, perhaps, that Fradan had a patriotic preference for working with his fellow countrymen.
“Fradan!” said Palanzar, striding into the room and adjusting his own body-armor. “Are the men ready?”
Fradan looked around the room, catching the eyes of the Arcadians. For some reason, they seemed to stick out more than ever today. Like shadows had fallen over their faces, deepening the gray tinge and draining all expression from their gazes.
Like a convocation of corpses.
“Yes, sir,” replied Fradan. And if Palanzar noticed that his lieutenant’s face darkened while his shadow flickered and paled, he chalked it up to a trick of the light.
12. No Negotiations
“Gentlemen,” said Romana. “For half a million years, your trade-vessels have plied the Shimmering Way in safety. Not only with the permission of the Time Lords, but with our protection. In fact, without our intervention, the time-corridor would have long since collapsed.”
“We are most grateful for your long friendship, Lady President,” replied the Voice of Charalin. He was a tall man, of obviously Gallifreyan ancestry, wearing gray robes that paid subtle homage to the formal apparel of the Time Lords. Romana wondered if this had all been necessary, or if Palanzar had begun to overstep his authority. “And we have not forgotten the mother world.”
“Then you will send a delegation to the Summit?” said Romana, quashing her guilt.
“As you command, Lady President,” said the Voice, bowing low. “They will be at Arcadia within the day.”
Next Chapter: Voyage to Arcadia
Previous Chapter
Author: Unknown Kadath, aka kadath_or_bust
Rating: R for language and violence
Words: 3,000
Characters: The Doctor (Eighth), Romana III, original characters
Summary: Long before Gallifrey burned, the Time War and so much more was lost in a single day-the day Arcadia fell.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Doctor Who. Also, I’ve stolen a character from C. S. Lewis.
Chapter One: Flight of the Wild Jailbird
Chapter Two: Lords of Time
Author's Note: Sorry about the delay in getting this chapter up. Actually, no, I'm not sorry. If you want me to hurry up, you should have said something. Assuming anyone is out there ...
7. Time Was
Long ago, in another life, a woman in a long pink coat and a long scarf ran hand in hand with a man, a tall man with wild curling hair, who wore a long red coat and an even longer scarf. They were more than a man and a woman. They were Time Lords, children of eternity. And children they were, innocent, young as their people reckoned it, for all their long centuries and all that they had seen.
They laughed as they ran, for the world was full of wonders then. And the past was but a shadow falling away behind them, forgotten, and the future was all unknown, a shadow not yet fallen over them.
But all that was long ago.
8. The Lady President
The Lady President Romanadvoratrelundar, in her third incarnation, was a tall woman with elegantly coifed black hair and dark green eyes like jade. She was part of the generation that had come some centuries after the Doctor’s-the generation that had, in a way, been created by the Doctor and his classmates. They’d been renegades, rogues, madmen and aberrations, back then. They’d crossed lines not to be crossed.
They weren’t the first, of course. There had been some wild ones in the depths of Gallifreyan history, the occasional escapee from imposed order. And even before the Doctor, the scientists had begun to question some of the rules that bound them. But that was not from rebellion. They had merely become so small-minded that they were incapable of awe, even of the ancient laws and traditions.
They’d gotten sloppy. Perhaps that was how the Doctor and his ilk came into being. A bit of delayed maintenance on the gene looms, an inattentive eye in the preparations, a careless hand in the programming.
And while Gallifrey condemned the renegades, the Doctor and the Master alike, the High Council had seen the results of change and interference. They’d seen how stagnant Gallifrey had become. They’d seen what was possible.
They’d seen that they’d gotten away with it.
So they’d used the Doctor. Manipulated the timelines, with him as the tongs in their ever-so-clean hands. They told themselves that it was he, not they, who bore the taint of it.
And they’d allowed their researchers more leeway. Some of those researchers came from that year, as the Doctor’s class at the Academy became known. They made great progress in genetics, among other things. To the Time Lords of antiquity, their work would have been laughable-they discovered little that was wholly new, often only recovering what was lost. But in these latter, lesser days, they were revolutionaries.
Romana was one of the products of their researches. Her genetics were impeccable, every triple helix of her DNA spotless and precise. Her regenerations were not the stuff of luck and mischance that the Doctor had to make do with-no, hers were planned. Controlled. Guided. Her body was as she imagined it, flawless, a work of art. Her mind was her own, clear and unclouded.
Of course, what could be guided could also be misguided. Take her last regeneration. The Doctor had called her “the noblest Romana of them all.” Romana preferred to think of it as her irresponsible youth. She’d been hardly a child in her first regeneration (looking back, that is-the incarnation in question had thought herself quite mature for her years) when radiation exposure had made a change, if not inevitable, then a wise option. And she’d become a counterpart to the Doctor.
Perhaps there had been a touch of youthful infatuation there. Certainly, there had been hero-worship. She’d been the obedient student in her first incarnation, knowing nothing but facts and figures, until the Doctor had opened her mind. She’d not learned rebellion from him, but questions. Question everything, instead of assuming it was right. And she’d learned the courage of doing what must be done, regardless of personal cost.
There had been a child-like wonder, then. She remembered that. But that was of the past. Sometimes, she still felt hints of it, but it was always closer to the satisfaction of a difficult scientific puzzle unraveled in the laboratory than to the Doctor’s glee.
So she’d wandered, even after she’d left the Doctor. In retrospect, from the vantage of her third incarnation, she’d outgrown him. But not the travel. That had taken longer.
Still, it wasn’t entirely time wasted. She’d been learning, maturing. And eventually, she’d brought that knowledge back to Gallifrey and put it to the good of her people.
She’d still been the noble blond woman, then. Still the idealist. But time cured much of that. Time and Daleks and politics. And the thought of the prophecies, the predictions out of the Matrix-of the coming end-had weighed on her more heavily than she could bear. She’d wanted nothing more than to run away.
She’d known she couldn’t abandon her people, just as she’d known she wasn’t up to the task ahead of her. She still had too much of the carefree wanderer in her soul-and her soul had grown so tired. So she’d given her life, channeled her being into this body. This mind. A mind not ruled by the old romanticism, a mind cold and clean and ready to wage bloody war without flinching.
Someone who wouldn’t hesitate.
She’d crystallized her mind into something cold and hard, like diamonds. She could look down on her people (and on the lesser species) as parts of a greater whole. As equations-lives saved versus lives gained, resources expended versus casualties. Yes, war was a terrible thing. But she did not agonize over her choices, and they didn’t haunt her dreams, except rarely.
Perhaps she just had to admit that there was a sentimental streak in her makeup.
9. Negotiations
“Gentlemen,” said Romana. “For half a million years, your trade-vessels have plied the Shimmering Way in safety. Not only with the permission of the Time Lords, but with our protection. In fact, without our intervention, the time-corridor would have long since collapsed.”
“We are most grateful for your long friendship, of course,” replied the Voice of Charalin. He was a small hominid, of a delicate blue shade, in long somber robes the color of smoke against a winter sky. “And it is certain that without your assistance, the Way would be far more difficult. But, my Lady President, our scientists find the Way more stable than you seem to think. There is every possibility that it would have survived quite well on its own.”
Romana dismissed this with a languid wave of her hand, making the tiny crystals stitched to the sleeves of her emerald robes glitter. It did not do to show one’s feelings in these situations. She leaned back slightly in her command chair, hoping that the Voice’s comm equipment was sophisticated enough to convey the self-assurance of the movement.
“But no certainty,” she said. “And you must admit, our scientists are more practiced in these matters than yours.”
“Perhaps, Lady President,” said the Voice, admitting no such thing.
“There is, of course, the matter of right-of-way. You have been allowed free use of that time-corridor as part of the Azure Accord. An accord which also binds you with certain duties to Gallifrey.”
“Among which death in your wars is not stated. Nor is ownership of the Shimmering Way strictly established.”
He’d dropped the honorific, she noticed. She straightened in her seat, mentally cursing the over-elaborate robes. She preferred something more streamlined-functional, yet elegant. These weren’t quite either. But it was necessary, in these times, to remind the vassals of Gallifrey of the power and antiquity of their lords. The Lords of Time.
It would have been better, of course, to have this conversation in the ancient halls of the Capitol itself, in the heart of her power, instead of broadcasting from the bridge of the Skylark in flight. But needs must, when the devil drives.
She shouldn’t have to have this conversation at all, come to that.
“May I remind you that of the seven black holes forming the Way, four were created or placed by my people?”
“At least two were merely … adjusted.” The Voice raised a hand to forestall her response. “But this is beside the point, Lady President. True, you have the power to block us from the Way as you please-regardless of ownership. But this war-this war is yours alone. We have no obligation to fight and die for you. We will survive the loss of the Way. We will not survive the Daleks.”
“You presume Gallifrey would not protect you.”
“No.” The Voice narrowed his eyes. “We presume you could not protect us. You have done battle for years, and you cannot defeat the Dalek threat. And how many worlds have you lost to them? Too many.”
“The Daleks are in retreat. They destroy worlds out of spite as they go-spite that could be thwarted, with your cooperation.” Romana’s voice grew cold. “And if Gallifrey were truly weak enough to fall-do you think that if the Daleks defeated us, they would leave you in peace? Is that what you really believe? You’d be fighting for your own safety, as much as ours.” Couldn’t he see that?
“I think … this is your fight,” said the Voice. “And a possibility of life is better than the certainty of death. I am sorry, but we will not be a part of this.”
The certainty is that without Gallifreyan assistance, there will be nothing to stop the Daleks destroying all of creation. Including your backwards little world. “But you will at least attend the summit at Arcadia?”
She spoke as if this should be taken as a given, though in fact she expected his answer.
“My apologies, Lady President.” He looked slightly nervous, as if expecting an ultimatum. “But this is none of our affair.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Romana gave him a curt nod. He was an arrogant fool, but he had some courage to defy the Time Lords. She could respect that. “Good day to you.”
She flicked a control switch in the arm of her chair (she preferred physical switches to such nonsense as psionic controls, easier to dislodge if they jammed) and the image of the Voice vanished from her screen.
The fool. Who was he, to defy the Time Lords? To tell her how to wage this war? To take her aid and then abandon his allies? The Charalin couldn’t hope to survive without Gallifrey. But by the time they realized that, the remaining Daleks could have done untold damage to the timelines. (She did not allow the word “regroup” to cross her mind in relation to Gallifrey’s enemies.)
Romana would not, would not, allow her people to suffer with his, because he was unable to confront the facts.
“Your orders, Lady President?” said Commander Elah.
Romana looked up and smiled slightly, despite the situation. Her second-in-command on the flagship was yet another new breed-a tall young woman who’d inherited her human mother’s unruly red mane and her Gallifreyan father’s angular face, along with all the loyalty and courage of both parents. Leela had been with Romana through many adventures, but humans were a short-lived species. Even with the help of Time Lord medical technology.
Elah would not be short-lived. Part human, part Gallifreyan, all Time Lord. And not just a new breed. The first of the next breed. The future of a world.
“We can’t allow this challenge to stand,” said Romana. “Of course we could manage without them-but it won’t do to have our other allies following their lead. Get me Palanzar. Get me Coriakin.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Elah gave a short nod. Neither woman liked it, but it was necessary.
In that way, Romana was glad that Elah was with her, and not Leela. Elah didn’t have her mother’s human cultural biases, didn’t argue with what must be done.
So why did she find herself wishing that Leela were here to stand in her way?
10. The Assassin of Dreams
“Yes, Lady President,” said Captain Palanzar. “At once.”
The tiny, perfect hologram of the President nodded. “Tell Coriakin to scan the timelines. I want only the bare minimum of changes.” Her voice fizzed and cracked, in contrast to her form. There had been a great deal of interference in this sector lately. Coriakin suspected that it was either the result of the shifting timelines or the shields that protected Arcadia’s past from change.
“Of course, Lady President.”
The hologram flickered once and was gone. Pity. It was quite decorative-which was about Palanzar’s only use for his President. To him, she represented the worst of both modern and ancient Gallifrey. The disregard for tradition of the younger generation, coupled with the sentimental whims of a woman-the whims that had ruled Gallifrey in those primitive, superstitious days before Rassilon.
Perhaps they needed another Rassilon to save them from themselves.
Palanzar himself was an unremarkable-looking man, on the slight side, with a thin face and mouse-colored hair. He was not entirely pleased with this regeneration, but he made do. And it was not without its advantages. Very few people, on meeting him in person, realized the immense power he held.
They called him the Assassin of Dreams.
He preferred to think of himself as the Architect of Dreams. An artist, a surgeon, skillfully making small, precise incisions in the fabric of history. Making it better. And all done quietly, behind the scenes. The only reward he asked was a brighter future for his people.
“Lieutenant Fradan.” He turned to the young man standing at his side. “Prepare the intervention team.”
“Yes, sir.”
Good man, Fradan, thought Palanzar. Arcadian-born, but loyal enough for all that. He was one of those rare individuals in which the Gallifreyan blood ran nearly pure. Only the matt black hair and the faint gray sheen to his skin showed his ancestry. A throwback to better days.
Palanzar strode from the sleek, shining communications room and headed, not for Coriakin, but for his own quarters. If anyone asked, he could think of any number of harmless explanations for the detour.
His quarters were in one of the newer parts of the Orb. He’d had them redecorated from the original Arcadian style of bright colors and asymmetrical shapes. Now they resembled the cloistered rooms of the Capitol, dark metals and Spartan furnishings.
He went to his desk, ignoring the comm unit built into it and pressing his thumb into a small depression on the side. The concealed scanner verified his bio-print with a bleep, and a panel popped open to reveal a second comm unit. A rather less official one.
“Report,” came a tinny voice. There was no picture. It used unnecessary bandwidth and increased the odds of detection. Then, too, it was safer if the Brotherhood did not know each other by sight.
“The President has ordered an intervention on the Charalin Hegemony,” said Palanzar. “Minimal, of course. How should I procede?”
“Her instructions were explicit?”
“Explicit that the intervention was to be minimal. I am to alter as little as possible.”
“Bend that instruction if you can do so without being detected. But do not disobey. Take no risks. It is too soon to move against the President openly.”
“Understood.”
11. Shadows
“Suit check,” barked Fradan.
The men of Palanzar’s intervention team formed up into pairs, checking the circuits embedded in each other’s shield-suits. It was a dangerous job, and a malfunction at the wrong moment during a mission could expose the wearer to the Time Winds or worse.
There were twenty men on the team, including Fradan and Palanzar. In the beginning, most of them had been natives of Gallifrey. But as team members were transferred or lost, Fradan had encouraged the selection of Arcadian replacements. It was easier to interview local candidates, and he argued that they were better adapted to the work. Palanzar had to be convinced on a case-by-case basis, but the team was now over half Arcadian. And Palanzar was increasingly willing to trust Fradan with the details of the operation, while he preoccupied himself with grand schemes.
So far, he seemed to suspect nothing. Except, perhaps, that Fradan had a patriotic preference for working with his fellow countrymen.
“Fradan!” said Palanzar, striding into the room and adjusting his own body-armor. “Are the men ready?”
Fradan looked around the room, catching the eyes of the Arcadians. For some reason, they seemed to stick out more than ever today. Like shadows had fallen over their faces, deepening the gray tinge and draining all expression from their gazes.
Like a convocation of corpses.
“Yes, sir,” replied Fradan. And if Palanzar noticed that his lieutenant’s face darkened while his shadow flickered and paled, he chalked it up to a trick of the light.
12. No Negotiations
“Gentlemen,” said Romana. “For half a million years, your trade-vessels have plied the Shimmering Way in safety. Not only with the permission of the Time Lords, but with our protection. In fact, without our intervention, the time-corridor would have long since collapsed.”
“We are most grateful for your long friendship, Lady President,” replied the Voice of Charalin. He was a tall man, of obviously Gallifreyan ancestry, wearing gray robes that paid subtle homage to the formal apparel of the Time Lords. Romana wondered if this had all been necessary, or if Palanzar had begun to overstep his authority. “And we have not forgotten the mother world.”
“Then you will send a delegation to the Summit?” said Romana, quashing her guilt.
“As you command, Lady President,” said the Voice, bowing low. “They will be at Arcadia within the day.”
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