Doctor Who → Sinister, Dexterous
Title: Sinister, Dexterous
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: 14A for violence
Word count: 4002
Characters/pairing: Braxiatel, Narvin, Leela, Romana, the Doctor (Eighth), K-9
Summary: It is a Time War. You do what you must to win, to survive. Braxiatel and Narvin are the left hands that hide what they do from the right.
Notes: A while ago, I promised a friend hilarious buddy-cop story about Braxiatel and Narvin kicking in teeth for the sake of the greater good. So I tried to write it. Well, I wrote about Braxiatel and Narvin working towards the greater good. And teeth were definitely kicked in. The main inspiration is the poem “The Left Hand and Hiroshima” by Gwendolyn MacEwen.
“you have the jekyll hand, you have the hyde hand: my people, you are abominable”
Braxiatel stands at Romana's side, because he is her protector, her servant, her confidante. He stands as she sits, and he cannot see it, but he can hear the fury as she shouts down Narvin for what it is his job to do. Narvin is standing, too, and enduring, and when this is done, Braxiatel is going to remind Narvin to visit a medic because the curl of Narvin's hands tells Braxiatel that he is in pain.
Romana says, “It is not on the table, it is not near the table, there is not even a table for it to be near. I will not condone the use of psionic interrogation, nor will I repeal the bans on the mind probe, and I will certainly not allow you to use physical torture on our suspects. I don't care what reasons you think you have, Narvin: they aren't good enough.”
And as Narvin replies, Braxiatel watches the pain move up from his injured hand right into his jaw. “You may not like what I do. You don't have to. I don't have to, either. But it is my job, my responsibility, to see Gallifrey protected using whatever means necessary. And if that means-”
“It means nothing. If I find out you are using illegal methods with our prisoners, I won't hesitate to take your responsibilities away from you. I have the Matrix. I will know what you've done. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Madam President. Very.” Narvin's reply is through a jaw tightened to limit what it may say.
Oh, thinks Braxiatel, it's a leg injury too. More trauma than he realised.
“Good.” And then Romana leans forwards, and Braxiatel puts a hand on her shoulder, because he knows what the next question will be. “Now, what are the reports from Arcadia?”
Romana is careful to mask her relief when the reports say the Doctor is still alive, but Braxiatel can see it in the way she seems to remember to breathe again. Quietly, because he does not trust in any Gods, Braxiatel prays for the survival of the only family he has ever really had. But he does not pray for the Doctor to come home.
Romana turns to Leela. “Now. I want to talk to you before you're deployed to Polymos. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course, Romana.”
“Coordinator, Chancellor. This meeting is over. And don't forget what I said, Coordinator.”
“Of course, Madam President.”
Braxiatel gives an easy smile and lets his hand linger on Romana's shoulder for just one moment before he steps outside after Narvin. The door closes behind them; they are still. It is a consequence of their unfortunate similarities that they tend to know each other's thoughts too well.
Braxiatel says, “If you don't get those injuries seen to, you'll need to regenerate. It wouldn't do for the Madam President to know her Coordinator has been going on missions without her authorisation.”
“I don't know what you mean,” Narvin replies with the same tone Braxiatel uses to say, Do you think so? I couldn't possibly say.
“Of course not. Off to try another round with your prisoner, Coordinator?”
“Only within the limits of the law, Chancellor,” and Braxiatel can see in Narvin's eyes the moment where he breaks, so he isn't surprised to hear him say, “She'll damn all Gallifrey this way!”
It's just a tiny crack, and Braxiatel doesn't say anything. They've all had their lapses these days. They sustain themselves on the impossible lie that if no one says a thing, all the fractures will seal themselves up again.
And Narvin is CIA. He is able to recover quickly. “I meant that her methods may not be the most effective ones.”
“Perhaps not. But they are her methods, and we are her servants. If this is how she wants to conduct this war, it is our duty to carry out her wishes.”
“How very loyal of you. I'll mention it in your epitaph, assuming you and your President don't put me in my grave first.”
“Don't be melodramatic, Narvin; we're far more likely to cremate you.”
“I'm most likely to die of stress in my sleep trying to think of ways to compensate for the President's morality and your hypocrisy.”
“Hypocrisy? I can't imagine what you mean.”
“You don't need to imagine it. I'd start a list, but I have a war to fight.”
“I could make a list for you myself, Narvin.”
“Yes,” the Coordinator agrees, “you could. But I have never pretended otherwise. I know what I am, I know what I do, and I know why I do it. I don't think you can say the same.”
Offering his best enigmatic smile, Braxiatel says, “I couldn't possibly comment. But I'd appreciate if you'd resist what you are and what you do, if not why you do it, lest we have to replace you. I really can't see that being to anybody's advantage at this point.” Braxiatel turns to leave, then stops, his back to Narvin. “Oh, one thing. Colluxan. The medic. I can't say I'm the best judge of character, but I've always thought him very discrete.”
Then Braxiatel walks to his study to consider their battle plans. As he looks at the portrait of the Avenue of Fountains, he reaches idly for a Russian music box and lifts the gilded lid. Chopin fills the silence, though it cannot fill his mind. Braxiatel's eyes drift to the statue he called the Future, and he ponders why it hasn't disappeared.
“Brax.”
The Doctor looks in from Braxiatel's threshold, and Braxiatel puts his communicator away in his top desk drawer. He gets to his feet and steps around his desk and then, because this is war and it would be stupid not to, embraces the only family he has left. He says nothing about the the plainness of the Doctor's clothes and how short he has cut his hair. Blood ruins everything, Braxiatel knows. He himself has been driven to wear only black. He has the Doctor sit across from him, and together they enjoy a cup of tea.
“Is Leela back? I haven't been in to see Romana yet.”
“Back and gone again. She left yesterday.” Braxiatel knows the Doctor will have to tell them about Arcadia in Council chamber, so he doesn't ask. He pours more sugar into the Doctor's tea and puts on one of Haydn's Symphonies. “Romana will want to see you soon. There's a bottle of Chateau Prisch I found for her, and I think she wants to go behind my back and try it with you.”
The Doctor laughs at that.
By the end of an hour, Braxiatel is crouching beside the Doctor and mopping up spilled tea with a silk cloth, the shards of the teacup scattered around them. The Doctor cuts his finger on a jagged piece, and as the blood mixes with silk he murmurs, “I don't know any longer. I don't want to fight. I can't go back. God, I survived it. I can't, Brax. I can't. I want to kill them all. How can I keep doing this?”
Braxiatel is trying to steady the Doctor's shaking hand when Narvin turns in through the open door and says, “Braxiatel, I have the reports from-” The halt isn't one for the sake of their dignity, and Braxiatel reads malice into Narvin's voice. “A family reunion, is it?”
Braxiatel is on his feet and at the door, set between Narvin and the Doctor. In his most mannered tones, he banishes Narvin with ten well-chosen words: “And how is the House of Stillhaven doing these days?”
Braxiatel never thought he'd have the opportunity to see Narvin in so much pain.
Braxiatel says, “I'm sure you have other duties to attend. Don't stay on my account.”
Narvin turns and goes without a word, and Braxiatel returns to cleaning up his brother's bloodied fingers.
It's some time later before the Doctor takes command of himself. He cradles a new cup in his bandaged hands. The Doctor muses, “I didn't know Narvin was from Stillhaven.”
“He cut ties when he joined the CIA, so most people don't.” Most people don't know that the last cousin of Stillhaven died at Arcadia, either. The Doctor certainly doesn't. But Braxiatel and Narvin have seen the reports, and Braxiatel has seen how much control it took for Narvin to mask what he felt.
In the Council meeting, the Doctor speaks with no emotion at all. Braxiatel thinks, His tutors would be so proud. Braxiatel is on Romana's right and Narvin is on her left. They leave together, the last to go, and let Romana stay behind to speak to the Doctor alone.
“How's the leg, Coordinator?”
“Oh, just fine, Chancellor. Your wrist isn't looking its best.”
“Time asks for something of us all.”
“An apt truism. Now if you'll excuse me? I'm sure you'll want to spend time with the Doctor before he's redeployed.”
Braxiatel waits alone in the corridor until the Doctor steps out. It is a week before they take the Doctor away again, and in that week Braxiatel daily asks his brother to tea. Leela still hasn't come home.
In the quietness of the Capitol night, the transduction barrier is on its highest setting. Braxiatel shares a bottle of Chateau Prisch with his President, realising too late that she has heard Bach's Orchestral Suite in B Minor played by another man, a long time ago. He turns it off so she doesn't show him weakness, so she doesn't remember what she must forget. It isn't because he minds seeing it. But he knows enough of Romana not to ask her to break in front of him, because he would not force her to put herself back together again. They talk quietly, without laughter, and when Braxiatel leaves, he hopes she'll be able to sleep.
Braxiatel offers a seat to Cardinal Urquhix. In another life he would smile warmly, but his people do not value warmth as humans do, so cold and austere he greets the Cardinal by inclining his head. “It's good of you to stop by. I know you're very busy.”
“I try to make time, Chancellor.” Braxiatel knows from the tilt of Urquhix's chin and the levelness of his expression that he senses something is coming. That's all right. The best weapons don't need surprise. “Even where time is a battleground.”
Brax lets the corners of his mouth lift in acknowledgement of the joke. “I won't take up too much of your time. I know you've been considering voting for the legalisation of previously-banned interrogation methods. I wanted to make it clear to you that the Madam President respects your opinions and that your position on the Council will not in any way be jeopardised by voting against her on such an important issue of conscience.”
Urquihix is still wary of a catch, but he nods his head. “Good. We need better high ground in this war than the moral one, Braxiatel. The Madam President needs to recognise that.”
“Morality shouldn't be a casualty of war. It is an issue very near to my hearts.” Then, Braxiatel weaves his fingers together, leans forward, and says, “Completely unrelated, but how is your family doing?”
Urquihix breathes in, holds his breath, breathes out. Braxiatel watches him measure his next move, but it's too late. They both know that. He has no way out. “They're fine.”
“I'm glad to hear it.” Smooth as quicksilver, Braxiatel smiles fully and coldly. “Ailenaphoessill has been lucky enough not to be drafted yet, hasn't she? I do hope her luck holds.”
Urquihix can't seem to find words. The poor man.
With the little mercy he still keeps, Braxiatel offers him a way out. “Don't let me detain you, Cardinal.”
Narvin passes Urquihix on his way, and though Braxiatel is sure Narvin knows why Urquihix was brought here, he speaks without preamble. “The party sent to Polymos was ambushed. We've found some dead, but most were captured. We don't have any evidence of an escape.”
“Leela?”
“Most likely captured. They'll recognise her as the President's bodyguard and they'll keep her.”
“Of course they will. I'll go with you to the Council chamber.”
No one in the chamber says it, but Braxiatel can hear the desire for more coercive methods in the undercurrent of the conversation. Narvin's leg and hand are better now, Brax could see that on their walk there, and he doesn't look like he has been injured again. One less thing to concern himself with.
Some days, Braxiatel wonders if he'll outlive his brandy cabinet. He genuinely hopes not to.
Finally, Romana speaks. She lifts her head to look around at all her Council save Braxiatel. She does not rise to deliver her speech. “I know what you're thinking. And yes, I understand the rationale. I understand that you don't want to though you feel you must. But so long as I am President, you will not have to. We will not sanction the use of torture or mental invasion. They may have allied themselves with our enemies, but these are still people. I will not allow us to commit the very crimes that we so malign our opponents for.”
She is an admirable example of strength, a pitiable model of integrity. Some of the Council may even have been swayed by her speech.
“We'll hold the vote now,” says the Madam President. She wins it, of course, though Narvin votes against her. Braxiatel sees Narvin watching Urquihix as he votes with the President, and he simply lifts an eyebrow when Narvin meets his eyes.
“My lady,” Braxiatel ventures. “I've been examining Commander Hallan's report. Might I turn our attention to the fact that Polymos was abandoned? It is not without resources. The Daleks wouldn't simply give it up to us after overtaking our forces. I think it may be prudent to consider what they are planning.”
“Yes, of course. Coordinator Narvin, what would your intelligence indicate?”
As Braxiatel listens, he remembers an argument he and Bernice had about means and ends, about the things he did behind her back so that she could have all the moral outrage and still reap the reward. It was necessary. It is always necessary. It is necessary to have someone who will betray you out of loyalty.
That's what the CIA was founded on.
Once more, Narvin and Braxiatel are the last ones to leave. Narvin stops, briefly, to look his President in the eye. “We can make our search for the captives a priority, Madam President, but it may be at the expense of our investigation into Polymnos's abandonment.”
“I see.” And for just a moment, Braxiatel wonders if Romana's voice will quaver. It breaks his hearts that it does not. “Make the investigation into Polymnos a priority. We'll do what we can to recover our people, but not at the expense of the broader war effort.” Her posture is straight, her head still head up high. She can't hold on for much longer, and they drain her by forcing her to put on a show. “I need to confer with K-9 now. Chancellor Braxiatel, Coordinator Narvin. You're both dismissed.”
Braxiatel leaves side by side with Narvin. The door closes, and Braxiatel can almost see through it, knowing Romana is now collapsing in her Presidential chair. But there is no comfort he can give her.
To Narvin's credit, he only expresses his revolt to one of Romana's most loyal allies. “Her integrity will be the death of us.”
“I don't think I've ever heard that word used with quite so much derision.”
“We both know this war can't be won with merely the moral high ground.”
“And I hope you realise that it can't be won without morale.” Braxiatel speaks quietly but not without force. “If we lose faith in who we are, in what we do, in why we're doing it, we will have no fight with which to win the war.” He takes one step closer so that Narvin and only Narvin can hear him. “Listen to me, Narvin. Romana's integrity and her strength are all that is holding us together. She is our hope. And while our enemies may have hate to drive them, we need hope. No one fights for a future they can't believe in.”
It's a shame Narvin is too clever and too quick to let the truth slip by. “And what do you think will happen to morale if her methods fail?”
Braxiatel smiles. “It isn't a possibility you need worry about. Get to your investigation of Polymnos, Coordinator.”
They part.
There are no mirrors in Braxiatel's study, for he sees nothing in them anymore. He has one thing left to fight for. Listening to Gorecki, he turns his eyes to the Matrix and starts to plan. It will take time, but Braxiatel owns eternity, even if it is slipping away. A collector knows how to acquire what he wants.
He pulls out a communicator from his top desk drawer.
He counts the ribs as they crack.
(one two three four)
He counts the shields as they snap.
(five six seven)
He counts time with attention to detail, slipping away when he can slide off the records, returning when he knows he'll be called for. Archaeology, he once said to Bernice's students (when she was otherwise occupied by a massive hangover), is peeling back layers of history until you find the one you want. It is learning to speak to the dead. And excavation is all about picking the right tools for the right job.
Skin peels better than history, and a collector has all the tools available to him that he needs. Once he believed that perfect knowledge led to perfect peace, and knowledge is why he is doing this. A little scrap of knowledge to make a tiny peace of mind.
Not his victim's, of course, and not his. You have never heard a scream until you've heard it in the mind of someone whose thoughts you're tearing apart.
Eight nine ten and she's given him all the knowledge he requires. He picks up one of her teeth from the ground and recognises in the gold filling that memory he'd found of what her colony had thought it could do to defend against Cybermen. Now she'll be used against greater monsters. He stabilises her condition, then cleans up the mess.
Braxiatel has come to the southern continent of a far-away planet. It is spring, and petals fall from trees and dance downwards to the ground in seasonal celebration. He is far from the battlefield and Gallifreyan observation, out of the Matrix's eye.
It is always a challenge to hypnotise those whose minds have been cybernetically enhanced, but Braxiatel manages. It is difficult, too, to break through mental defences so well-constructed, but Braxiatel has a talent for this sort of thing. It has been much harder to keep his unauthorised trips off-planet out of the records, but only one person is likely to notice the discrepancy. And Braxiatel has been careful, so that person only arrives now, when it is safe.
“What would the Madam President say?”
Braxiatel adds a spoon of sugar to his tea, straightens his cuffs, and brushes a petal off of a crumpet. “Ah, Narvin. Always late to the party. I was just having my tea break, but I think I'm essentially done with the acquisition.” He smiles with irony. “So you and your Interventionists may have her if you like. I'm sure your quiet little camp near Gamma Delphinius could hold one more, and she's likely to have more information than what I got out of her.”
Narvin steps away from his timeship, walks towards Braxiatel, stops in front of him across the table. Narvin looks at Braxiatel. Braxiatel drinks from his tea, and his hands are steady and silent; sinister and dexterous, they have broken three times before and now will never break again. He waits on Narvin's reply with with a smile, humming a concerto, fearless of the gavel and the axe.
Narvin's sentencing is messy mix of approval and condemnation. “I'm surprised you didn't simply point me her way. In one of your typically vague ways, of course. I'm sure you don't want to get your hands any dirtier.” There is that familiar sneer of disdain. Sometimes, Braxiatel wonders if they hold each other in contempt merely out of habit.
“Oh, Narvin. I am in blood stepped in so far . . .” He waves a hand to brush away the secret stage. “Forgive the theatrics. We both know better than to make a distinction between being complicit in a crime and committing it.”
And for a moment, Braxiatel thinks he can see in Narvin a man who is guilty and resigned to his guilt. They both know their responsibilities.
Braxiatel sets down his tea. “I'll get her. I can explain what I learned as we walk.”
It is a truth Braxiatel and Narvin are each careful not to acknowledge: they are not so different in what they are, what they do, and why they do it.
When the enemy prison camp is found, and when Leela is brought home, it is a vindication of Romana's methods. Gallifrey does not need to resort to methods as terrible as its opponent's means; they can win the war Romana's way. And Romana is so much happier with her allies beside her.
This is the tower the left and right hand build when everyone is looking away.
So it is with victory that the next meeting is held, but when the rest of the council is gone, Romana informs Narvin that she doesn't much believe in coincidence. She says, “One of my tutors believed that coincidence was something to be wary of. He assured me that it didn't really exist but rather was engineered.”
“What a clever man he must have been,” Braxiatel murmurs. He doesn't hide his smile at Romana's sharp look. “Loathe as I am to defend Narvin, even from an implicit accusation, this was not a coincidence, engineered or otherwise. Commander Vallon's information came from one of our double-agents. This victory is to the credit of Narvin's agency, which is a rather appalling thought.”
“Supportive as ever, Chancellor,” Narvin replies. “I think I can defend myself.”
“I wouldn't doubt it, Narvin. But I do my best to lighten your workload where I can. You look so tired these days.”
“It's exhaustion from having to sit through council meetings with you, Braxiatel.”
“Gentlemen, please.” Oh, but there is such intelligence in Romana's eyes. They will have to be so careful if they want to win. And Braxiatel doesn't think they can lie to her forever. Just for long enough. Just until the lies won't be needed any longer. “Thank you. You're both dismissed.”
In the silence of the corridor, Braxiatel and Narvin stand still. Their eyes meet, but they are too alike. This time, they don't bother with words. The rules and the risks are always the same. Braxiatel returns to his office and changes into his travelling clothes. With any luck, the Doctor will be home tomorrow. Braxiatel makes a note to himself to visit Leela before the evening is over, to see how she is doing. The thing about contrived coincidences is that they need a God to come from a machine, or else the rescue will arrive too late. But Braxiatel has done his best.
The mirror in front of Braxiatel's washing basin is covered with a black cloth. “Out, damned spot,” he whispers, conscious of the conceit. Conceit is what he's relying on.
Tomorrow, these hands will play God all over again.
Fandom: Doctor Who
Rating: 14A for violence
Word count: 4002
Characters/pairing: Braxiatel, Narvin, Leela, Romana, the Doctor (Eighth), K-9
Summary: It is a Time War. You do what you must to win, to survive. Braxiatel and Narvin are the left hands that hide what they do from the right.
Notes: A while ago, I promised a friend hilarious buddy-cop story about Braxiatel and Narvin kicking in teeth for the sake of the greater good. So I tried to write it. Well, I wrote about Braxiatel and Narvin working towards the greater good. And teeth were definitely kicked in. The main inspiration is the poem “The Left Hand and Hiroshima” by Gwendolyn MacEwen.
“you have the jekyll hand, you have the hyde hand: my people, you are abominable”
Braxiatel stands at Romana's side, because he is her protector, her servant, her confidante. He stands as she sits, and he cannot see it, but he can hear the fury as she shouts down Narvin for what it is his job to do. Narvin is standing, too, and enduring, and when this is done, Braxiatel is going to remind Narvin to visit a medic because the curl of Narvin's hands tells Braxiatel that he is in pain.
Romana says, “It is not on the table, it is not near the table, there is not even a table for it to be near. I will not condone the use of psionic interrogation, nor will I repeal the bans on the mind probe, and I will certainly not allow you to use physical torture on our suspects. I don't care what reasons you think you have, Narvin: they aren't good enough.”
And as Narvin replies, Braxiatel watches the pain move up from his injured hand right into his jaw. “You may not like what I do. You don't have to. I don't have to, either. But it is my job, my responsibility, to see Gallifrey protected using whatever means necessary. And if that means-”
“It means nothing. If I find out you are using illegal methods with our prisoners, I won't hesitate to take your responsibilities away from you. I have the Matrix. I will know what you've done. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, Madam President. Very.” Narvin's reply is through a jaw tightened to limit what it may say.
Oh, thinks Braxiatel, it's a leg injury too. More trauma than he realised.
“Good.” And then Romana leans forwards, and Braxiatel puts a hand on her shoulder, because he knows what the next question will be. “Now, what are the reports from Arcadia?”
Romana is careful to mask her relief when the reports say the Doctor is still alive, but Braxiatel can see it in the way she seems to remember to breathe again. Quietly, because he does not trust in any Gods, Braxiatel prays for the survival of the only family he has ever really had. But he does not pray for the Doctor to come home.
Romana turns to Leela. “Now. I want to talk to you before you're deployed to Polymos. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course, Romana.”
“Coordinator, Chancellor. This meeting is over. And don't forget what I said, Coordinator.”
“Of course, Madam President.”
Braxiatel gives an easy smile and lets his hand linger on Romana's shoulder for just one moment before he steps outside after Narvin. The door closes behind them; they are still. It is a consequence of their unfortunate similarities that they tend to know each other's thoughts too well.
Braxiatel says, “If you don't get those injuries seen to, you'll need to regenerate. It wouldn't do for the Madam President to know her Coordinator has been going on missions without her authorisation.”
“I don't know what you mean,” Narvin replies with the same tone Braxiatel uses to say, Do you think so? I couldn't possibly say.
“Of course not. Off to try another round with your prisoner, Coordinator?”
“Only within the limits of the law, Chancellor,” and Braxiatel can see in Narvin's eyes the moment where he breaks, so he isn't surprised to hear him say, “She'll damn all Gallifrey this way!”
It's just a tiny crack, and Braxiatel doesn't say anything. They've all had their lapses these days. They sustain themselves on the impossible lie that if no one says a thing, all the fractures will seal themselves up again.
And Narvin is CIA. He is able to recover quickly. “I meant that her methods may not be the most effective ones.”
“Perhaps not. But they are her methods, and we are her servants. If this is how she wants to conduct this war, it is our duty to carry out her wishes.”
“How very loyal of you. I'll mention it in your epitaph, assuming you and your President don't put me in my grave first.”
“Don't be melodramatic, Narvin; we're far more likely to cremate you.”
“I'm most likely to die of stress in my sleep trying to think of ways to compensate for the President's morality and your hypocrisy.”
“Hypocrisy? I can't imagine what you mean.”
“You don't need to imagine it. I'd start a list, but I have a war to fight.”
“I could make a list for you myself, Narvin.”
“Yes,” the Coordinator agrees, “you could. But I have never pretended otherwise. I know what I am, I know what I do, and I know why I do it. I don't think you can say the same.”
Offering his best enigmatic smile, Braxiatel says, “I couldn't possibly comment. But I'd appreciate if you'd resist what you are and what you do, if not why you do it, lest we have to replace you. I really can't see that being to anybody's advantage at this point.” Braxiatel turns to leave, then stops, his back to Narvin. “Oh, one thing. Colluxan. The medic. I can't say I'm the best judge of character, but I've always thought him very discrete.”
Then Braxiatel walks to his study to consider their battle plans. As he looks at the portrait of the Avenue of Fountains, he reaches idly for a Russian music box and lifts the gilded lid. Chopin fills the silence, though it cannot fill his mind. Braxiatel's eyes drift to the statue he called the Future, and he ponders why it hasn't disappeared.
“Brax.”
The Doctor looks in from Braxiatel's threshold, and Braxiatel puts his communicator away in his top desk drawer. He gets to his feet and steps around his desk and then, because this is war and it would be stupid not to, embraces the only family he has left. He says nothing about the the plainness of the Doctor's clothes and how short he has cut his hair. Blood ruins everything, Braxiatel knows. He himself has been driven to wear only black. He has the Doctor sit across from him, and together they enjoy a cup of tea.
“Is Leela back? I haven't been in to see Romana yet.”
“Back and gone again. She left yesterday.” Braxiatel knows the Doctor will have to tell them about Arcadia in Council chamber, so he doesn't ask. He pours more sugar into the Doctor's tea and puts on one of Haydn's Symphonies. “Romana will want to see you soon. There's a bottle of Chateau Prisch I found for her, and I think she wants to go behind my back and try it with you.”
The Doctor laughs at that.
By the end of an hour, Braxiatel is crouching beside the Doctor and mopping up spilled tea with a silk cloth, the shards of the teacup scattered around them. The Doctor cuts his finger on a jagged piece, and as the blood mixes with silk he murmurs, “I don't know any longer. I don't want to fight. I can't go back. God, I survived it. I can't, Brax. I can't. I want to kill them all. How can I keep doing this?”
Braxiatel is trying to steady the Doctor's shaking hand when Narvin turns in through the open door and says, “Braxiatel, I have the reports from-” The halt isn't one for the sake of their dignity, and Braxiatel reads malice into Narvin's voice. “A family reunion, is it?”
Braxiatel is on his feet and at the door, set between Narvin and the Doctor. In his most mannered tones, he banishes Narvin with ten well-chosen words: “And how is the House of Stillhaven doing these days?”
Braxiatel never thought he'd have the opportunity to see Narvin in so much pain.
Braxiatel says, “I'm sure you have other duties to attend. Don't stay on my account.”
Narvin turns and goes without a word, and Braxiatel returns to cleaning up his brother's bloodied fingers.
It's some time later before the Doctor takes command of himself. He cradles a new cup in his bandaged hands. The Doctor muses, “I didn't know Narvin was from Stillhaven.”
“He cut ties when he joined the CIA, so most people don't.” Most people don't know that the last cousin of Stillhaven died at Arcadia, either. The Doctor certainly doesn't. But Braxiatel and Narvin have seen the reports, and Braxiatel has seen how much control it took for Narvin to mask what he felt.
In the Council meeting, the Doctor speaks with no emotion at all. Braxiatel thinks, His tutors would be so proud. Braxiatel is on Romana's right and Narvin is on her left. They leave together, the last to go, and let Romana stay behind to speak to the Doctor alone.
“How's the leg, Coordinator?”
“Oh, just fine, Chancellor. Your wrist isn't looking its best.”
“Time asks for something of us all.”
“An apt truism. Now if you'll excuse me? I'm sure you'll want to spend time with the Doctor before he's redeployed.”
Braxiatel waits alone in the corridor until the Doctor steps out. It is a week before they take the Doctor away again, and in that week Braxiatel daily asks his brother to tea. Leela still hasn't come home.
In the quietness of the Capitol night, the transduction barrier is on its highest setting. Braxiatel shares a bottle of Chateau Prisch with his President, realising too late that she has heard Bach's Orchestral Suite in B Minor played by another man, a long time ago. He turns it off so she doesn't show him weakness, so she doesn't remember what she must forget. It isn't because he minds seeing it. But he knows enough of Romana not to ask her to break in front of him, because he would not force her to put herself back together again. They talk quietly, without laughter, and when Braxiatel leaves, he hopes she'll be able to sleep.
Braxiatel offers a seat to Cardinal Urquhix. In another life he would smile warmly, but his people do not value warmth as humans do, so cold and austere he greets the Cardinal by inclining his head. “It's good of you to stop by. I know you're very busy.”
“I try to make time, Chancellor.” Braxiatel knows from the tilt of Urquhix's chin and the levelness of his expression that he senses something is coming. That's all right. The best weapons don't need surprise. “Even where time is a battleground.”
Brax lets the corners of his mouth lift in acknowledgement of the joke. “I won't take up too much of your time. I know you've been considering voting for the legalisation of previously-banned interrogation methods. I wanted to make it clear to you that the Madam President respects your opinions and that your position on the Council will not in any way be jeopardised by voting against her on such an important issue of conscience.”
Urquihix is still wary of a catch, but he nods his head. “Good. We need better high ground in this war than the moral one, Braxiatel. The Madam President needs to recognise that.”
“Morality shouldn't be a casualty of war. It is an issue very near to my hearts.” Then, Braxiatel weaves his fingers together, leans forward, and says, “Completely unrelated, but how is your family doing?”
Urquihix breathes in, holds his breath, breathes out. Braxiatel watches him measure his next move, but it's too late. They both know that. He has no way out. “They're fine.”
“I'm glad to hear it.” Smooth as quicksilver, Braxiatel smiles fully and coldly. “Ailenaphoessill has been lucky enough not to be drafted yet, hasn't she? I do hope her luck holds.”
Urquihix can't seem to find words. The poor man.
With the little mercy he still keeps, Braxiatel offers him a way out. “Don't let me detain you, Cardinal.”
Narvin passes Urquihix on his way, and though Braxiatel is sure Narvin knows why Urquihix was brought here, he speaks without preamble. “The party sent to Polymos was ambushed. We've found some dead, but most were captured. We don't have any evidence of an escape.”
“Leela?”
“Most likely captured. They'll recognise her as the President's bodyguard and they'll keep her.”
“Of course they will. I'll go with you to the Council chamber.”
No one in the chamber says it, but Braxiatel can hear the desire for more coercive methods in the undercurrent of the conversation. Narvin's leg and hand are better now, Brax could see that on their walk there, and he doesn't look like he has been injured again. One less thing to concern himself with.
Some days, Braxiatel wonders if he'll outlive his brandy cabinet. He genuinely hopes not to.
Finally, Romana speaks. She lifts her head to look around at all her Council save Braxiatel. She does not rise to deliver her speech. “I know what you're thinking. And yes, I understand the rationale. I understand that you don't want to though you feel you must. But so long as I am President, you will not have to. We will not sanction the use of torture or mental invasion. They may have allied themselves with our enemies, but these are still people. I will not allow us to commit the very crimes that we so malign our opponents for.”
She is an admirable example of strength, a pitiable model of integrity. Some of the Council may even have been swayed by her speech.
“We'll hold the vote now,” says the Madam President. She wins it, of course, though Narvin votes against her. Braxiatel sees Narvin watching Urquihix as he votes with the President, and he simply lifts an eyebrow when Narvin meets his eyes.
“My lady,” Braxiatel ventures. “I've been examining Commander Hallan's report. Might I turn our attention to the fact that Polymos was abandoned? It is not without resources. The Daleks wouldn't simply give it up to us after overtaking our forces. I think it may be prudent to consider what they are planning.”
“Yes, of course. Coordinator Narvin, what would your intelligence indicate?”
As Braxiatel listens, he remembers an argument he and Bernice had about means and ends, about the things he did behind her back so that she could have all the moral outrage and still reap the reward. It was necessary. It is always necessary. It is necessary to have someone who will betray you out of loyalty.
That's what the CIA was founded on.
Once more, Narvin and Braxiatel are the last ones to leave. Narvin stops, briefly, to look his President in the eye. “We can make our search for the captives a priority, Madam President, but it may be at the expense of our investigation into Polymnos's abandonment.”
“I see.” And for just a moment, Braxiatel wonders if Romana's voice will quaver. It breaks his hearts that it does not. “Make the investigation into Polymnos a priority. We'll do what we can to recover our people, but not at the expense of the broader war effort.” Her posture is straight, her head still head up high. She can't hold on for much longer, and they drain her by forcing her to put on a show. “I need to confer with K-9 now. Chancellor Braxiatel, Coordinator Narvin. You're both dismissed.”
Braxiatel leaves side by side with Narvin. The door closes, and Braxiatel can almost see through it, knowing Romana is now collapsing in her Presidential chair. But there is no comfort he can give her.
To Narvin's credit, he only expresses his revolt to one of Romana's most loyal allies. “Her integrity will be the death of us.”
“I don't think I've ever heard that word used with quite so much derision.”
“We both know this war can't be won with merely the moral high ground.”
“And I hope you realise that it can't be won without morale.” Braxiatel speaks quietly but not without force. “If we lose faith in who we are, in what we do, in why we're doing it, we will have no fight with which to win the war.” He takes one step closer so that Narvin and only Narvin can hear him. “Listen to me, Narvin. Romana's integrity and her strength are all that is holding us together. She is our hope. And while our enemies may have hate to drive them, we need hope. No one fights for a future they can't believe in.”
It's a shame Narvin is too clever and too quick to let the truth slip by. “And what do you think will happen to morale if her methods fail?”
Braxiatel smiles. “It isn't a possibility you need worry about. Get to your investigation of Polymnos, Coordinator.”
They part.
There are no mirrors in Braxiatel's study, for he sees nothing in them anymore. He has one thing left to fight for. Listening to Gorecki, he turns his eyes to the Matrix and starts to plan. It will take time, but Braxiatel owns eternity, even if it is slipping away. A collector knows how to acquire what he wants.
He pulls out a communicator from his top desk drawer.
He counts the ribs as they crack.
(one two three four)
He counts the shields as they snap.
(five six seven)
He counts time with attention to detail, slipping away when he can slide off the records, returning when he knows he'll be called for. Archaeology, he once said to Bernice's students (when she was otherwise occupied by a massive hangover), is peeling back layers of history until you find the one you want. It is learning to speak to the dead. And excavation is all about picking the right tools for the right job.
Skin peels better than history, and a collector has all the tools available to him that he needs. Once he believed that perfect knowledge led to perfect peace, and knowledge is why he is doing this. A little scrap of knowledge to make a tiny peace of mind.
Not his victim's, of course, and not his. You have never heard a scream until you've heard it in the mind of someone whose thoughts you're tearing apart.
Eight nine ten and she's given him all the knowledge he requires. He picks up one of her teeth from the ground and recognises in the gold filling that memory he'd found of what her colony had thought it could do to defend against Cybermen. Now she'll be used against greater monsters. He stabilises her condition, then cleans up the mess.
Braxiatel has come to the southern continent of a far-away planet. It is spring, and petals fall from trees and dance downwards to the ground in seasonal celebration. He is far from the battlefield and Gallifreyan observation, out of the Matrix's eye.
It is always a challenge to hypnotise those whose minds have been cybernetically enhanced, but Braxiatel manages. It is difficult, too, to break through mental defences so well-constructed, but Braxiatel has a talent for this sort of thing. It has been much harder to keep his unauthorised trips off-planet out of the records, but only one person is likely to notice the discrepancy. And Braxiatel has been careful, so that person only arrives now, when it is safe.
“What would the Madam President say?”
Braxiatel adds a spoon of sugar to his tea, straightens his cuffs, and brushes a petal off of a crumpet. “Ah, Narvin. Always late to the party. I was just having my tea break, but I think I'm essentially done with the acquisition.” He smiles with irony. “So you and your Interventionists may have her if you like. I'm sure your quiet little camp near Gamma Delphinius could hold one more, and she's likely to have more information than what I got out of her.”
Narvin steps away from his timeship, walks towards Braxiatel, stops in front of him across the table. Narvin looks at Braxiatel. Braxiatel drinks from his tea, and his hands are steady and silent; sinister and dexterous, they have broken three times before and now will never break again. He waits on Narvin's reply with with a smile, humming a concerto, fearless of the gavel and the axe.
Narvin's sentencing is messy mix of approval and condemnation. “I'm surprised you didn't simply point me her way. In one of your typically vague ways, of course. I'm sure you don't want to get your hands any dirtier.” There is that familiar sneer of disdain. Sometimes, Braxiatel wonders if they hold each other in contempt merely out of habit.
“Oh, Narvin. I am in blood stepped in so far . . .” He waves a hand to brush away the secret stage. “Forgive the theatrics. We both know better than to make a distinction between being complicit in a crime and committing it.”
And for a moment, Braxiatel thinks he can see in Narvin a man who is guilty and resigned to his guilt. They both know their responsibilities.
Braxiatel sets down his tea. “I'll get her. I can explain what I learned as we walk.”
It is a truth Braxiatel and Narvin are each careful not to acknowledge: they are not so different in what they are, what they do, and why they do it.
When the enemy prison camp is found, and when Leela is brought home, it is a vindication of Romana's methods. Gallifrey does not need to resort to methods as terrible as its opponent's means; they can win the war Romana's way. And Romana is so much happier with her allies beside her.
This is the tower the left and right hand build when everyone is looking away.
So it is with victory that the next meeting is held, but when the rest of the council is gone, Romana informs Narvin that she doesn't much believe in coincidence. She says, “One of my tutors believed that coincidence was something to be wary of. He assured me that it didn't really exist but rather was engineered.”
“What a clever man he must have been,” Braxiatel murmurs. He doesn't hide his smile at Romana's sharp look. “Loathe as I am to defend Narvin, even from an implicit accusation, this was not a coincidence, engineered or otherwise. Commander Vallon's information came from one of our double-agents. This victory is to the credit of Narvin's agency, which is a rather appalling thought.”
“Supportive as ever, Chancellor,” Narvin replies. “I think I can defend myself.”
“I wouldn't doubt it, Narvin. But I do my best to lighten your workload where I can. You look so tired these days.”
“It's exhaustion from having to sit through council meetings with you, Braxiatel.”
“Gentlemen, please.” Oh, but there is such intelligence in Romana's eyes. They will have to be so careful if they want to win. And Braxiatel doesn't think they can lie to her forever. Just for long enough. Just until the lies won't be needed any longer. “Thank you. You're both dismissed.”
In the silence of the corridor, Braxiatel and Narvin stand still. Their eyes meet, but they are too alike. This time, they don't bother with words. The rules and the risks are always the same. Braxiatel returns to his office and changes into his travelling clothes. With any luck, the Doctor will be home tomorrow. Braxiatel makes a note to himself to visit Leela before the evening is over, to see how she is doing. The thing about contrived coincidences is that they need a God to come from a machine, or else the rescue will arrive too late. But Braxiatel has done his best.
The mirror in front of Braxiatel's washing basin is covered with a black cloth. “Out, damned spot,” he whispers, conscious of the conceit. Conceit is what he's relying on.
Tomorrow, these hands will play God all over again.