The Crane Wife: Chapter 7 of 8 (Part II)
Title: The Crane Wife
Chapter: Seven (Part II): Eight
Author: x_los
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Five/Ainley!Master, Benny, Tegan, Turlough, Nyssa
Summary: In which the Master hunts the Doctor across the stars (like the faithless git he is), and in the process takes tea with his mother.
Beta: aralias, for doing the hard work for me, and innocentsmith and alex_e_smith for much-needed early read-throughs and suggestions.
A/N: Remember that best_enemies Cliche Challenge forever ago? This was started under its auspices. Slave!fic cliche ahoy!
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Part I, Chapter 6, Part II, Chapter 7, Part I, Chapter 7, Part II
A NOTE REGARDING CHAPTERING: I know I've bumped up to eight chapters from five and then from seven, and I am heartily sorry for being a tease re: that. The ending IS all written, and you can expect Chapter Seven Part II within the next day or so, whereupon I'll post this chapter to comms and take this post off f-lock. Chapter 8 is also finished, barring a few pages of epilogue. I expect to finish it and have it off to beta today, and probably to have it posted within a week. The problem with posting everything at once was that is was just too BIG, both for individual posts (all told chapters 7 and 8 would have taken three or four, given the lj character limits) and for the poor beleaguered beta to get through all in one quick go.
So with some minor waiting, here's fic:
The Crane Wife
Chapter 7, Part II
***
Smatters and Greig were the best in the bounty biz-or so Smatters regularly insisted. In actuality, while in the top twenty, they were regularly out-performed by Cnrakk the Crusher, the rogue robot Unit 9-Blue (who cared only for the electric thrills of spiked memory chips and the paid company of large-breasted ginger women), and Steve Mott, a mild-mannered postal worker from Boshane who had retired to pursue his bounty hunting hobby and enjoyed the collection of 1) exotic stamps, and 2) the exotic scalps of his targets (his wife mounted them in an attractive fashion in the den, so as not to clash with the upholstery).
Smatters liked to think of himself as the publicity man, suave and popular with attractive beings of any gender, species or sort. He liked to think of the silently capable Grieg as his Tonto. Grieg, who had not spoken a word in ten years for reasons of his own, preferred not to think of Smatters at all, if he could possibly help it.
It was with typical forbearance he endured Smatters rambling monologue about the briefing they’d just left.
“Chief scientific advisor my arse,” Smatters chortled to himself, waving the datapack’s holophoto of the Doctor at his colleague. “You ever see anyone that young with that many doctorates under his belt, let alone rise to that sort of position? You ever see this kind of price tag on a lab lackey? Mark me, Greig my lad, this Doctor fellow’s never gotten off the Master’s cock for long enough to have an opinion about a test tube in the whole term of his employment here. The Emperor’s toy’s left in a huff and no mistake. ‘Tween you, me and the holophoto here, we’d be right fools not to take advantage of having a pretty bit like that frightened ‘n in our custody-our company, I should say. Reckon we could get ‘im to do quite a bit if we promised not to take him back to the right nasty piece o’ work he’s run away from. Not that we’d have to follow through, mind.
“Now, this Master’s a clever man, and he knows he could be squeezed a bit more even than he’s offering to ransom a lover rather than an employee. Like as not he knows the boy’s back on the open market as well, and doesn’t want anyone sampling the wares who hasn’t already, so he’s keeping mum about the oldest profession bit. There could be even more money in this than it looks, Greig, not to mention the aforementioned wares.”
Greig cleared his throat loudly.
“Now Greig, you know as not to interrupt me when I’m thinkin’! He’s probably dim as a burst bulb, warnings aside-that Master’s just tryin’ to throw us off the scent, like.”
Greig cleared his throat frantically.
“Greig I’ve told ye-”
“Oh, I think you should listen to your friend,” a too-calm voice rumbled from behind Smatters. “I believe he’s trying to tell you something rather important.”
Smatters paled. From the fact that he hadn’t been knifed in the back, he imagined the Master had only come upon them about the time the first frog in Greig’s throat had made its presence known. From the way the Master picked him up bodily, Smatters concluded that had been damning enough, regardless.
“Sir, Sire, really, I-” Smatters struggled in his grip like a fish on a line.
“I came to mention a few pertinent details I’d forgotten, but it strikes me that I might as well provide a practical demonstration. This,” the Master pushed a button and flung open a panel, “is our waste disposal system-do you like it?” He swung and held Smatters over the long drop and squeezed his neck with his leather-gloved hand, cutting off the airflow so the man would stop his whining. “I imagine you haven’t much of an eye for engineering, but nevertheless, it’s impressive, even to the lay person. Attractive, discreet, efficient. The Doctor designed it, you see, andit’s very safe,. In fact,it’s impossible to disengage the safeties preventing you from disposing of living organic material unless you have high priority access codes. These access codes-” The Master removed one hand from the dangling man’s throat and keyed something into the pad beside the chute.
Smatters struggled in his grasp, wide-eyed and choking.
“Now, the most impressive thing about these units is that how efficiently they recycle. They deconstruct the very molecules of material thrown away and reconstruct them into new, element-sorted component blocks for use in replication. They could, for example, rip your body into shreds, sort you into neat stacks and make you into lunch and half a dozen chairs without wasting an atom. Terribly clever…”
Greig, impassive but not unimpressed, watched Smatters smack at the Master’s arms in a futile effort to force the man to drop him.
“That cleverness is very typical of your quarry. And for a man who claims to abhor violence, he certainly does leave an incredible trail of casualties in his wake. I fear you’ve failed to understand the Doctor-my chief scientific adviser. He is even cleverer than he seems. He is naturally mendacious, uncannily resourceful, and almost inconceivably lucky. At your own peril, he is not to be underestimated.” The Master loosened his grip just enough so that Smatters could gasp, then drew him forward, away from the shaft.
“Thank you, thank you sir,” Smatters gasped.
The Master grinned savagely. “And neither am I.” Without warning he grabbed Smatters by the shoulders and smashed his head into the metal wall three times, until the man lost consciousness, and let him go abruptly. Smatters slid to the floor, and the Master took a step back, pulled at his jacket to straighten it, and glanced over at Greig.
“The only reason he’s not dead is that, for some unfathomable reason, the pair of you are considered to be excellent at what you do. It seems as though you bear the burden of thought for the both of you, so let me make it clear to you that if so much of a whisper of the Doctor’s mistreatment at your hands reaches me-or if I so much as suspect the pair of you of tampering with him, I will leave you ever so much worse than dead.” The Master smiled pleasantly and swept off down the corridor. “Good luck, gentlemen.”
Smatters, coming round, groaned an acknowledgement from the floor. Greig rolled his eyes and started to drag him back in the direction the Master had initially come from, towards the hanger and their ship.
Hours later, in flight, Smatters ventured a comment.
“Told ya he was his lover, didn’t I?”
After a moment’s pause, Greig’s large, still lips stirred, and a voice like a rumble of rock dustily creaked into motion. “Smatters?”
Stunned, Smatters blinked at him, and offered a tentative, “Yer?”
“Shut up.” Greig looked back to the screen, shut his mouth, and for a full minute, stayed silent.
“If you was going to talk, why didn’t you say something back there when that crazy Master bloke was right behind me?” Smatters drew himself up indignantly.
Greig gave a deep sigh and tuned out the sound of his partner whining about the injustice he had been done. He focused instead on the peaceful expanse of space in the viewscreen and the task before him.
Greig had very good instincts, and his years of silent observation had given him a real knack for understanding people. The way the Master spoke of their prey- indeed his entire demeanor (which had been passionate to the point of verging on the murderous) indicated a deep, genuine attachment that could well be mutual. Why the Doctor had left was no concern of Greig’s, but it didn’t take an experienced professional to guess where you were likely to find people licking their wounds after they’d broken it off with their boyfriends.
***
Bernice Summerfield felt that Milliways Restaurant at the End of the Universe was a bit of a tourist trap. Their bar, on the other hand-that deserved all its good press and a bit extra. She was bearing a ‘Sex on the Deadly Glass Beaches of Marinus’ away from it when she knocked into someone who wasn’t paying enough attention to where he was going.
“Hey, watch it!” Benny protested, managing to steady the glass before a drop spilled with skill born of long practice.
“Oh, terribly sorry!” A familiar blond head whipped around, and familiar blue eyes widened with pleased surprise. “Professor Summerfield! How delightfully-wait, you’re not here on a mission, are you?” His eyes had flared and then contracted to slits so quickly Bernice could have sworn the lids were spring-loaded.
“Er. Not that I’m aware of? A mission to forget an annoying dig with the aid of about seven more of these?” Bernice laughed, obviously confused, and the Doctor visibly relaxed.
“No, I didn’t think you would be, or that he’d- anyway.” The Doctor shook his head and smiled charmingly. “Won’t you join me? My companions and I are just over there-I was fetching Tegan a Bloody Mary, but it seems they’ll send it over as soon as the barman’s scrounged up Worchester sauce, as they seem to have run out.”
“Tegan?”
“A traveling companion of mine, and a very good friend. I’m with her, a chap called Turlough, and Nyssa of Traken, at the moment-we’ve just come from the theater. Well, more precisely from a performance of The Importance of Being Earnest that was interrupted in the second act by Sontaarans, who suspected that in addition to not actually being named Earnest, Algy was a Rutan scientist-turned-conscientious objector, in possession of valuable information. Strangely enough they were absolutely right. The holiday I’d promised my companions was, consequently, rather spoilt. I offered to make amends by treating them to a good dinner out. You like Wilde a great deal, if I remember?”
“Not quite my period, but yes, who doesn’t?” Bernice smiled. “I know for a fact the Master’s a fan-remember he tried some terrible ‘to lose two fragments of the coronet of Rassilon looks like carelessness’ line out on me on that last dig I did for him? Cheapest shot since the well drink specials. Admittedly, I did almost deserve it.”
Bernice toyed with her straw and wondered whether she could wrangle a dinner invitation out of the Doctor. They were charming company, but more importantly the Master kept an excellent table, and had a wine cellar to match. “I’m surprised he isn’t with you. Affairs of state?”
“Hm?” The Doctor seemed to find a patch of the carpet terribly interesting. “Oh, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Shall we sit? Tiring day of running after Rutans and all that-you know, they have rather an unfair advantage, between the floating and the hovering.”
The Doctor’s prattling was as suspicious as if he’d been wearing a huge spatter of fresh blood instead of a stick of celery.
“What do you mean ‘you wouldn’t know’? Have you two had a row?”
“Oh no,” the Doctor’s expression was too innocent, “nothing of that sort.” He smiled fixedly, waiting for Benny to take the hint and change the topic of her own accord. Benny very pointedly did not take any such thing. The Doctor shoved his hands in his back pockets, and his frock coat was pushed back and out by the motion. He looked like nothing so much as an indignant disturbed goose. “I managed to escape. Won’t you sit down? I’m afraid we’re becoming something of a traffic obstruction-”
If the Doctor thought Bernice Summerfield was going to be pressured by her ancient British heritage into politely sitting down, and then politely avoiding discussing the Doctor’s private affairs in front of mixed company and/or children, he had clearly never visited her native Beta Caprisis. Yes, they still had fish and chips shops, but they’d strayed so far from the ways of their ancestors that they even talked on public transport. Benny was not a woman to be so easily derailed, not even by the Doctor’s mastery of passive-aggressive English manipulation. Several patrons and waiters turned around as Bernice shrieked, “You did what?!”
“I escaped my enslavement,” the Doctor said coldly, as if annoyed that he should have to discuss it.
“You left him?” Bernice gaped. “But-but the two of you-”
“I was sold to a dictator at a slave auction. I consequently managed to rescue myself. That seems natural enough to me.” The Doctor’s irritation melted slightly, and he tried a pleading tone. “He’s probably cooled down by now-in fact, it’s been weeks since I’ve run into any of his hired help. I thought you might have been embroiled in all this nonsense, but clearly you haven’t heard anything about it.
“I’m getting paranoid in my old age-I thought that was what Turlough was after for a while as well, but it turned out he was trying to kill me for entirely different reasons. But that’s all sorted now. Similarly, any wounds to the Master’s pride will heal in time, but, for the moment, I think discretion’s the better part of valor, and I’m giving Hestin Prime a sensible berth. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention having seen me, just in case. …Professor Summerfield? Bernice?”
Bernice was gaping at him, completely stupefied. “You are the most idiotic genius I know.” The Doctor looked quite taken aback, and Bernice raised a finger to poke him in the skinny chest. “ ‘Cool down?’ The Master’s probably ripping the system apart to get at you!”
The Doctor fidgeted, tossing back a bit of hair that had fallen forward into his face. He frowned, worry lurking around his eyes. “You’re over-reacting. He wouldn’t do anything that might foolishly jeopardize his empire.” The Doctor squared his jaw. “And I’m certain he’s found other diversions and forgotten all about me. Or will very shortly. He’s a resourceful, adaptable man with a lot of prestige and ready money, after all. I’m sure he could make someone with a broken moral compass very happy.”
Bernice was an archeologist by hard-won experience, and from the ruins of a household spread before her, she could sniff out the root of the catastrophe that had destroyed it. While the evidence in this case was less obvious than, say, if she were sitting surrounded by people-shaped magma shells in Pompeii and felt she could call lava and go back to camp for a drink, Bernice still felt the pull of causation. She took a meditative sip of her tiny-umbrella-decked drink, studying the supremely uncomfortable Time Lord before her.
“Why did you leave when you did?”
The Doctor cast about for his friends, as if hoping to make eye contact and elicit a social rescue. “I don’t know what you mean,” he murmured. “I escaped when I could.”
“Really? Because you seemed to have the run of the palace when I visited you, and if appearances were deceiving, you could have caught a ride with me if you’d needed to seek asylum. If you’d told me you were being mistreated, I’d have done anything I could to help you, and I think you understood that, or at least could and should have guessed it.” Benny finished her drink in a long pull. “I suppose I assumed a super-genius being treated like the Master’s wife could fend for himself.
The Doctor winced visibly, and Bernice’s eyes widened-then she choked on an ice cube. Managing to spit it back out, she looked up at him, blinking wildly. “Oh, you didn’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on! When I implied you two were acting more than a little married, your face went the color of your celery. He proposed!”
The Doctor tried to scoff, but ruined it slightly by squeaking on his “That’s preposterous!”
“Oh you’ve really done it.” Bernice’s hand-the one not holding her drink-drifted to her hip without her conscious volition. “Forget hunting you until you’re dead-he won’t have forgiven you regenerations from now!”
“I really don’t think it’s that bad,” the Doctor insisted.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Doctor,” a male voice and a gun muzzle at the Doctor’s temple interrupted “’Fraid it almost certainly is, sir. Messers Smatters and Greig at your service, sir. And ma’mn.” Smatters gave Bernice a decidedly smarmy smile-he hadn’t been told not to interfere with her on pain of death, had he?
Bernice looked seasick. Greig rolled his eyes. The Doctor simply looked long-suffering.
“Not again,” he muttered, and then cleared his throat. “And who might you be?”
“As I said sir, Smatters and Greig. Appropriations, Kidnappings, Retrievals, Catering, Petty Work and Odd Jobs. You’re a Retrieval, sir, and a bit of an Odd Job, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Catering?” the Doctor repeated incredulously.
“Greig here’s a daft hand with an origami napkin swan.” Smatters tilted his head at his partner. “Come up an unlikely number of times, that has. I says to him, ‘Why not include it in our curriculum vitae, then?’ And Greig here, he says nothing at all most years, ‘cept when it’s too late to do his partner any good, and so now it’s printed in Extraneous Skills. Never you mind that, sir. A certain gentleman’s very anxious about your well-being, sir. Asked us to bring you home, he did, and we said we’d be happy to oblige him, for a very generous fixed sum.”
“You know, I hate to say I told you so-” Benny began.
“Then don’t,” the Doctor snapped.
***
A loud ping sounded from the device on his wrist, and the Master excused himself from the briefing. He walked as quickly as dignity would allow, slipped into the wall-paneling, and ran back to his own suite, where he could flip on monitoring equipment. He drummed his fingers impatiently, waiting for the picture to flicker to life. His eyes flared when it finally did, at his first real-time glimpse of the Doctor in months.
He looked well: hog tied in a chair to some woman in the middle of a nice restaurant and quite embarrassed about it, but otherwise well. Wait a minute, was the woman Professor Summerfield? Well, he supposed the restaurant in question probably had a bar, and so it stood to reason the Doctor might’ve found Benny in her natural habitat. Of course they might have come together. The Master tried not to consider that possibility and its implications.
The Master hadn’t trusted any of his bounty hunters not to accost the Doctor and take him to an undisclosed location while they held out for a still-higher ransom. He had demanded they come to the Palace largely so he could plant burr-probes on their ships-microscopic spying equipment that unobtrusively burrowed under the metal plating and the skin of the freelancers. Upon encountering a pre-arranged stimulus-in this case a Gallifreyan bio-pattern-the burr probes transmitted a carrier wave back to the Master, allowing him to view the encounter.
“Fantastic,” Professor Summerfield groused, trying to turn her head the required 180 degrees to glare at the Doctor. “It just figures that the moment I run into you, my dinner plans go to hell. They do a really creepy cow-that-wants-you-to-eat-it here, which come to think of it looks uncannily like you, but I think it might actually be less masochistic than you.”
“Thank you for that comparison, but I hardly asked for this,” the Doctor countered, trying ineffectually to wriggle out of his bindings.
“Yes, Doctor,” the Master chuckled to himself. “Squirm like a worm on a hook!” Of course the Master realized that taunting your ex-lover who can’t hear you doing it was simply a more malevolent form of talking to yourself, and as such could well be considered mad, but he was finding it terrible therapeutic.
“Oh come on, you dumped the Master. That’s practically an engraved invitation. You could send out for a badge. ‘Ask me about my predilection for being accosted by bounty hunters!’”
“I did not dump him,” the Doctor corrected, with a blush. “You can’t dump your captors. This is ridiculous - why do I never remember to bring my sonic screw driver with me when I leave the TARDIS?”
“I mean you could’ve waited and left him at the altar if you were really interested in this sort of entertainment-” Bernice sighed, slipping back into a less frustrated tone. “I’m not saying you’re not right: of course he’s, well, a bit mad-”
The Master frowned at this. “You’re in no position to criticize our relative degrees of sanity, Summerfield,” he muttered to himself. “I’m not the one who attempted to wear stilettos on an archeological site.”
“But he’s-and he can never found out I’ve said this-really not so bad, as far as megalomaniacs go. It’s even possible he deserves to be happy-are you even sure this is what you want?”
Benny’s sympathetic look couldn’t quite find the Doctor at this angle, and it landed instead on a passing young waiter. He took it as a come on and, despite the hostage situation, was interested enough to gather his courage and alert the captured man’s friends, seated in the other wing of the restaurant and wondering where the Doctor had gotten to, to his predicament, and to help them formulate a plan.
“It’s not a question of what I want,” the Doctor said dismissively.
The Master leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. “How terribly convenient for you.”
“It’s a matter of what I have to do,” the Doctor continued to insist on screen. “Besides, you seem to be forgetting that, then as now, I was not in the situation of my own free will.” The Doctor nodded at the silent, bugged Greig, and, with unconscious irony, at the watching Master. “Perhaps you think I should jump into bed with him as well? Make an honest villain of him?”
“Do you miss him?” Benny asked sharply.
“No,” the Doctor said automatically. “No. Of course I don’t.” He paused for a long moment, and then murmured, “That would be absolutely ridiculous.”
The Master leaned forward, studying his face closely. The Doctor turned his head away.
“No,” Benny said with forced cheer. “I don’t miss my ex-husband Jason either. I mean we run into each other from time to time, meet civilly and,” she coughed, “shake hands, but I certainly don’t-”
The Master groaned over her diatribe, both because it was preventing the Doctor from speaking further, and because he’d heard this all before.
“Shut up, you stupid woman!” he growled. “Everyone knows you and Jason have more sex now than you did while you were married!”
The Doctor laughed slightly at something she’d said, but then his face clouded, and he lowered his voice.
“Actually-” But then he stopped. He seemed prepared to confide in Professor Summerfield, however, and the Master turned up the volume.
“What is it? Go on?” She nudged his shoulder encouragingly.
“About the Master-the thing is-” the Doctor started.
Smatters wandered into frame and the Doctor shut his mouth, turning his attention to is (current) captor.
“No!” the Master wailed at the injustice of the universe. “No, no, no, you were just about to say something-”
But it was too late-the Doctor was listening to Smatters detailing his arrangements. “So I’ve gotten the stasis chamber up and running again-that ought to keep him quiet and out of trouble for the trip back. Greig, if you’ll help me carry him--augh!”
Smatters collapsed, to the floor, and the Master’s camera angle shifted wildly as Gerig did too. Something sludgy and red dripped across the frame, and the Master wondered if Greig had been bludgeoned. If so he was exceedingly unlikely to retrieve the Doctor.
“Damn,” the Master cursed, pounding his fist on the desk.
“That worked better than I’d expected, thank you Tegan,” Nyssa of Traken’s voice floated over the shaking camera, and what must have been the writhing, groaning bodies of the bounty hunters.
“You didn’t think extra spicy Bloody Mary to the eyes via a soda siphon would hurt?” an Australian voice, apparently belonging to the aforementioned Tegan, asked with amusement. “A girl should always carry some pepper spray around in her bag if she can help it. Same basic principle.”
A male voice whined “Doctor, who are these men? Why did they want to capture you?” A young man in a school uniform wandered into view and toed a downed bounty hunter with his black brogue. He also tried his best to look like he wasn’t desperately staring at the tied-up Doctor with adolescent lust, which the Doctor seemed entirely oblivious to.
The Master saw red. That was largely because the Bloody Mary had dripped all over the microscopic camera now, obscuring his view. In addition to that, however, the very idea of the Doctor leaving him and consequently acquiring a sarky, younger male companion with homicidal tendencies (and given that the Doctor had quite demonstratively appreciated him for some time, the Master felt secure in guessing the Doctor had something of a penchant for ‘sarcastic and murderous’) and a costume that was no doubt fetish bait for someone who’d had his sexuality shaped by, as he put it, ‘attending Eaton’ left the Master less than pleased.
“I’ll explain later.” The Doctor barely glanced at the boy, but the Master was not entirely mollified.
“Hello,” the young waiter who’d been helping them moved forward to untie the Doctor and Benny-starting with Benny. “I’m Alfred.”
“Oh, um, Benny-” she began, “thanks for the help!”
“It seemed like a better idea than your standard chat up line,” Alfred admitted.
“‘What’s a girl like you doing tied to a chair in a place like this?’”
“Points for style, surely,” the Doctor put in, standing and brushing himself off. “Thank you, Alfred. Professor Summerfield-”
“Benny,” she corrected.
“Benny,” the Doctor agreed with a smile. “Always a pleasure.” One of the bounty hunters at his feet began to moan, and the Doctor gingerly stepped over him. “Sorry, must dash. Everyone back to the TARDIS!”
“Could I catch a ride with you back to the Braxiatel Collection?” Benny asked. “It’ll be quicker than renting a shuttle.”
“Hah!” the Master said, having done enough trawling through the archives of the Doctor’s TARDIS to suspect that wouldn’t be the case. But he began to seriously worry about the dark turn all this was taking.
“Not to mention I’m a bit short on cash at the moment,” Benny admitted.
The Master sat up straight, willing the Doctor to flutter off like the magpie he was. While Braxiatel was a renegade of sorts as well, and as such it wasn’t likely that he’d turn the Doctor in to the CIA, the Doctor had, by his own admission, never met another Time Lord. When compared only against humans, the Master could hardly fail to appear even more excessively impressive than he did when viewed in his proper context. He wanted to remain in that flattering light.
Braxiatel grated on the Master’s sensibilities, but it was impossible to deny that he was very clever, possessed a smooth, seductive sort of voice, and had an entire Collection of glittering cultural artifacts at his disposal-and a lot of money to purchase more with besides. If the Master’s own experience was any guide, the Doctor was highly interested in cleverness, seductive voices and priceless artwork. The Master felt that the Doctor meeting Braxiatel would be the worst possible consequence of this botched kidnapping attempt.
“You never said you worked for Brax!” The Doctor seemed astonished. “So that’s who sent you to steal the mosaic-oh, that makes perfect sense now. Of course he would.”
“You know Irving Braxiatel?” Benny blinked.
“How?!” Unheard and horrified, the Master backed her up.
“I could hardly escape the acquaintance. Brax is my brother. Well, not as bad as all that-my half brother.”
“You’re joking,” Benny said.
“Please be joking,” the Master pleaded. He suddenly remembered Verity having mentioned a step-son in connection with her time loop. The Master felt he’d been a fool not to realize what that might mean earlier. The Master took it all back. Finding out this was the worst possible consequence of this botched kidnapping attempt.
“I’ve often wished my parents were,” the Doctor admitted, “but I’m afraid it’s all true.”
The Master understood that the Doctor had felt it unimportant to mention other family members under the general heading of Time Lords I Have Met, but he felt deceived nonetheless. Could he really continue to lust after the supremely annoying Braxiatel’s maddeningly appetizing little brother?
Horrified, the Master realized he most certainly could. Not even the image of Brax’s smarmy smug-git grin on the Doctor’s face could entirely kill the attraction-though it did come close.
Professor Summerfield and the Doctor strode off, deep in conversation about their mutual friend. With a deep sigh and ill grace, the Master began the long process of reconciling himself to inviting the only Time Lord who rivaled his paramour for insufferability to the wedding.
***
Two days later, the Master looked up from his office desk at the sound of a footstep to find Professor Bernice Summerfield standing awkwardly in the door, holding what appeared to be a pint of ice cream and a bottle of alcohol. She cleared her throat.
“I don’t expect you want to, er, talk.”
“No.” The Master’s lip twitched in amusement, which he tried to disguise as complete unconcern.
“Thought not. I’ll just leave these here, and, well. Good luck.” Benny tentatively pushed the items onto the Master’s desk and backed out of the door.
The Master picked up the tub and examined it, contemplatively.
Later that evening, Bernice received a terse message demanding to know where’d she’d purchased this ‘Chubby Hubby.’ She smiled and, with tact, said nothing that could be interpreted as sympathetic-simply texted the Master directions to the nearest Tesco-Galactic-Express.
***
“It’s too slow,” the Master snarled, tossing the datapad he’d been presented with to the table and glaring at the hapless technician who’d given it to him. He overshot the mark and the pad slid off the table and onto the floor. The technician chased after it, and the Master, unapologetic, raised his voice to lecture his retreating back.
“Its blindingly obvious that if the generator turns that slowly, the amount of heat it produces will be too low to keep the pipes from freezing in the cold season. It’s an ice-world! Either speed up the cycling rate or invent an alternative means of insulating the system. I want it within the hour!” He turned his head to address Professor Linme, who stood beside him. “I shouldn’t have to explain something so intuitive,” the Master growled, as if excusing his behavior to the worried looking man.
Linme coughed. “You sometimes forget, sir, that what is intuitive to you is not necessarily-”
“You needn’t flatter me,” the Master sneered, “nor am I finished. Why hasn’t your team back-engineered the Monin engine yet? I expected plans on my desk two days ago. You have had weeks, now.”
“The task you set is incredibly complex,” Linme said defensively, “and the deadline perhaps-no, certainly overly optimistic. I told you as much at the time.”
“Nonsense. The Doctor could have done it in a day. The laboratory’s output has fallen inexcusably of late.”
Linme fidgeted. “We have, admittedly, suffered as a result of,” he pursed his lips, “certain personnel losses. On that note, we seem to be stuck on the Hestin Genetic World Bank. There’s something wrong with the sorting formula, but no one can see what the problem is. I haven’t wanted to bother you about something so non-essential when you’ve seemed so occupied of late.”
“If I recall correctly, the Doctor scraped together half the code you find yourself so reliant upon. He would have made notes. He usually did, albeit haphazard ones. Those might be of some use to you”
“He, er, did, but I’m afraid they’re in what appears to be your language.”
The Master’s eye twitched. He knew himself well enough to predict the inevitable sad trajectory of an evening’s forced reading of his former lover’s notebooks. He’d start diligently, come to sighing over the handwriting, and end up catching himself giving the books maudlin caresses, as if they were old loveletters. No, thank you all the same.
“It’s not sufficiently important to devote my time to at the moment. Have you, at least made some progress on the infernal sensor ghosts and false alarms?” Sometimes whole weeks passed between the breakdown, but several had occurred today. The security claxons had had to be muted as best they could be, rather than deactivated.
Linme had been dreading this question most of all.
“I’m afraid none, my Lord.”
“I can’t work for that noise,” the Master seethed, and true enough it distracted him beyond measure. The low, grinding rage it inspired was worse even than the noise. “The entire sabotage could only have taken the Doctor a mere day to plan and execute. How can it possibly take this much longer to unravel?”
Unless, as the Master worried on his more paranoid days, the Doctor had been secretly toying with the details of the plan for far longer, waiting for the last few pieces to fall into place. Had he pushed the Doctor into acting, or had the plan finally come to fruition, maturing on a timescale all its own? Had the Doctor’s plan been entirely devised those last days, or had the Doctor turned the elements of it over in his mind for months? Correlation and causation and coincidence twisted his gut.
Linme finally broke. “Yes, the Doctor would have it fixed before tea time, and would have the most amusing anecdote to tell you about the whole thing. He’d know to winterize the engines without you having to say a word. He’d back-engineer the Monin ship so that his was better than the original, he’d do more than patch the code, he’d write a whole new one-of course he would, but, forgive me, my Lord, the Doctor isn’t here, and none of us are him. Nor can we fill his role, even in this admittedly slender capacity.” Linme raked a hand through his hair, which seemed thinner of late. “I know you’re frustrated, sir. I relied on him a great deal, and considered him a friend, and if you don’t mind my saying so, we’re all adrift, to degrees. But blaming my technicians is no use to anyone.”
The Master had looked murderous at the beginning of this speech, but by the time Linme had finished he nodded shortly. Another man might have apologized for his behavior over the previous weeks, but the Master simply moved on to the next subject more cordially. Linme had known him long enough to properly read him. This was as both as close to self-recrimination as the Master ever publicly came and a resolution to behave differently in future.
“I intend to run Palace-wide drills in the near future , which will involve your staff. I’ve been insufficiently attentive to the defense systems of late.”
“Preoccupied, perhaps,” Linme offered.
“Unacceptably so,” the Master agreed darkly, wincing when Dalek chatter again blared from the grills in the ceiling.
“Speak of the-” Linme stopped, and swallowed, “devil,” he finished faintly, as a platoon of Daleks rolling into the laboratory, adding their shrieking to the cacophony created by the loudspeakers, and by so many heavy metal bodies rolling over the floor.
“YOU ARE SURROUNDED! SURRENDER! SURRENDER!” An eyestalk swiveled, finding the Master, and the lead Dalek’s body spun around to ‘face’ him. “MASTER! YOU ARE NOW A PRISONER OF THE DALEKS!”
“Am I? An atypically stylish entrance for you,” the Master quipped, letting bravado cover bewilderment and automatically feeling for the Time Ring he kept hidden in his pocket. It was hot to the touch, which meant it was being shorted by a Dalek interference field, and thus was useless to him.
Linme crept back towards the bunker door, but the Master could have told him it was too late for that. He could feel his face twisting into an unattractive expression of rage and fear. How had they done it? And more importantly, what were his chances of surviving the day?
***
Chapter: Seven (Part II): Eight
Author: x_los
Rating: PG
Pairing/Characters: Five/Ainley!Master, Benny, Tegan, Turlough, Nyssa
Summary: In which the Master hunts the Doctor across the stars (like the faithless git he is), and in the process takes tea with his mother.
Beta: aralias, for doing the hard work for me, and innocentsmith and alex_e_smith for much-needed early read-throughs and suggestions.
A/N: Remember that best_enemies Cliche Challenge forever ago? This was started under its auspices. Slave!fic cliche ahoy!
Previous Chapters: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Part I, Chapter 6, Part II, Chapter 7, Part I, Chapter 7, Part II
A NOTE REGARDING CHAPTERING: I know I've bumped up to eight chapters from five and then from seven, and I am heartily sorry for being a tease re: that. The ending IS all written, and you can expect Chapter Seven Part II within the next day or so, whereupon I'll post this chapter to comms and take this post off f-lock. Chapter 8 is also finished, barring a few pages of epilogue. I expect to finish it and have it off to beta today, and probably to have it posted within a week. The problem with posting everything at once was that is was just too BIG, both for individual posts (all told chapters 7 and 8 would have taken three or four, given the lj character limits) and for the poor beleaguered beta to get through all in one quick go.
So with some minor waiting, here's fic:
The Crane Wife
Chapter 7, Part II
***
Smatters and Greig were the best in the bounty biz-or so Smatters regularly insisted. In actuality, while in the top twenty, they were regularly out-performed by Cnrakk the Crusher, the rogue robot Unit 9-Blue (who cared only for the electric thrills of spiked memory chips and the paid company of large-breasted ginger women), and Steve Mott, a mild-mannered postal worker from Boshane who had retired to pursue his bounty hunting hobby and enjoyed the collection of 1) exotic stamps, and 2) the exotic scalps of his targets (his wife mounted them in an attractive fashion in the den, so as not to clash with the upholstery).
Smatters liked to think of himself as the publicity man, suave and popular with attractive beings of any gender, species or sort. He liked to think of the silently capable Grieg as his Tonto. Grieg, who had not spoken a word in ten years for reasons of his own, preferred not to think of Smatters at all, if he could possibly help it.
It was with typical forbearance he endured Smatters rambling monologue about the briefing they’d just left.
“Chief scientific advisor my arse,” Smatters chortled to himself, waving the datapack’s holophoto of the Doctor at his colleague. “You ever see anyone that young with that many doctorates under his belt, let alone rise to that sort of position? You ever see this kind of price tag on a lab lackey? Mark me, Greig my lad, this Doctor fellow’s never gotten off the Master’s cock for long enough to have an opinion about a test tube in the whole term of his employment here. The Emperor’s toy’s left in a huff and no mistake. ‘Tween you, me and the holophoto here, we’d be right fools not to take advantage of having a pretty bit like that frightened ‘n in our custody-our company, I should say. Reckon we could get ‘im to do quite a bit if we promised not to take him back to the right nasty piece o’ work he’s run away from. Not that we’d have to follow through, mind.
“Now, this Master’s a clever man, and he knows he could be squeezed a bit more even than he’s offering to ransom a lover rather than an employee. Like as not he knows the boy’s back on the open market as well, and doesn’t want anyone sampling the wares who hasn’t already, so he’s keeping mum about the oldest profession bit. There could be even more money in this than it looks, Greig, not to mention the aforementioned wares.”
Greig cleared his throat loudly.
“Now Greig, you know as not to interrupt me when I’m thinkin’! He’s probably dim as a burst bulb, warnings aside-that Master’s just tryin’ to throw us off the scent, like.”
Greig cleared his throat frantically.
“Greig I’ve told ye-”
“Oh, I think you should listen to your friend,” a too-calm voice rumbled from behind Smatters. “I believe he’s trying to tell you something rather important.”
Smatters paled. From the fact that he hadn’t been knifed in the back, he imagined the Master had only come upon them about the time the first frog in Greig’s throat had made its presence known. From the way the Master picked him up bodily, Smatters concluded that had been damning enough, regardless.
“Sir, Sire, really, I-” Smatters struggled in his grip like a fish on a line.
“I came to mention a few pertinent details I’d forgotten, but it strikes me that I might as well provide a practical demonstration. This,” the Master pushed a button and flung open a panel, “is our waste disposal system-do you like it?” He swung and held Smatters over the long drop and squeezed his neck with his leather-gloved hand, cutting off the airflow so the man would stop his whining. “I imagine you haven’t much of an eye for engineering, but nevertheless, it’s impressive, even to the lay person. Attractive, discreet, efficient. The Doctor designed it, you see, andit’s very safe,. In fact,it’s impossible to disengage the safeties preventing you from disposing of living organic material unless you have high priority access codes. These access codes-” The Master removed one hand from the dangling man’s throat and keyed something into the pad beside the chute.
Smatters struggled in his grasp, wide-eyed and choking.
“Now, the most impressive thing about these units is that how efficiently they recycle. They deconstruct the very molecules of material thrown away and reconstruct them into new, element-sorted component blocks for use in replication. They could, for example, rip your body into shreds, sort you into neat stacks and make you into lunch and half a dozen chairs without wasting an atom. Terribly clever…”
Greig, impassive but not unimpressed, watched Smatters smack at the Master’s arms in a futile effort to force the man to drop him.
“That cleverness is very typical of your quarry. And for a man who claims to abhor violence, he certainly does leave an incredible trail of casualties in his wake. I fear you’ve failed to understand the Doctor-my chief scientific adviser. He is even cleverer than he seems. He is naturally mendacious, uncannily resourceful, and almost inconceivably lucky. At your own peril, he is not to be underestimated.” The Master loosened his grip just enough so that Smatters could gasp, then drew him forward, away from the shaft.
“Thank you, thank you sir,” Smatters gasped.
The Master grinned savagely. “And neither am I.” Without warning he grabbed Smatters by the shoulders and smashed his head into the metal wall three times, until the man lost consciousness, and let him go abruptly. Smatters slid to the floor, and the Master took a step back, pulled at his jacket to straighten it, and glanced over at Greig.
“The only reason he’s not dead is that, for some unfathomable reason, the pair of you are considered to be excellent at what you do. It seems as though you bear the burden of thought for the both of you, so let me make it clear to you that if so much of a whisper of the Doctor’s mistreatment at your hands reaches me-or if I so much as suspect the pair of you of tampering with him, I will leave you ever so much worse than dead.” The Master smiled pleasantly and swept off down the corridor. “Good luck, gentlemen.”
Smatters, coming round, groaned an acknowledgement from the floor. Greig rolled his eyes and started to drag him back in the direction the Master had initially come from, towards the hanger and their ship.
Hours later, in flight, Smatters ventured a comment.
“Told ya he was his lover, didn’t I?”
After a moment’s pause, Greig’s large, still lips stirred, and a voice like a rumble of rock dustily creaked into motion. “Smatters?”
Stunned, Smatters blinked at him, and offered a tentative, “Yer?”
“Shut up.” Greig looked back to the screen, shut his mouth, and for a full minute, stayed silent.
“If you was going to talk, why didn’t you say something back there when that crazy Master bloke was right behind me?” Smatters drew himself up indignantly.
Greig gave a deep sigh and tuned out the sound of his partner whining about the injustice he had been done. He focused instead on the peaceful expanse of space in the viewscreen and the task before him.
Greig had very good instincts, and his years of silent observation had given him a real knack for understanding people. The way the Master spoke of their prey- indeed his entire demeanor (which had been passionate to the point of verging on the murderous) indicated a deep, genuine attachment that could well be mutual. Why the Doctor had left was no concern of Greig’s, but it didn’t take an experienced professional to guess where you were likely to find people licking their wounds after they’d broken it off with their boyfriends.
***
Bernice Summerfield felt that Milliways Restaurant at the End of the Universe was a bit of a tourist trap. Their bar, on the other hand-that deserved all its good press and a bit extra. She was bearing a ‘Sex on the Deadly Glass Beaches of Marinus’ away from it when she knocked into someone who wasn’t paying enough attention to where he was going.
“Hey, watch it!” Benny protested, managing to steady the glass before a drop spilled with skill born of long practice.
“Oh, terribly sorry!” A familiar blond head whipped around, and familiar blue eyes widened with pleased surprise. “Professor Summerfield! How delightfully-wait, you’re not here on a mission, are you?” His eyes had flared and then contracted to slits so quickly Bernice could have sworn the lids were spring-loaded.
“Er. Not that I’m aware of? A mission to forget an annoying dig with the aid of about seven more of these?” Bernice laughed, obviously confused, and the Doctor visibly relaxed.
“No, I didn’t think you would be, or that he’d- anyway.” The Doctor shook his head and smiled charmingly. “Won’t you join me? My companions and I are just over there-I was fetching Tegan a Bloody Mary, but it seems they’ll send it over as soon as the barman’s scrounged up Worchester sauce, as they seem to have run out.”
“Tegan?”
“A traveling companion of mine, and a very good friend. I’m with her, a chap called Turlough, and Nyssa of Traken, at the moment-we’ve just come from the theater. Well, more precisely from a performance of The Importance of Being Earnest that was interrupted in the second act by Sontaarans, who suspected that in addition to not actually being named Earnest, Algy was a Rutan scientist-turned-conscientious objector, in possession of valuable information. Strangely enough they were absolutely right. The holiday I’d promised my companions was, consequently, rather spoilt. I offered to make amends by treating them to a good dinner out. You like Wilde a great deal, if I remember?”
“Not quite my period, but yes, who doesn’t?” Bernice smiled. “I know for a fact the Master’s a fan-remember he tried some terrible ‘to lose two fragments of the coronet of Rassilon looks like carelessness’ line out on me on that last dig I did for him? Cheapest shot since the well drink specials. Admittedly, I did almost deserve it.”
Bernice toyed with her straw and wondered whether she could wrangle a dinner invitation out of the Doctor. They were charming company, but more importantly the Master kept an excellent table, and had a wine cellar to match. “I’m surprised he isn’t with you. Affairs of state?”
“Hm?” The Doctor seemed to find a patch of the carpet terribly interesting. “Oh, I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. Shall we sit? Tiring day of running after Rutans and all that-you know, they have rather an unfair advantage, between the floating and the hovering.”
The Doctor’s prattling was as suspicious as if he’d been wearing a huge spatter of fresh blood instead of a stick of celery.
“What do you mean ‘you wouldn’t know’? Have you two had a row?”
“Oh no,” the Doctor’s expression was too innocent, “nothing of that sort.” He smiled fixedly, waiting for Benny to take the hint and change the topic of her own accord. Benny very pointedly did not take any such thing. The Doctor shoved his hands in his back pockets, and his frock coat was pushed back and out by the motion. He looked like nothing so much as an indignant disturbed goose. “I managed to escape. Won’t you sit down? I’m afraid we’re becoming something of a traffic obstruction-”
If the Doctor thought Bernice Summerfield was going to be pressured by her ancient British heritage into politely sitting down, and then politely avoiding discussing the Doctor’s private affairs in front of mixed company and/or children, he had clearly never visited her native Beta Caprisis. Yes, they still had fish and chips shops, but they’d strayed so far from the ways of their ancestors that they even talked on public transport. Benny was not a woman to be so easily derailed, not even by the Doctor’s mastery of passive-aggressive English manipulation. Several patrons and waiters turned around as Bernice shrieked, “You did what?!”
“I escaped my enslavement,” the Doctor said coldly, as if annoyed that he should have to discuss it.
“You left him?” Bernice gaped. “But-but the two of you-”
“I was sold to a dictator at a slave auction. I consequently managed to rescue myself. That seems natural enough to me.” The Doctor’s irritation melted slightly, and he tried a pleading tone. “He’s probably cooled down by now-in fact, it’s been weeks since I’ve run into any of his hired help. I thought you might have been embroiled in all this nonsense, but clearly you haven’t heard anything about it.
“I’m getting paranoid in my old age-I thought that was what Turlough was after for a while as well, but it turned out he was trying to kill me for entirely different reasons. But that’s all sorted now. Similarly, any wounds to the Master’s pride will heal in time, but, for the moment, I think discretion’s the better part of valor, and I’m giving Hestin Prime a sensible berth. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention having seen me, just in case. …Professor Summerfield? Bernice?”
Bernice was gaping at him, completely stupefied. “You are the most idiotic genius I know.” The Doctor looked quite taken aback, and Bernice raised a finger to poke him in the skinny chest. “ ‘Cool down?’ The Master’s probably ripping the system apart to get at you!”
The Doctor fidgeted, tossing back a bit of hair that had fallen forward into his face. He frowned, worry lurking around his eyes. “You’re over-reacting. He wouldn’t do anything that might foolishly jeopardize his empire.” The Doctor squared his jaw. “And I’m certain he’s found other diversions and forgotten all about me. Or will very shortly. He’s a resourceful, adaptable man with a lot of prestige and ready money, after all. I’m sure he could make someone with a broken moral compass very happy.”
Bernice was an archeologist by hard-won experience, and from the ruins of a household spread before her, she could sniff out the root of the catastrophe that had destroyed it. While the evidence in this case was less obvious than, say, if she were sitting surrounded by people-shaped magma shells in Pompeii and felt she could call lava and go back to camp for a drink, Bernice still felt the pull of causation. She took a meditative sip of her tiny-umbrella-decked drink, studying the supremely uncomfortable Time Lord before her.
“Why did you leave when you did?”
The Doctor cast about for his friends, as if hoping to make eye contact and elicit a social rescue. “I don’t know what you mean,” he murmured. “I escaped when I could.”
“Really? Because you seemed to have the run of the palace when I visited you, and if appearances were deceiving, you could have caught a ride with me if you’d needed to seek asylum. If you’d told me you were being mistreated, I’d have done anything I could to help you, and I think you understood that, or at least could and should have guessed it.” Benny finished her drink in a long pull. “I suppose I assumed a super-genius being treated like the Master’s wife could fend for himself.
The Doctor winced visibly, and Bernice’s eyes widened-then she choked on an ice cube. Managing to spit it back out, she looked up at him, blinking wildly. “Oh, you didn’t.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh come on! When I implied you two were acting more than a little married, your face went the color of your celery. He proposed!”
The Doctor tried to scoff, but ruined it slightly by squeaking on his “That’s preposterous!”
“Oh you’ve really done it.” Bernice’s hand-the one not holding her drink-drifted to her hip without her conscious volition. “Forget hunting you until you’re dead-he won’t have forgiven you regenerations from now!”
“I really don’t think it’s that bad,” the Doctor insisted.
“Beggin’ your pardon, Doctor,” a male voice and a gun muzzle at the Doctor’s temple interrupted “’Fraid it almost certainly is, sir. Messers Smatters and Greig at your service, sir. And ma’mn.” Smatters gave Bernice a decidedly smarmy smile-he hadn’t been told not to interfere with her on pain of death, had he?
Bernice looked seasick. Greig rolled his eyes. The Doctor simply looked long-suffering.
“Not again,” he muttered, and then cleared his throat. “And who might you be?”
“As I said sir, Smatters and Greig. Appropriations, Kidnappings, Retrievals, Catering, Petty Work and Odd Jobs. You’re a Retrieval, sir, and a bit of an Odd Job, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Catering?” the Doctor repeated incredulously.
“Greig here’s a daft hand with an origami napkin swan.” Smatters tilted his head at his partner. “Come up an unlikely number of times, that has. I says to him, ‘Why not include it in our curriculum vitae, then?’ And Greig here, he says nothing at all most years, ‘cept when it’s too late to do his partner any good, and so now it’s printed in Extraneous Skills. Never you mind that, sir. A certain gentleman’s very anxious about your well-being, sir. Asked us to bring you home, he did, and we said we’d be happy to oblige him, for a very generous fixed sum.”
“You know, I hate to say I told you so-” Benny began.
“Then don’t,” the Doctor snapped.
***
A loud ping sounded from the device on his wrist, and the Master excused himself from the briefing. He walked as quickly as dignity would allow, slipped into the wall-paneling, and ran back to his own suite, where he could flip on monitoring equipment. He drummed his fingers impatiently, waiting for the picture to flicker to life. His eyes flared when it finally did, at his first real-time glimpse of the Doctor in months.
He looked well: hog tied in a chair to some woman in the middle of a nice restaurant and quite embarrassed about it, but otherwise well. Wait a minute, was the woman Professor Summerfield? Well, he supposed the restaurant in question probably had a bar, and so it stood to reason the Doctor might’ve found Benny in her natural habitat. Of course they might have come together. The Master tried not to consider that possibility and its implications.
The Master hadn’t trusted any of his bounty hunters not to accost the Doctor and take him to an undisclosed location while they held out for a still-higher ransom. He had demanded they come to the Palace largely so he could plant burr-probes on their ships-microscopic spying equipment that unobtrusively burrowed under the metal plating and the skin of the freelancers. Upon encountering a pre-arranged stimulus-in this case a Gallifreyan bio-pattern-the burr probes transmitted a carrier wave back to the Master, allowing him to view the encounter.
“Fantastic,” Professor Summerfield groused, trying to turn her head the required 180 degrees to glare at the Doctor. “It just figures that the moment I run into you, my dinner plans go to hell. They do a really creepy cow-that-wants-you-to-eat-it here, which come to think of it looks uncannily like you, but I think it might actually be less masochistic than you.”
“Thank you for that comparison, but I hardly asked for this,” the Doctor countered, trying ineffectually to wriggle out of his bindings.
“Yes, Doctor,” the Master chuckled to himself. “Squirm like a worm on a hook!” Of course the Master realized that taunting your ex-lover who can’t hear you doing it was simply a more malevolent form of talking to yourself, and as such could well be considered mad, but he was finding it terrible therapeutic.
“Oh come on, you dumped the Master. That’s practically an engraved invitation. You could send out for a badge. ‘Ask me about my predilection for being accosted by bounty hunters!’”
“I did not dump him,” the Doctor corrected, with a blush. “You can’t dump your captors. This is ridiculous - why do I never remember to bring my sonic screw driver with me when I leave the TARDIS?”
“I mean you could’ve waited and left him at the altar if you were really interested in this sort of entertainment-” Bernice sighed, slipping back into a less frustrated tone. “I’m not saying you’re not right: of course he’s, well, a bit mad-”
The Master frowned at this. “You’re in no position to criticize our relative degrees of sanity, Summerfield,” he muttered to himself. “I’m not the one who attempted to wear stilettos on an archeological site.”
“But he’s-and he can never found out I’ve said this-really not so bad, as far as megalomaniacs go. It’s even possible he deserves to be happy-are you even sure this is what you want?”
Benny’s sympathetic look couldn’t quite find the Doctor at this angle, and it landed instead on a passing young waiter. He took it as a come on and, despite the hostage situation, was interested enough to gather his courage and alert the captured man’s friends, seated in the other wing of the restaurant and wondering where the Doctor had gotten to, to his predicament, and to help them formulate a plan.
“It’s not a question of what I want,” the Doctor said dismissively.
The Master leaned back in his chair and rolled his eyes. “How terribly convenient for you.”
“It’s a matter of what I have to do,” the Doctor continued to insist on screen. “Besides, you seem to be forgetting that, then as now, I was not in the situation of my own free will.” The Doctor nodded at the silent, bugged Greig, and, with unconscious irony, at the watching Master. “Perhaps you think I should jump into bed with him as well? Make an honest villain of him?”
“Do you miss him?” Benny asked sharply.
“No,” the Doctor said automatically. “No. Of course I don’t.” He paused for a long moment, and then murmured, “That would be absolutely ridiculous.”
The Master leaned forward, studying his face closely. The Doctor turned his head away.
“No,” Benny said with forced cheer. “I don’t miss my ex-husband Jason either. I mean we run into each other from time to time, meet civilly and,” she coughed, “shake hands, but I certainly don’t-”
The Master groaned over her diatribe, both because it was preventing the Doctor from speaking further, and because he’d heard this all before.
“Shut up, you stupid woman!” he growled. “Everyone knows you and Jason have more sex now than you did while you were married!”
The Doctor laughed slightly at something she’d said, but then his face clouded, and he lowered his voice.
“Actually-” But then he stopped. He seemed prepared to confide in Professor Summerfield, however, and the Master turned up the volume.
“What is it? Go on?” She nudged his shoulder encouragingly.
“About the Master-the thing is-” the Doctor started.
Smatters wandered into frame and the Doctor shut his mouth, turning his attention to is (current) captor.
“No!” the Master wailed at the injustice of the universe. “No, no, no, you were just about to say something-”
But it was too late-the Doctor was listening to Smatters detailing his arrangements. “So I’ve gotten the stasis chamber up and running again-that ought to keep him quiet and out of trouble for the trip back. Greig, if you’ll help me carry him--augh!”
Smatters collapsed, to the floor, and the Master’s camera angle shifted wildly as Gerig did too. Something sludgy and red dripped across the frame, and the Master wondered if Greig had been bludgeoned. If so he was exceedingly unlikely to retrieve the Doctor.
“Damn,” the Master cursed, pounding his fist on the desk.
“That worked better than I’d expected, thank you Tegan,” Nyssa of Traken’s voice floated over the shaking camera, and what must have been the writhing, groaning bodies of the bounty hunters.
“You didn’t think extra spicy Bloody Mary to the eyes via a soda siphon would hurt?” an Australian voice, apparently belonging to the aforementioned Tegan, asked with amusement. “A girl should always carry some pepper spray around in her bag if she can help it. Same basic principle.”
A male voice whined “Doctor, who are these men? Why did they want to capture you?” A young man in a school uniform wandered into view and toed a downed bounty hunter with his black brogue. He also tried his best to look like he wasn’t desperately staring at the tied-up Doctor with adolescent lust, which the Doctor seemed entirely oblivious to.
The Master saw red. That was largely because the Bloody Mary had dripped all over the microscopic camera now, obscuring his view. In addition to that, however, the very idea of the Doctor leaving him and consequently acquiring a sarky, younger male companion with homicidal tendencies (and given that the Doctor had quite demonstratively appreciated him for some time, the Master felt secure in guessing the Doctor had something of a penchant for ‘sarcastic and murderous’) and a costume that was no doubt fetish bait for someone who’d had his sexuality shaped by, as he put it, ‘attending Eaton’ left the Master less than pleased.
“I’ll explain later.” The Doctor barely glanced at the boy, but the Master was not entirely mollified.
“Hello,” the young waiter who’d been helping them moved forward to untie the Doctor and Benny-starting with Benny. “I’m Alfred.”
“Oh, um, Benny-” she began, “thanks for the help!”
“It seemed like a better idea than your standard chat up line,” Alfred admitted.
“‘What’s a girl like you doing tied to a chair in a place like this?’”
“Points for style, surely,” the Doctor put in, standing and brushing himself off. “Thank you, Alfred. Professor Summerfield-”
“Benny,” she corrected.
“Benny,” the Doctor agreed with a smile. “Always a pleasure.” One of the bounty hunters at his feet began to moan, and the Doctor gingerly stepped over him. “Sorry, must dash. Everyone back to the TARDIS!”
“Could I catch a ride with you back to the Braxiatel Collection?” Benny asked. “It’ll be quicker than renting a shuttle.”
“Hah!” the Master said, having done enough trawling through the archives of the Doctor’s TARDIS to suspect that wouldn’t be the case. But he began to seriously worry about the dark turn all this was taking.
“Not to mention I’m a bit short on cash at the moment,” Benny admitted.
The Master sat up straight, willing the Doctor to flutter off like the magpie he was. While Braxiatel was a renegade of sorts as well, and as such it wasn’t likely that he’d turn the Doctor in to the CIA, the Doctor had, by his own admission, never met another Time Lord. When compared only against humans, the Master could hardly fail to appear even more excessively impressive than he did when viewed in his proper context. He wanted to remain in that flattering light.
Braxiatel grated on the Master’s sensibilities, but it was impossible to deny that he was very clever, possessed a smooth, seductive sort of voice, and had an entire Collection of glittering cultural artifacts at his disposal-and a lot of money to purchase more with besides. If the Master’s own experience was any guide, the Doctor was highly interested in cleverness, seductive voices and priceless artwork. The Master felt that the Doctor meeting Braxiatel would be the worst possible consequence of this botched kidnapping attempt.
“You never said you worked for Brax!” The Doctor seemed astonished. “So that’s who sent you to steal the mosaic-oh, that makes perfect sense now. Of course he would.”
“You know Irving Braxiatel?” Benny blinked.
“How?!” Unheard and horrified, the Master backed her up.
“I could hardly escape the acquaintance. Brax is my brother. Well, not as bad as all that-my half brother.”
“You’re joking,” Benny said.
“Please be joking,” the Master pleaded. He suddenly remembered Verity having mentioned a step-son in connection with her time loop. The Master felt he’d been a fool not to realize what that might mean earlier. The Master took it all back. Finding out this was the worst possible consequence of this botched kidnapping attempt.
“I’ve often wished my parents were,” the Doctor admitted, “but I’m afraid it’s all true.”
The Master understood that the Doctor had felt it unimportant to mention other family members under the general heading of Time Lords I Have Met, but he felt deceived nonetheless. Could he really continue to lust after the supremely annoying Braxiatel’s maddeningly appetizing little brother?
Horrified, the Master realized he most certainly could. Not even the image of Brax’s smarmy smug-git grin on the Doctor’s face could entirely kill the attraction-though it did come close.
Professor Summerfield and the Doctor strode off, deep in conversation about their mutual friend. With a deep sigh and ill grace, the Master began the long process of reconciling himself to inviting the only Time Lord who rivaled his paramour for insufferability to the wedding.
***
Two days later, the Master looked up from his office desk at the sound of a footstep to find Professor Bernice Summerfield standing awkwardly in the door, holding what appeared to be a pint of ice cream and a bottle of alcohol. She cleared her throat.
“I don’t expect you want to, er, talk.”
“No.” The Master’s lip twitched in amusement, which he tried to disguise as complete unconcern.
“Thought not. I’ll just leave these here, and, well. Good luck.” Benny tentatively pushed the items onto the Master’s desk and backed out of the door.
The Master picked up the tub and examined it, contemplatively.
Later that evening, Bernice received a terse message demanding to know where’d she’d purchased this ‘Chubby Hubby.’ She smiled and, with tact, said nothing that could be interpreted as sympathetic-simply texted the Master directions to the nearest Tesco-Galactic-Express.
***
“It’s too slow,” the Master snarled, tossing the datapad he’d been presented with to the table and glaring at the hapless technician who’d given it to him. He overshot the mark and the pad slid off the table and onto the floor. The technician chased after it, and the Master, unapologetic, raised his voice to lecture his retreating back.
“Its blindingly obvious that if the generator turns that slowly, the amount of heat it produces will be too low to keep the pipes from freezing in the cold season. It’s an ice-world! Either speed up the cycling rate or invent an alternative means of insulating the system. I want it within the hour!” He turned his head to address Professor Linme, who stood beside him. “I shouldn’t have to explain something so intuitive,” the Master growled, as if excusing his behavior to the worried looking man.
Linme coughed. “You sometimes forget, sir, that what is intuitive to you is not necessarily-”
“You needn’t flatter me,” the Master sneered, “nor am I finished. Why hasn’t your team back-engineered the Monin engine yet? I expected plans on my desk two days ago. You have had weeks, now.”
“The task you set is incredibly complex,” Linme said defensively, “and the deadline perhaps-no, certainly overly optimistic. I told you as much at the time.”
“Nonsense. The Doctor could have done it in a day. The laboratory’s output has fallen inexcusably of late.”
Linme fidgeted. “We have, admittedly, suffered as a result of,” he pursed his lips, “certain personnel losses. On that note, we seem to be stuck on the Hestin Genetic World Bank. There’s something wrong with the sorting formula, but no one can see what the problem is. I haven’t wanted to bother you about something so non-essential when you’ve seemed so occupied of late.”
“If I recall correctly, the Doctor scraped together half the code you find yourself so reliant upon. He would have made notes. He usually did, albeit haphazard ones. Those might be of some use to you”
“He, er, did, but I’m afraid they’re in what appears to be your language.”
The Master’s eye twitched. He knew himself well enough to predict the inevitable sad trajectory of an evening’s forced reading of his former lover’s notebooks. He’d start diligently, come to sighing over the handwriting, and end up catching himself giving the books maudlin caresses, as if they were old loveletters. No, thank you all the same.
“It’s not sufficiently important to devote my time to at the moment. Have you, at least made some progress on the infernal sensor ghosts and false alarms?” Sometimes whole weeks passed between the breakdown, but several had occurred today. The security claxons had had to be muted as best they could be, rather than deactivated.
Linme had been dreading this question most of all.
“I’m afraid none, my Lord.”
“I can’t work for that noise,” the Master seethed, and true enough it distracted him beyond measure. The low, grinding rage it inspired was worse even than the noise. “The entire sabotage could only have taken the Doctor a mere day to plan and execute. How can it possibly take this much longer to unravel?”
Unless, as the Master worried on his more paranoid days, the Doctor had been secretly toying with the details of the plan for far longer, waiting for the last few pieces to fall into place. Had he pushed the Doctor into acting, or had the plan finally come to fruition, maturing on a timescale all its own? Had the Doctor’s plan been entirely devised those last days, or had the Doctor turned the elements of it over in his mind for months? Correlation and causation and coincidence twisted his gut.
Linme finally broke. “Yes, the Doctor would have it fixed before tea time, and would have the most amusing anecdote to tell you about the whole thing. He’d know to winterize the engines without you having to say a word. He’d back-engineer the Monin ship so that his was better than the original, he’d do more than patch the code, he’d write a whole new one-of course he would, but, forgive me, my Lord, the Doctor isn’t here, and none of us are him. Nor can we fill his role, even in this admittedly slender capacity.” Linme raked a hand through his hair, which seemed thinner of late. “I know you’re frustrated, sir. I relied on him a great deal, and considered him a friend, and if you don’t mind my saying so, we’re all adrift, to degrees. But blaming my technicians is no use to anyone.”
The Master had looked murderous at the beginning of this speech, but by the time Linme had finished he nodded shortly. Another man might have apologized for his behavior over the previous weeks, but the Master simply moved on to the next subject more cordially. Linme had known him long enough to properly read him. This was as both as close to self-recrimination as the Master ever publicly came and a resolution to behave differently in future.
“I intend to run Palace-wide drills in the near future , which will involve your staff. I’ve been insufficiently attentive to the defense systems of late.”
“Preoccupied, perhaps,” Linme offered.
“Unacceptably so,” the Master agreed darkly, wincing when Dalek chatter again blared from the grills in the ceiling.
“Speak of the-” Linme stopped, and swallowed, “devil,” he finished faintly, as a platoon of Daleks rolling into the laboratory, adding their shrieking to the cacophony created by the loudspeakers, and by so many heavy metal bodies rolling over the floor.
“YOU ARE SURROUNDED! SURRENDER! SURRENDER!” An eyestalk swiveled, finding the Master, and the lead Dalek’s body spun around to ‘face’ him. “MASTER! YOU ARE NOW A PRISONER OF THE DALEKS!”
“Am I? An atypically stylish entrance for you,” the Master quipped, letting bravado cover bewilderment and automatically feeling for the Time Ring he kept hidden in his pocket. It was hot to the touch, which meant it was being shorted by a Dalek interference field, and thus was useless to him.
Linme crept back towards the bunker door, but the Master could have told him it was too late for that. He could feel his face twisting into an unattractive expression of rage and fear. How had they done it? And more importantly, what were his chances of surviving the day?
***