DREAMING OF ENGLAND

by Kitty Fisher

PART ONE

The cell was small, entirely utilitarian, utterly stark. Within its confines a young man lay curled on his side, his arms wrapped tight around his thin body, his tired eyes staring at nothing. With indifferent success he was trying to imagine being somewhere far away. Though the longer he was a prisoner the more difficult the exercise became, almost as if the past was being eroded, losing its substance, so that all the memories carefully hoarded for moments when he needed to know he had once been something other than a prisoner were fading away. It seemed now that however hard he concentrated, however tight he closed his eyes, however much he wanted to obliterate the cell and his present reality, its harsh lines overlaid every recollection, like ghosting on a screen.

He twisted on the hard bunk, trying to burrow deeper into its spartan comfort. Pushing his face into his arm, he sought darkness. There, in the blackness... A memory threaded into his thoughts and he seized it hungrily, followed it into the past, into a long vanished night on Earth. There, he was looking at the stars and, without turning, he knew that the Doctor was there at his side, laughing at some inconsistency of the Universe.

Alone in the cold cell, Vislor Turlough shivered.

The Doctor.

There was comfort. Unlike any he had known, before or since. As a child growing up in an Imperial court dogged by vicious rumour and shadowed by death he had learned very early how to survive. Comfort — other than the material — had never been part of that survival. His lessons had been in who to sleep with, who to kill, who to avoid at all costs. Then out of nowhere had come the rebellion that had destroyed the Empire, sweeping the old order away, killing most of his family, all of his friends. Those who survived to be tried, lived little longer. Turlough himself had been sentenced into exile on a distant colony planet, forced into masquerading as an English public schoolboy. Comfort? The idea itself was remote.

Then he had found the Time Lord.

Found him, and given him up. It had seemed such a wonderful idea, to return home, to leave the Doctor to his travels, to leave their friendship unsullied by his own perverse longings. Only instead of a peaceful homecoming he had found a troop of guards and, after a while, this cell. They had executed his new–found brother. On the worst days, Turlough wished he had not been spared the same.

"Prisoner Turlough!"

The voice brought him upright, automatically pushing his long hair back. sitting on the edge of his bunk, fingers clutching the edge. Turlough blinked his way out of the well of memory. He focused on the guard, not looking at his face, concentrating instead at the name–tag on his uniform, reading blindly, HAGHAN–45983, again and again as he found the required response.

"Sir."

"Time for rations, stand away."

The guard was accompanied by a slave, one of those who performed the menial tasks around the prison. Turlough had met the slave's eyes only once, and the depth of hopelessness that reflected back his own face had horrified him. It had also strengthened his resolve; he wouldn't become like that. Wouldn't.

On his feet, Turlough backed up until he was against the wall. Only then was a small section of screen lifted and the tray of food slipped inside. The guard, impatient with the slave, cracked his baton across the thin back. A low cry was stifled as the slave flinched, soup spilling in slow, greasy pools from the bowl across the tray.

"Clumsy piece of shit!" The guard lifted his baton again, and the slave hurriedly pushed the tray into the cell. A second blow took him to his knees.

"Stop it!"

Turlough only knew he had spoken when he was a step away from the barrier, fists locked uselessly at his sides. Shocked, he stopped, and held still. At least the guard wasn't hitting the old man anymore.

He was staring at Turlough instead.

"So, the Imperial brat still has a voice. Commander Raman will be interested." The guard was looking very pleased with himself, almost grinning.

The prisoner blinked, but kept silent. Fear made it hard to think, difficult to breath. Every part of him wanted to beg — 'Don't tell him...' But to beg would only make it all worse than it was. If such a thing were possible. He shook his head, though no words emerged from the shrill cacophony of panic in his mind.

"Don't you like me hitting him?" Another blow fell on the bowed back. "He's scum. Just like you, only he hasn't the protection of an Imperial name." A fourth strike made the old man whimper.

"Stop it!" It was meant to be a command, but the words were only slightly louder than a whisper. "You'll kill him."

"It would be no loss. He's a lousy piece of shit, can't even serve up swill without spilling it."

Turlough curled his arms around his body. "Why be so vicious, he's just as old man?"

The grin was wide and cocky. "Why shouldn't I be?" The guard came close to the barrier, baton held between his hands. "I like it."

The answer was just as Turlough had imagined, though a sort of pain twisted his features. "You are evil."

"No worse than any of your family. You want to know something? My father was executed the year of the revolution, it took him three days to die, though my mother sold herself and all of us to try and raise enough money for a bribe." There was no amusement now, just anger. "I'd kill you myself if I could, if the President didn't have plans for you." With a hiss the barrier was resealed. "I'll be back with Commander Raman." And with a kick he was moving on, beating the slave as he pushed food into the other cells.

Turlough stood for a long time, listening to the sounds filtering back to him. Then he uncurled stiff arms and bending to pick up the tray, went slowly back to his bed. The food, awful as it was, had to be eaten; there had to be some nutritional value in the vile stuff. He ate deliberately, spoon moving to his mouth automatically, his mind elsewhere.

It had taken a month or so for Turlough to piece together a rough history of what had happened to his planet during his years of exile. Because, despite everything, he still felt kinship and more with the Trion people, it had made for depressing knowledge. The much vaunted rebellion of the people had, almost overnight, turned into a dictatorship. Every good thing the Misoans promised had turned to nothing, their cruelty and self–serving just as repulsive as the that of the Imperial Clan they had ousted. Tyranny, seemingly, was an easy option. They allowed no opposition, killing it dead whenever it arose. Slavery was now the planet's chief industry; terrorists, dissidents and criminals were either executed or, after certain chemical or physical alterations, sent to one of the vast factories run entirely on slave labour, or shipped off–world to be sold. The new army who policed this fine new world, the Custodians, were feared and hated. They trapped suspected or actual traitors, cleansing the populace and gaining the factories perfect employees at the same time.

Trion was now a planet without prisons. The vast slave market at Delohr negated any need for them. Delohr and the cells layered deep beneath the Presidential palace. Here there were death–cells, punishment cells. There was even a medical wing — though it wasn't there to cater for the prisoners well–being, far from it. No one returned from being sent there, the doctors reputed to be worse than the guards. In all of the great complex there was only one prisoner who remained, who was never sent for re–programming or to be sold. The prisoner in question was uncomfortably aware that this honour far from made him special. It did however make him very afraid.

Turlough pushed his tray back toward the door and lay back. Despair, as dark and forbidding as any he had ever known, dogged his every thought and action. He stared at the ceiling as if it was a conundrum that would unravel the secret of the universe. There was nothing else to do. Insanity had courted his thoughts; hope as much an accomplice to that madness as the fear that snared his every waking moment, as the despair and pain that had lived as his companion for every day since he had said goodbye to the Doctor. Here on Trion, it had not taken him long to learn that the only way to survive was not to think at all. Concentrating his mind on counting cracks or playing with obscure mathematical puzzles were ways of not giving in to either despair or hope, the twin faces of despair.

The regular, vicious interrogations were, less pleasurably, another.

He picked at the stained and worn grey clothing that bagged around his thin body, his skin itching as he worried about Raman. After a moment he stood and, leaning against the paint–peeled wall, shivered as someone walked over his grave. Apprehension spiked through him. Why had he challenged one of the guards, tonight of all nights? Now he wouldn't be able to rest until the nightly inspection was done. Not that the Commander and his Custodians would be late. Not tonight, not when he could gloat. Turlough's face twisted in disgust. The twice daily farrago was more an exercise in controlled sadism than any real security measure. Tonight, fool that he was, he had given that sadism justification.

Escape was such a dream. Yet, even if the multiple systems that secured the cells were somehow overcome, then where was there to escape to? Nowhere. If, by some freak chance he made it all the way to the surface and out of the palace confines, where was there to hide then? Nowhere. He fingered his hair, grown long and ragged with his imprisonment, knowing it marked him; there was nowhere for a flame–haired Trion to hide.

There was only one hope. A single, last hope that held his sanity in one piece. The Doctor. And there was only a slender chance that he could be contacted. A single, desperate chance, the key to which dug into his palm, sharp edged and really too small to invest so much into. But there had been so little to have faith in before that any hope at all was like a heady drug pulsing through his system, leaving him light–headed.

Stealing the key had been the most difficult thing Turlough had ever done. More difficult than denying the control of the Black Guardian, more difficult even than saying farewell to the Doctor. Yet here it was in his hand, a small, black and silver key. The Doctor would be proud of him — if he ever found out.

Turlough quickly wiped his coverall sleeve over his face, thankful that his race grew no facial hair; it was bad enough trying to keep clean in soapless cold water, but a beard as well would have been impossible. With rigorous determination he pushed any thought of the Time Lord out of his head. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of day–dreaming. Not now, not when there was Raman to deal with first. If that bastard suspected anything...

Sudden fear made sweat prickle on his skin; if any of the Custodians noticed anything out of the ordinary, then the plan for tonight would be over before it had begun. Standing quite still Turlough took long, slow breaths, ignoring the tightness of his diaphragm and the distinctly feeble shakiness in his knees. He blinked in the bright pervasive light; light that flooded the cell for all but a few hours a day, so strong that it was hard to rest under it, hard to do anything but yearn for soft daylight — something he had been told time and time that he would never have the privilege of seeing again.

It was nearly time. Turlough gave the electronic key one last touch for luck then rolled it up into his sleeve, making sure it was held tight and secure. If they found it, they found it. The mere thought made him cold and he shivered. It wouldn't be long now. He was listening hard.

Footsteps. Metal–toed boots harsh on the scarred floor. He couldn't count how many. Wiping his face nervously, he tried to appear relaxed, crossing his arms, leaning back against the cold wall.

"Ready for sleep, Pretty–Boy? Or do you want me to come in there and tuck you in like nanny used to?"

Fear barely hidden, Turlough glared at his tormentor's sneering face. He was backed by a few of his men, all of them relaxed, lazily predatory, their visors up so he could see their faces. He watched as Raman made an obscene gesture common to a dozen planets and his guards burst into sycophantic laughter. They loved having him here, a Prince of the Blood in their cell, an imperial punch–bag continually at their service. They despised him, and the feeling was completely mutual. Turlough raised his head, the expression on his face enough to heighten the fine–boned arrogance that never ceased to aggravate his jailor.

Raman stopped sneering long enough to open the cell, pausing while the faintly shimmering barrier disappeared. "Don't turn up your pretty nose like that, Emperor. And I hear you gave Haghan here some back–chat earlier." He tutted, pacing deliberately forward. "Just because the President has his eye on you, and we can't do anything...permanent, doesn't mean it will always be that way. Just remember, you won't be protected forever. One day he'll forget all about his little Trion toy, and then? Well, happens you might be thankful for someone like me. Or me and my boys here." He grinned back at the group, then back at the prisoner, playing to his audience. "Look on the bright side, at least I don't hate your guts on a personal level — not the way at lot of the scum in here do. Just because you're a lousy bit of Trion scum who grew up rich, pampered and thinking yourself a gift from the six Gods while the planet starved, doesn't matter to me one bit. But to them?" he gestured expansively to all the other unseen cells with his baton. "To that lot you're the scummiest piece of shit in here."

He wasn't telling Turlough anything he didn't know. If the one remnant of the Imperial family had any friends, they hadn't shown themselves as yet. Not that knowing helped, and the black–uniformed Custodian knew exactly how to hurt. Turlough opened his mouth without thinking, "They might hate me because of who I am, but they hate you because you're a moronic, sadistic..."

The sentence ended abruptly as Raman's hand whipped hard across his face. Colliding with the metal wall at the back of the cell, Turlough gasped in pain. He tried to keep his feet, but Raman had a boot out to trip him and he fell to the floor in a graceless sprawl. "What am I, boy?" Raman pressed a boot to Turlough's face. "Eh?"

Turlough shuddered, his eyes blurring with pain. When would he learn the right times to keep his mouth shut?

"Who?"

"Guard Commander, Custodian Elite corp. Sir." The words forced from his mouth tasted of ashes. But, slowly, the boot was lifted away from his face and he blinked, bringing the cell into bleary focus. It was full of Raman's guards, come to join the fun. Turlough stared at their boots. Then, somehow, he was on his feet.

Straightening cautiously he stared without expression at their features, seeing only greed and an undisguised delight at his discomfort. It was something that, tiresomely, never seemed to bore them. He fingered his cheek, feeling blood where Raman's boot had tried to push him through the floor.

In dreams, if he ignored them they went away; sometimes. In reality, it was never that easy. Raman wasn't going anywhere. He grabbed the loose fabric of Turlough's coverall, pushing him hard against the wall, bouncing him a couple of times for the fun of it. "You should know better than to call me names, scum. I can do what I want to you in here, remember that." His broad hand fastened itself hard around Turlough's throat, the thick fingers digging cruelly into flesh. "As soon as they've grown bored of you, then you'll belong to me body and soul. And, let me tell you, I couldn't care less about your soul." He squeezed tight then abruptly released his captive, watching with intense satisfaction as Turlough fought hard for breath.

Turlough shook his head, rasping out the one hope that despair had left him, "Its no consolation to me, Raman, but when the President is bored with me I'll be dead! So, unless you're even more warped than I thought, you'll just have to miss out on your fun."

"Dead? That's what you think? Think again. You see, your death might be ordered, but will it happen? Think of that Pretty–Boy. I could fake it all and keep you here for as long as I want. I've quite a fancy to have an Imperial Prince as my bed–warmer." Raman grinned in satisfaction as unmistakable, impossible to hide horror flickered over his prisoner's face. "See, I've been looking forward to your execution, and now you can too." He pushed his bulk closer, so close that Turlough could smell the dankness of his breath, the acridity of his sweat, the sickening musk of twisted arousal. "Just think, you and me for as long as I want. I wonder how long it will take for you to start enjoying it? How many of my men will fuck you before you'll do anything for me, anything to be touched by just me. Oh, that's it, glare at me. You'd like to see me dead at your feet wouldn't you?" Raman shook his head in mock pity, his voice laden with totally spurious concern. "Shame, if you'd only co–operate then everything would be so much easier."

Turlough almost spat his disgust — almost. Somehow he kept silent.

Raman tutted in disappointment.

With a grin he levered himself away and nodded at his guards. "Come on, lets get this place closed down for the night, Pretty–Boy here doesn't seem to want to play." With a last shove he turned to leave, letting the others have a couple of minutes fun before whistling them off.

Quite soon the inspection was over. The security alarm on the main doors sounded, signalling that everything was correct and that the facility was closed up for the night. Only then did Turlough slowly un–knot from the protective ball he had curled into. He eased back to lean wearily against the wall, pushing the long strands of hair away from his sweating face. He tried to be calm.

It would be four hours before he could make the attempt. Four hours. Already he ached in every bone he possessed. Not an auspicious beginning. But if he succeeded... No! He wouldn't think about success. He wouldn't.

But if the Doctor...

No! Kill that line of thought before it began.

Despairing, he wondered if it would be different if Malkon had been allowed to live. The memory of the brother he had hardly known was already blurred, though the pain of his death was still sharp, honed by guilt that he had been the one spared, the one chosen to be the representative of his family; the scapegoat. Malkon had not even been granted a glimpse of the planet that had seen his birth, his execution had taken place as soon as the ship was headed towards Trion.

They had all been fools to believe that a group as ruthless as the Misoans would grant pardon to their old enemies so easily. Turlough knew he should have, even if Malkon knew nothing and the Doctor...well, he could be such an innocent on occasion.

Turlough closed his eyes, seeing a slim man in antiquated clothes, smiling. With a rush of nausea he pushed the image away, opening his eyes wide to see the cell, to remember where he was. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of that memory, not now. All he could do was pray to any of the thousand Gods in the universe who might be listening — not one of whom he believed in — that tonight's plan actually worked. If it didn't...well, then there were other ways of escape. Far more final maybe, but better than a life of forced submission to Raman.

With a mental shrug, Turlough discarded the thought as profitless and eased himself stiffly up onto the narrow bed. The beating had been bearable. Not nearly as bad as he had dreaded. There was little energy in him, but a hour or two's sleep and he would be well enough. He felt for the key hidden in his sleeve. It's hard edges through the cloth were reassuring.

Relaxing cautiously against the wall, he groaned in relief as the lights dimmed. It was strange how it was possible to adapt to almost anything. As time in this prison went by he was becoming less, not more, afraid. It was as if the constant brutality was forcing courage from his soul, where once there had been little but self–preservation and cowardice. On a few occasions, when the pain was very bad and he thought he might never be free, the temptation had been there to give in, to try and please Raman. But not once had he succumbed. The mere thought of the Doctor enough to strengthen his resolve.

The muted light was like a balm. He sat in the shadows, the light from the corridor catching like fire on the bright red of his hair as he shifted in discomfort. He was listening to the whispers, to the distant, constant hum of the generators. He was waiting for the contained silence that showed the very dead of night.

It seemed a very long way away.

The key was in his hand, there without thought. So much hope invested in such a small object. Still, what was it the Doctor was always saying to Tegan? — brave heart. Yes, that was it, suitably bracing and stiff upper lip and enough to turn his stomach at the time. Well, it was what he needed now, despite the fact that bravery had always been something he'd shied well away from. Something he'd considered fit only for fools. Well, the Doctor was brave and yet he was not that. Idiotic, unworldly and ridiculously quixotic, certainly. A friend...

If this worked he would see the Doctor again. With that simple possibility, Turlough found that he really didn't want to die.

* * * * *

By some convoluted reason that he wasn't quite sure about, the Doctor was back on Earth, sitting in an English beach–side cafe waiting while Peri swam and flirted with various young men, all of whom seemed to find her so attractive. It hadn't really been a conscious decision to come back here, but it was the right one. He needed a holiday, time to think, read nothing but rubbish, and quietly assess the past and the future. Besides, if he needed any excuse to be here, the weather was enough; England in the height of summer was very pleasant. Very pleasant indeed, he thought, stretching his long legs out and leaning back into his chair.

Dressed in his accustomed striped trousers, braces and a plain white shirt, he fitted in well with the locals. A Panama hat shaded his pale eyes from the surprisingly bright sun; the same sun that had already tinted his pale skin a light shade of honey. His shirt–sleeves were rolled up to just under the elbow, the fine blond hairs on his arms already being burnished white in the glorious, headline making, un–English heat.

The Doctor took a sip of his tea and considered that, really, England was a very civilised place. Not that Turlough would have agreed. He jumped almost guiltily as the memory of the red–headed, arrogant Trion intruded into his thoughts. He had been most careful not to let himself dwell on his last companion. Most careful. Turlough had been everything that a Time Lord needed in a companion. Not that Turlough had seen it that way, though he had grown less self–obsessed, less arrogant, through their time together. Who knew what he would be like now, back on his home planet, the prodigal returned; the black sheep herded triumphantly into the fold. He was probably blissfully happy. Probably didn't miss his time in the Tardis at all. After all, it hadn't been an easy time. What with having to keep his true identity quiet and falling foul of first the Black Guardian, then the Tractators. No wonder he'd taken the first available opportunity to leave.

The Doctor sighed and looked plaintively into his cup. It really was most unfortunate that when he actually found someone who could understand the Tardis, was interesting enough to hold a conversation with, and who was, well, interesting, that person went off before they'd really got to know each other.

Peri, however, looked like she was going to stay forever. If she had her way, then the Tardis would be spending the next few years travelling from one pleasure zone to another. That wasn't at all what he, the Doctor, wanted. Certainly not.

And she didn't like cricket. Only yesterday he'd suggested going to see the final Ashes Test at Lord's and she'd looked quite horrified. What was there not to like in the game? It was civilised, pleasant, the perfect way to spend a summer's day.

Turlough had liked cricket. Sneaky, insidious thought. He smiled at himself, mildly amused at the way his thoughts led back so regularly to that particular young man. Yes, Turlough had liked the English game, had practised a wicked off–spin as well. But then he was, for all his alien birth, an English public schoolboy. Man. The Doctor frowned, Turlough's age had always been a question. He was far too adult to be a schoolboy. But then his life had hardly been cosseted, except perhaps for when he was very young. Since then... Just remembering the wicked brand on the young Trion's arm still made the Doctor angry.

No, it had not been easy for Turlough, which probably went a long way to explain his sharpness, his wariness, his absolute dependence on self alone. Still, that was all in the past, finding his brother must have helped.

The Doctor pulled a mint leaf out of his glass and began to shred it between his long fingers. After a moment he realised what he was doing and hastily stopped, pushing the mess into a neat heap on the table.

Must be getting depressed.

With a shake of his head he stood up and with a slight frown remembered to rummage in his trouser pocket for the right currency to leave on the table, forgetting, in his hurry to leave, that he'd already paid.

* * * * *

The ventilator grill came away from the wall with such a sharp crack that Turlough's heart leapt wildly under his ribs. Breath held tight he listened. No alarms sounded. No one had heard. He breathed again, and shakily placed the heavy square of metal onto the floor. Pausing, wiping sweating palms on his thighs, he stared at his escape route and wondered if after all the preparation he wouldn't make it. The dark space where the grill had been looked ridiculously small, yet it was as wide as his shoulders. It was. He'd measured it a hundred times over the past few weeks. And where his shoulders fitted, the rest of his body would follow.

Stretching up, he peered inside, seeing the shadowed, narrow tunnel disappear off to both the left and right, its dark length pooled with random patches of light from a series of grills like the one he had removed. He would fit, just. Well, now wouldn't be the time to discover he'd got claustrophobia.

With a wry nod, Turlough kicked off his canvas shoes and levered himself up into the gap, wriggling until his body had negotiated the tight right–hand bend and he was, all of him, in the dust–coated shaft. Moving forward by the simple method of scrabbling with knees, toes and fore–arms, he awkwardly moved along. It was more difficult than he had imagined. He had to be quiet, each shuffling move a thunder–clap to his fear quickened hearing. But no alarm was sounded, and doggedly on he went, praying softly that the route was the right one, having nothing but his own judgement to trust that this shaft would take him past the one he had marked a few weeks back.

No wonder they didn't worry about this as a means of escape, because even if you squeezed in here and managed to get out of the cells, there was still nowhere to go. The compound was too far underground to permit any real hope of reaching the surface, and if by some remote chance an escapee did get to breathe fresh air, then there was still no escape because he would have emerged in the Presidential palace. A place non–conducive to any intruder's well being.

Not that this was an escape attempt. Not in itself.

After a while the bones of knees and elbows began to complain, and the muscles of his back cramped in protest at the stress being put upon them. He gritted his teeth and crawled on. Sweat trickled into his eyes, blinding him, though there was nothing to see, the grey darkness between grills thick as fog.

He passed vent after vent, pausing to peer uncertainly at each one in turn. None of them had a thread of fabric twisted through it. It had to still be there. He'd taken a beating from Raman to risk placing it. It had to be here somewhere. Had to be. He couldn't face the thought that it had been discovered, or lost. Setting his jaw grimly, he crawled on, until the universe narrowed to the small stretch of metal before his eyes and hope evaporated in heat and dirt and despair.

When he had almost despaired, when his breath was like fire in his lungs, he found it. A single thread of grey fibre that he'd worked so hard to unravel from his cuff.

Slumping, quite still, Turlough let himself lie as tremors racked the long muscles of his body. It had been to long since he'd had this sort of exercise, too long since he had eaten anything approximating a decent diet. He felt as if he had run a marathon. But time was as much an enemy as any Custodian and he needed to move. Stirring, groaning silently he lifted his head, pulled himself the last couple of inches forward and peered out of the grill. The corridor was greyly empty. The overheads were still dimmed for artificial night and the door he was staring at led into the small communications room. If there had been energy left in his body he would have laughed with delight.

He linked his fingers through the metal grill and pushed. Unlike the one in his cell, which had been welded into place, this one was only clipped into the recess. It gave almost immediately. Pulling it back into the gap, Turlough pushed it to one side, then by way of careful wriggling, and at the cost of a fair amount of lost skin, he squeezed himself out into the corridor.

Bare feet almost silent he dropped to the floor and held still; breathing lightly, listening. Silence. Somehow, for the first time in months, luck was still on his side. Quickly, he reached back into the ventilator shaft and pulled the grill back into place. He took a long, steadying breath and unwrapped the key from the safety of his sleeve. He held it in his hand, hesitating for a moment before sliding it into the lock. Luck indeed. The door opened silently on its hinges.

The room was empty. Quiet as a ghost, Turlough slipped thankfully into the darkness and closed himself inside. A switch by the door flooded the room with a light so bright that it made him jump, for a quick moment almost blinded. Blinking, bleary eyed, he peered around. The room was full of consoles, packed with equipment. And there, in the corner, stood what he had spotted weeks before — an auxiliary communications unit.

Turlough went to his escape route. With luck, maybe, this was his way out. For a long moment he studied the complex series of controls and dials, grubby fingers skimming over the surface. Luck again; the device was the an upgrade of a model he had used years before. Well, that was better than it could have been. He frowned, then had it. Sitting down he hurriedly set up the call, aiming it at Earth. Anticipation and fear made his movements feel awkward, made his hands shake. This was where his plan fell apart, because there was no reason in all the universe for the Tardis to be within a million miles of Earth, or a thousand years of this time. Except that maybe his luck would hold.

Gods, before this past year he hadn't even believed in the concept of luck and now he was virtually praying to it. He smiled slightly as his fingers played on the panel. The rare expression lightened the sombre austerity of his face, leaving it very young under the dust and dirt. The Doctor believed in luck. That should be enough for anyone.

It took him five minutes to prepare the signal, a second to transmit it.

The call completed he wiped the co–ordinates from the recorder then slumped into the chair. Was it enough? It would have to be. If anyone could pick up that signal, then the Doctor would. If he didn't... Well that eventuality would have to be faced. Later. Now there were more pressing matters — like getting back into his cell.

A low laugh made him jump, twisting in shock towards the door. "Raman!"

"Yes, Princeling. Raman, at your service." The security commander swaggered into the room, guards with weapons at the ready behind him. He was tutting. "Naughty, very naughty. I wonder who that little message was for, and in code too, very sophisticated. Shame we knew all about it!"

"What?" Turlough was on his feet, propelled there by two sets of hands.

"Oh, we knew all about it from the moment you left your cell. For all that education you're not very bright, are you?"

There must have been hidden sensors in the ventilator shaft. Turlough cursed himself and fought against the manhandling. Face to face with Raman he stilled and somehow managed to hold the bigger man's stare, anger keeping his gaze level. He flinched though, his lids flickering, as a callused hand touched his cheek, the fingers rough against his skin, sliding into his hair, pulling hard. Raman brought them very close, until Turlough could smell the familiar sourness of his breath, see the open pores that pock–marked his skin, the small scar that disappeared into his black hair. He shivered, making the Commander smile.

"Yes, I like it when you're afraid of me. Shame that we haven't got time now, isn't it? But I've got orders about you, orders to take you up top. Bet you're glad about that, aren't you, pretty one?" Raman pulled hard on a length of bright, Trion–red hair, waiting until tears of pain swam into the hate–filled eyes. "They won't want you for long. And just wait until they send you back..."

He let go, stepping back to issue a blast of orders that had Turlough marched out of the compound and up, up to the Presidential suite itself.

* * * * *

"But Doctor, why do we have to go now?"

"Because...because..."

"See, you don't really have a reason, you're just bored." Peri followed in the Doctor's footsteps, though what she really felt like doing was standing still and stamping her foot. She liked Earth. She even liked the quaintness of this English town the Doctor seemed so fond of. What she didn't like was the idea of risking life and limb in a machine so crazy that even the wildest of science fiction writers wouldn't have invented it. The adventures they's had were enough, in fact all she wanted now was to stay where she was — with both feet firmly planted on Earth. If only the Doctor would listen.

"I'm not bored!" The Doctor dug his hands into his pockets and picked up his pace. Bored, indeed! He was never bored. Well, that wasn't strictly true, he amended virtuously to himself. He was invariably bored in High Council meetings, and occasionally during the opera; especially Wagner.

He wasn't bored today.

Out of sorts maybe, but not bored. He marched on.

Peri gritted her teeth and ran to keep up.

By the time they reached the Tardis she was out of both breath and temper. Closing the door behind her she leant on it and glared. The trouble was, the Doctor didn't appreciate the good things, amongst which she classed herself, in life. Well, plenty of others would. She'd been on this ship for four months — apparently four months too long. It was time to go back to college, anyway.

Peri watched the Doctor fiddling with the controls and tried to be objective. He looked really cute in his shirt–sleeves; nice shoulders, great ass, beautiful forearms... But he was obviously made of stone. Either that or he only got it on with fellow Time Lords. She sniffed in disgust, that would be typical. A girl needed attention. Some of the time at least.

"Doctor?"

"Yes, Peri?"

She sighed, even now he was abstracted. It made her feel as if she needn't be here — wasn't wanted, wasn't needed, wasn't in any way important to the Doctor's life. Sure, he would have died for her. But then he would have died to save anyone — that much she was sure of.

It at least made her decision easier. "I want to stay here, on Earth."

"What!"

She smiled at the poleaxed expression on his face. "I've had enough — sorry."

"But why?"

"Because..." She thought of her reasons and realised she couldn't tell him, not without sounding pathetic. "Because I guess I want to be normal again."

"Oh."

"I've had a great time, honest, but I want to stay here. Enough's enough."

The Doctor sighed, leaning on the edge of the console. "Well. Good. Have you got everything you need?"

"I'll get a bag together. I've enough money, and if I need to I can always wire Mom for some more." She paused, awkward, needing some sort of closure. "Thanks for everything."

"No, thank you for accompanying me." He stood, awkward, and made an encompassing gesture with his hand. "I hope you enjoyed it, some of it?"

The vulnerable edge to his voice nearly changed Peri's mind, but, heart hardened, she smiled widely. "Yeah, lots of it. But I don't think I'm cut out to be a space gypsy, not like you. I don't get a kick out of seeing all those crazy places. I like Earth."

"So do I." The white–clad shoulders shrugged, almost in apology.

"So come back and visit me sometime, okay?" She shuffled her feet. "Or maybe you could take me on that trip to Androzani you talked about — that place sounded great.

"Maybe I will at that." He smiled, and began to walk towards her.

At that moment an electronic beep sounded from the console.

Peri rushed to get her stuff together, even after just a few months she recognised trouble when she heard it.

The Doctor frowned at the readout. The signal showing was a simple, three times repeated Earth–style S.O.S. Yet it wasn't coming from Earth.

Hurriedly tapping in some instructions, the Doctor waited. After a moment the origin of the transition appeared on the screen.

"Trion..." The word was breathed in disbelief. Turlough's world. But...

"That's it, I'm off then." Peri was at his shoulder, clearly expecting a fulsome farewell.

"Good! Glad you enjoyed some of it at least. As they say, all good things come to an end, and who know I might catch up with you again in the future — or possibly the past." He was ushering her to the door, talking all the while. In a very short space of time Peri found herself out in the fresh air staring at the closing Tardis door.

"Well...!" This time she did stamp her foot. Well, she thought, that's the last time I get involved with a weirdo from space.

The familiar rumbling sound began and before her eyes the Tardis slowly disappeared, leaving nothing behind. Almost as if it had never been there at all. She frowned at the empty space it had occupied, then relented. She called out to the sky: "Have a good time, Doctor! I hope you don't get too bored."

Wiping a spot of moisture from her eye she turned away. Hell, there was enough to explore here on Earth, anyway.

* * * * *

Dragged into an audience chamber dominated by the linked triangles of Misos, Turlough found himself forced roughly to his knees. Arms twisted high into his shoulder–blades he could do no more then stare in frustration, fear and anger at the small square of ornate marble floor in front of his nose. He kept quite still. If he had moved, it was quite possible that the guards would have broken his arms. By accident if not design.

He first knew there was someone else in the room when the two guards stiffened, drawing a soft sound of pain from his tight–closed lips, as they inadvertently pushed his arms higher.

There was a soft laugh and an order, "Let him stand."

Turlough, pulled upright by the guards, lifted his head to glare at the President. Except that it wasn't — it was the Master.

"You..." Turlough broke off with a torn gasp as the guards reacted. His face was a mask of utter confusion.

"Yes, Chancellor Corrus at your service."

"Chancellor? No, you're the Master!" Turlough shook his head in bewilderment, the impossibility of what he saw making rational thought nigh impossible. "What...what are you doing here?"

"Waiting for you to get on and signal the Doctor." The Master smiled, like a wolf scenting blood. "It took you long enough..."

Turlough shuddered, and understood exactly what had been done to him; exactly how appallingly he had been used. "This was all a trap for the Doctor."

"Of course. One that has taken a long time to see through, but it has proved so perfect that all the time spent on this boring planet has been quite worthwhile." The Master was very happy, gloating. "You'll be glad to know that your message did get though. Very clever by the way, sending the old Earth Morse distress code, I should think that will bring the Doctor running. He is after all deliciously predictable in certain matters." A strange smile twisted around the beard–framed lips. "From what I saw, he certainly seemed to think enough of you to warrant a quick rescue trip. Shame he'll have me to meet when he gets here."

"You bastard! I could kill you..." He broke off as pain ripped through the tendons of his arms, a silent wail of despair echoing in his head.

The Master waited until the guards eased their grip. "Yes, my young red–head. Your fiery nature certainly matches your hair. I wonder what the Doctor really sees in you? I might even ask him, when he is broken and crawling at my feet."

"You will never see that."

"Won't I? We'll see. I could inform President Culver that your signal was to a renegade group of Imperialists. When the Doctor gets here he would be tried and executed, after the interrogators have dragged every tiny bit of information about the resistance from him of course."

"But he wouldn't know anything."

"No? What a shame. Then he'd die very slowly, wouldn't he. In fact, I think I might handle that interrogation myself." The Master smiled. "The President has been quite unwell, poor thing, and he seems quite happy to let me take charge. Of everything. I might just keep the Doctor for myself, torture him myself..."

Turlough forgot that he was a coward; filling his mouth with saliva he spat accurately into the complacent face. And screamed as the guards nearly tore his shoulder–joints apart.

Through the greying of his vision Turlough watched the bearded face come very close.

The master, fastidious as a cat, wiped the spittle from his cheek with a brilliantly white square of linen. The amusement was gone from his face, leaving it merciless. "Don't push me too far, boy. I don't need you anymore. I could tell your hero that you sent that signal because I asked you to. You've betrayed him before, so why not again? He'd believe me, I'm quite sure."

"No..."

"Maybe, maybe not. But I have a fancy to keep you alive until he comes for you. Of course, whether you stay alive or not is really up to your stamina, after all — you did send that signal. Your future depends on your will to live, your will to survive. Can you stay alive long enough to try and warn him? I wonder. Not that he could escape even if you did. This is one trap he won't break free of."

Weakly, Turlough gathered himself. "What about these Custodians?" He nodded at the guards. "They know who you really are, aren't you afraid that they'll reveal who you are?"

"No. They are mine. Unlike your Doctor I have no fear of my own powers. I don't crave the simplicity of humanity the way he so pathetically does. I am a Time Lord; creatures such as these are easily bent to my will."

Despair made Turlough respond, "You've never been able to control him though, have you!"

"How do you know?"

"Because I know him!"

"Oh, you think you do."

"I do! He would die rather than submit to you."

"Because his narrow morality sees me as evil? But was I always this evil? Was evil always seen to be this? There are facets to every certainty, you simply see what you want to see."

"Good is always good. And he despises you..."

There was truth there, Turlough saw it and enjoyed a brief moment of triumph.

"He may despise me now, but there is always time. Entropy works in my favour. As things fall apart, there I will be." The Master smiled. "Waiting."

Turlough curled his lip. "Who do you think you are, God?"

The Master raised a dark eyebrow. "Think?" He snorted in amusement. "You are so young. What is God? The one who controls fate." He shrugged. "And here, that is me. Everything dances to my tune. So, I don't just think I am God, I know I am." He paused, then stepped back, gesturing to the grey–uniformed Custodians. "Take him away, have him ready for interrogation in the morning."

"No!" But the guards were oblivious to both his protests and his struggles. The last thing Turlough heard as the doors closed behind him was the Master's soft laughter.

* * * * *

In his fever of haste, the Doctor silently cursed the slowness of his Tardis, whilst simultaneously patting her console and encouraging her on her way. He checked the controls for the umpteenth time, and hoped that, for just once, the old machine would do as she was asked and deliver him to the right place at the right moment. The message had to have come from Turlough. That it was so cryptic must mean he had found himself in real trouble.

When they had been dematerialising, he had been faintly aware that he should have been more concerned for Peri and her hasty departure, but the uneasiness over Peri, even the memory of her, was fleeting. Turlough filled his mind to the exclusion of everything else.

He gnawed his lip in vexation; what could be wrong? Perhaps Peri should have stayed, she might have been a help — at least in calming his nerves. But no, better to have no companion than an unwilling one. And if Turlough came back... Well, he'd have to see.

Perhaps this wasn't as serious as it looked. Perhaps. Though Turlough always did have an amazing facility for getting into hot water. The Doctor shivered. He was still in the shirt–sleeves that the far away English summer had required, but hadn't made any effort to go and find warmer clothes. Instead he stood and frowned at thin air, remembering.

After a long while he reached slowly forward and began to call up information regarding Trion. Every now and then over the last few months he'd been meaning to, yet had never got around to it. Something had always stopped him, probably the knowledge that if he let himself think about Trion then he'd find himself there. And if Turlough wasn't pleased to see him... Well, at least this way he'd been summoned and was certain of a welcome at least.

He read intently, watching the words scroll up the screen. As he read, he paled and cursed again, thudding his fist down onto the console. What a fool he'd been. He was too trusting, always had been, probably always would be, though why the young Trion had made the same mistake was a mystery. Turlough was suspicious of everything and everyone.

Normally.

But their last few adventures together had been unusual. The attraction that the Doctor thought he had hidden so well had shown itself. Quite simply, Turlough had chosen to risk signalling Trion rather than stay. He must have realised there was a possibility that the amnesty was bogus. Must have done. Yet he'd still gone. Why, when their friendship was so strong? He had said only one thing, that he'd known he couldn't stay. Why?

The Doctor muttered under his breath and began to pace the control room.

Why?

The pacing stopped with a sudden jolt as the answer came blindingly. Because he couldn't stay with the Doctor any longer. Well enough, but why? Because he was afraid of commitment? Afraid that he had misunderstood, or afraid that he was being invited into a relationship he didn't want? Some cultures would abhor such a pairing, after all it would be between creatures of different races, and of the same sex. Yet Turlough had never seemed repulsed.

Not that the Doctor had done anything.

Perhaps that was the problem, perhaps he should have made some sort of declaration. There, that sounded like an inter–planetary treaty. Not a declaration, more of an approach. Yes.

It had been a long time, but he was certain he still remembered how to go about it all. Like riding a bicycle, you were never meant to forget. Not even Gallifreyans.

But why did Turlough leave?

Now, there was a conundrum.

The Doctor slid his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. He always had liked conundrums. He grinned quickly, though it faded just a fast. He frowned at the floor. Was it love? What was love? The Doctor wasn't sure. Meeting the young man in question again might provide some answers. At least, whatever happened, they would at least meet once more, and that had to be good. If only Turlough wasn't in too much trouble.

With a shrug of his shoulders the Doctor moved to check the controls. Everything looked fine, he was there. The realisation sucked air out of his lungs. There was so much that could go wrong and he was going blind into this. He squared his shoulders and, mentally crossing his fingers, set the Tardis to materialise as close to the source of the transmission as he was able.

Before the sound of materialisation had stopped he was out of the door and in the corridor.

Where he stopped quite still, having no idea at all which way to go. Fishing in his trouser pocket he selected a bun–penny from the handful of change and tossed it up into the air, catching it deftly on the back of his other hand. Heads. Victoria seemed to wink at him. He turned right.

The underground corridors were uniformly grey, though a thin band of colour edged the floor, probably to enable someone who knew the code to find their way around. At a junction he stopped again, chewing his lip in consternation. It was at moments like this that he wished that instead of some of the Time Lords more arcane powers he had the simple gift of telepathy.

Turlough was here somewhere. He had to be.

Keeping to the guidance of the coin he turned right again, only to duck back as he heard the approach of booted feet. Guards, armoured, visored and armed. Hurriedly he began to retrace his steps, but stopped in alarm as the sound of more soldiers coming towards him left him stranded.

There was one possibility — a door. He twisted its handle and, sighing as it gave under the pressure, slipped through, closing it in darkness to lean hard against its support.

The sudden glare of light made him gasp and turn quickly. To face a trap that had been so carefully set.

"Doctor, how good to see you."

"Unfortunately, I can't say the same." The Doctor tilted his head angrily and glared at his enemy, who sat flanked by more guards. He had been herded here; how very galling.

"No, I don't suppose you would." The Master grinned, his lips stretching wide in triumph. "But you came — how ridiculously predictable."

"I'm glad to be of service." The Doctor's voice was very dry. "Tell me, did you actually set all this up to snare me? How elaborate. Though I suppose every little tin–pot would–be Galactic dictator needs a hobby."

"Doctor!" The Master looked quite hurt. "You're more than a hobby, much more. Having frustrated my plans far too often, I decided that the meddling had to stop. It was time for the old debts to be settles. And once the message was sent, I knew I had you."

The Doctor slid his hands into his pockets and tried not to look too concerned. "Out of curiosity, is Turlough still alive?"

"Yes." The single word was accompanied by a particularly unpleasant smile. "He's my lover. I asked him to signal you, he laughed as he sent the message."

"I don't believe you." The Doctor's voice was implacable; stating a fundamental, unalterable truth.

"No? He certainly adapted to my bed with very little encouragement you know; a perversely inventive..."

"Stop lying, Master."

The Master sighed theatrically. "You really don't believe me. You didn't even for a moment."

"No. What have you done with him?"

"Nothing much as yet, though he might not agree. Commander, bring the prisoner in here."

There was a door just behind where the Master sat. With great trepidation the Doctor watched the guard leave the room. That the Master was almost oozing complacency set the Doctor's skin crawling. "Are you in control of the entire planet?" He spoke more out of nervous tension than a real desire to know.

"As much as I need to be. I leave the mundane running of things to the Presidential council and they leave everything else to me. A very satisfactory arrangement. You know, I've really quite enjoyed myself waiting for your arrival. I've had a lot of time to think up what I'm going to do with you. You see, I had no doubts that you'd get here, unlike your boy here who seemed to believe you wouldn't care enough to bother. He's a strange one, not like your usual type." The Master paced until he was quite close to his prisoner and looked into his face. "Satisfy my curiosity, did you have him as your lover while he was with you, is that why you came running when he called? He says no, but he's surprisingly tough and I'm not sure I should believe any of the little he has told us. No answer? I knew you wouldn't want to tell me either. You might in the end." He stroked a be–ringed hand down his beard. "I wonder if by then I'll be interested?"

"You never change do you? Cruelty is still your greatest talent."

"How true." The Master took the pained accusation as a compliment, and gave a little ironic bow. Then he stood. "Ah, here he is."

"Turlough!"

The Trion was on his feet but only just, being held there by the guard who had been sent to fetch him. He lifted his head at the sound of his own name and stared straight into the Doctor's eyes. Emotion flared behind the opaque gaze and he straightened slightly, blinking in denial. "Doctor, no..." Suddenly despair bled from every line of his body.

"Turlough..." The Doctor, fury whitening his face, turned to the Master. "What have you done to him?"

"A bit of this, a bit of that; something old, something new" A hand rocked from side to side. "You'll find out soon enough for yourself."

The Doctor ignored the guns and moved. "Turlough?" His face was bruised, bloody and far too thin. Despite the fact that the dull eyes were somehow fixed on the Doctor, he was scarcely conscious, his head seemingly too heavy. The guard stepped away and he swayed, held upright only because the Doctor was there, supporting his light weight with ease.

The Doctor was almost incoherent with anger. "Why did you do this to him when you wanted me? Why?"

"For this very reason. Look at yourself. I think you suffer more for another's ills than you do for your own. You always were a fool."

"Why is it foolish to care for others?"

The Master smiled and gestured elegantly. "Raman, show him."

The quick movement looked so casual, but the effect was appalling; Turlough spasmed, his parched lips biting back a scream before, with a racking shudder, he fainted untidily into the Doctor's arms.

The Master was watching avidly. "See? You always were too soft."

The Doctor turned harrowed eyes to his captor. "How can you enjoy this?"

"Easily." The master sighed in contentment. "Raman, take them both to the same cell, search the Doctor well first — take off him any toys, however harmless they might look. I must go and inform Lord Culver that we have the leader of the resistance in our custody. Oh, don't hurt him too much, I want that pleasure to be all mine."

"Yes, Chancellor Corrus." Raman executed a swift salute as his master exited the room, then barked orders at his men.

The Doctor was left no choice. He ran a hand over Turlough's face, pushing long strands of hair away. It had been so short before... Four months before. The uncut red hair told of that time better than any clock. If only...

A gun touched his face and the Doctor pushed self–recrimination away. There would be time enough, later. Obedient under the level threat of the guns he carefully eased the limp body into his arms. Anger knotted inside him as his hands felt the closeness of bone to skin, none of it disguised by the worn and stained coverall that seemed to be all Turlough was wearing. Even his bare feet were bruised. The Doctor held him closer and stood up, moving off in the direction he was pushed.

He was taken far deeper into the prison–complex than Turlough had ever been taken. Down past the relative cleanliness and occasionally gleaming chrome of the upper levels, to a place that couldn't have been used for fifty years or more. Pushed along a corridor lit by a glaring overhead, the Doctor was finally allowed to stop inside a single, isolated cell. Ignoring the sharp dig of a weapon in his ribs, he carefully set his burden down on the narrow bunk before turning warily to face his captors. There was nothing he could do but go along with whatever they wanted. He knew he could cope: he also doubted the experience would be very pleasant.

Raman clearly knew it wouldn't be. He followed on the prisoner's heels into the old, battered cell. "We must be getting lucky all of a sudden, first of all Princess there and now you. Very pretty, very nice." He grinned ferally, his appreciation of the prisoners attractions an unwelcome reality. "You heard what the Chancellor said — so get your clothes off."

The Doctor eyed the guard warily, knowing he would end up obeying but still incapable of not trying a different tack. He held his hand out. "Not without being introduced, surely? They call me the Doctor, how d'you do?"

The only answer to his outstretched hand was a back–handed blow that sent him reeling into the wall. He paused for a moment to steady himself, then once more faced his captor. "Not very friendly are you?"

"Not with scum like you." There was no humour now, no playing. "If you want to keep your face looking so pretty, I'd start getting those clothes off."

"I don't think the Chancellor would approve."

"Well, maybe I won't damage your face. Maybe I'll hurt your friend here instead." A big hand closed over Turlough's mouth, fingers pinched his nostrils shut, making the unconscious figure twist sharply as air was withheld.

The Doctor, his face grim, began unbuttoning his shirt.

Raman let his hand slide away.

In very little time the Doctor's clothes were in an untidy heap on the floor. Raman kicked them all out of the door. He was smiling; a craftsman who loved his work. He stood very close and stared into the calm blue eyes. They didn't waver. The broad grin faded. There should have been, at the very least, fear.

Raman's dark eyes narrowed. "Corrus told me to search you properly, well as far as I'm concerned, a search isn't completed with just the clothes, not when a body can hide so much. You might have some sort of death capsule hidden away where the sun doesn't shine and I'd hate for you to die before your time. Go and stand facing the wall, spread your legs."

With a brief glance at the thankfully oblivious Turlough, the Doctor obeyed, his features set harshly as the Misoan ran lascivious hands over every part of his body, as fingers were laced violently through his hair and as no decency was left to him at all.

When it was over, when the guard commander had stepped away, the Doctor took a deep breath, then turned and looked him straight in the eye. "Enjoy yourself, did you?" He showed no emotion at all, his breathing was smooth and even; his skin only slightly more pale than before. When the Custodian made no reply he knew, that for the moment at least, he had won. Only a very early skirmish in what might turn out to be a full scale battle, true, but better than having lost.

Raman stared thoughtfully at the slender, naked body and regretted his master's orders. Still, there would be other times. Other times in which to break that pride. Tomorrow maybe. The thought appeased him. Though the low blow he delivered to the prisoner's belly made him feel positively cheerful. Tossing a coverall in to the cell, grinning again, he sealed the cell and left, whistling for his men to follow.

When the sound of their boots had faded, the Doctor prised himself away from the meagre shelter of the wall and picked up the coverall that had been tossed onto the floor. He held it for a moment, then began to put it on, disgusted to see that his hands were shaking.

* * * * *

Consciousness returned with all the reluctance of an arctic dawn. For a long time all thought was shrouded in cloying strands of unreality; of memory woven with dream, dream woven with hope conjured from need.

The last session with the interrogators had sapped his capacity to hope that the Doctor had not received the cursed message, that he would never come within light–years of Trion. All that nobility had been beaten from him, and all Turlough wanted was the comfort of that familiar presence.

He shifted uneasily then gasped, the mists clearing as if burned away by rays of the brightest sun as a hand gently clasped his own and a soft voice spoke his name. "Turlough?"

"Doctor!" He opened his eyes wide and feasted like a starving man on the familiar, serene face. He was incapable of speech, shocked by delight. Until he remembered exactly why the Time Lord was here. In an instant the happiness was wiped clean from his features, leaving only distress and harrowing guilt. "You came. I'm so sorry... It's all my fault! Why did you come..."

"I got your message."

"The S.O.S. Why couldn't you have ignored it? I'm so sorry..."

"Why, did you try and trap me?"

"No!" Turlough sat up sharply, wincing as the persistent pain in his head shifted up a gear.

"Then don't apologise." He smiled softly. "I would have come, you know. Even if I had known the Master was behind it all."

"I promise you, I didn't know he was involved until it was too late. He only showed himself after I'd sent that bloody signal." He chewed his lip, hesitating. "I...wouldn't have...

"Stop it. I know. I trust you, Turlough."

"I don't know why. Remember the Black Guardian?"

"Yes."

"Well then."

"That was all a long time ago, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"So."

"You make it all seem so simple." The guilt was still there, but it seemed to weigh less. Turlough closed his eyes, took a shaky breath then finally looked up. "Doctor, thank you. For everything"

The Doctor waved his hand in the air, brushing off the thanks; as far as he was concerned, all he'd done so far was cause the young man more pain. "See if you feel the same later — my presence may not have made anything better." He paused, trying to sound less despondent. "Though we'll see."

"It's better already." The thin features tried a smile.

"Really?"

"Yes." Just having the Doctor here... Turlough veered away from that sentiment as emotion threatened to overwhelm him. "When did you get here?"

"Just before they caught me." He calculated. "About seven hours ago."

"You know, I wanted you to be here, more than you can guess. Then as soon as I knew the Master was involved all I wished was that you wouldn't come here at all."

"Why?"

"I thought you wouldn't believe me, that you'd think I'd trapped you. And he'll hurt you. I'm not sure I can bear knowing that it's all my fault. I'm not sure I can bear it at all."

"I've been trapped before, yet I've always escaped. Even from the Master."

It was late, even in this old cell the lights were set for night. Through the dimness, Turlough stared down at the disconcertingly young, very earnest features, at the straw–gold hair and the warmth and the friendship that once he hadn't been able to accept. He swallowed hard, awash with misery. "No. He told me everything in intricate detail. He'll hurt you, torture you, then kill you."

"He may try to. Eventually. We'll just have to make sure he doesn't succeed."

It all sounded so easy. Turlough blinked, and wondered if such ease was possible.

"By the way, what have they done with Malkon?" The Doctor looked up, curious, then chillingly understood the silence. "Tell me."

"They killed him."

Breath hissed through the Doctor's tight closed teeth. "When?"

"Before we even got off the ship. They decided it only needed one member of the Trion family alive — I drew the short straw."

"Literally?"

"Yes."

The Doctor was horrified at the vision of two brothers having to gamble with death in such a vicious way, horrified that he was selfish enough to be glad Turlough had been the lucky one. If lucky he was. "Poor Malkon. I should have been more careful, checked that they really had pardoned you, especially as you were convinced for so long that they hadn't."

"I made that choice, not you. At the time it seemed right."

The Doctor gave a small nod. It had. "And what about the people of Sarn, I wonder if I made the right decision for them..."

Turlough hesitated. "Some of them must still be alive, and if they had stayed they'd be dead, so yes..."

Realisation narrowed the Doctor's eyes. "Tell me what happened to them."

"I only know what I've heard, I don't know anything for certain. But I believe they were all sold as slaves to the mines on Sergus IV." Turlough winced at the Doctor's expression and protested earnestly, trying to make him feel better. "Come on, anything's better than death, surely?"

"Yes! But all those people...slaves..." He shrugged hopelessly.

Turlough knew there were times he would have welcomed death. If it hadn't been for the Doctor, and that single thread of hope... Death was so final, but if it was that or a life with the Master. Death would be the kinder option. "I suppose it depends on who owns you."

"No. To live means there is at least hope. But those poor people, to be owned by another sentient being... And I doubt any slavers in the Master's pay treat their charges with anything approaching dignity." The Doctor pushed his fingers through his hair, frustration and pain etching frown lines onto his brow. "I didn't even know that Trion was a slave–owning culture." He looked at Turlough who was shaking his head. "Oh no... What happened here?"

"The Master, I think."

"I should have known." The Doctor stood slowly. He had been so wrong, so blindly certain that he knew best. So stupid as to think he could let Turlough go back home without being sure he was safe.

Turlough watched him agonizing, and wretchedly changed the subject. "Where's Peri? Ready to leap to our rescue?"

"Peri? Oh, she's gone back to Earth."

"Oh." So no instant rescue. "Better than being here I suppose."

The wry tone made the Doctor laugh. "Yes, if I ever meet her again I'll let her know what an escape she had."

"Was she a good companion for you?"

"She was fine." The Doctor smiled. "She wasn't as opinionated as you."

"That must have been a change for the better."

The Doctor fiddled with a cuff, his eyes intent on the fabric. "No. Not really."

Turlough blinked, but couldn't quite ask what needed to be asked. Instead he shuffled to one side of the hard platform that was the only bed the cell contained. "Come and sit down." He patted the place beside him; waited. Finally the Doctor looked up. After a very small pause he obeyed, resettling himself with one leg tucked under the other. His knee was brushing against Turlough's thigh.

They sat in silence, growing once again used to each others' presence. In some strange way the contact made each of them closer to equanimity than they had been since Sarn. In all their travels they had been alone for such a short time, always there had been Nissa, or Tegan, then Peri. The times they had been alone they had both shied away from seeing what their rapport meant. They were the Doctor and Companion. Anything else had been outside the limits of their self–imposed relationship. They were two friends. Travellers. Anything else was whim and whimsy, probably slightly insane. Though as they never articulated anything of this, they never knew quite how close their individual thought processes ran.

However, on the days with only the two of them in the Tardis, when their conversation had free–flowed across a thousand subjects, then they had been close. Too close. Then, Turlough had known — though what the Time Lord thought was a mystery as infinite as the Universe itself — he had known that what he wanted was too much. He had left at the first opportunity, left without care or thought of what he was going to. His brother's death had been the result. The Doctor's presence here another.

It all seemed so long ago. Turlough wondered if he would have made the same mistake if the time was given to him again. Probably, was the wry answer. The Doctor was the only person he had ever met who he cared about more than himself. He would have left him, rather than compromise whatever the Gallifreyan defined as his ethics; would have died rather than see him caged in a cell.

Though in the end he may as well have turned the key himself.

Turlough shifted in discomfort and the Doctor tutted, seeing only the physical infirmity, not the mental distress. He reached out and held one thin wrist, his touch light, careful. He remembered the pale skin as having been slightly freckled, there were only a few now, most all faded in the enforced confinement. He rubbed his thumb gently over a bump of bone, holding gently. His own bones looked robust in comparison, healthy, as if his fingers could break the fragile joint without effort. Turlough hadn't been this gaunt...

The Doctor's slow stroking of his thumb back and forth against Turlough's skin was startlingly intimate; raising up the hairs on his arms. He spoke quickly, the first thing in his mind. "Did I tell you that he plans to..." He tailed off awkwardly, somehow incapable of repeating the Master's threats, yet sure the Doctor knew them already. He took his arm back and huddled miserably over it.

"There's no need, he's told me himself often enough." Uncurling his leg, the Doctor stood to stare down at his companion. "And for a start I've seen what he's been doing to you. Very nasty." He tutted in sickened admiration, then cheered up slightly. "At least there's no permanent damage."

"How do you know?"

"Because I cleaned you up while you were out of it — seemed easier than waiting for you to wake up. I managed to get the water dispenser to work and I tore some cloth off the sleeve of this rather uncomfortable outfit..." He stopped burbling and held very still. "I had to do something. I'm not very good at just sitting around waiting."

Turlough passed a wary hand over his own face. There was no blood. He certainly felt well enough. The Doctor had healed him. He looked down at his body and shivered, imagination conjuring the feel of those hands against his skin, then almost laughed out–loud at the incongruity of his thoughts. Now was not the time nor place — if such perfection existed anywhere in this universe.

He had felt so ill. Had felt... Carefully he conducted an inventory of his self. All the aches and pains were deeply muted, the overwhelming exhaustion that had dogged him for months had lifted. Flexing his shoulders he winced but the pain was nowhere near as sharp or deep–seated as it had been. Even the throbbing in his head was bearable. His eyes went suspiciously to the Doctor. "What did you do to me? I mean, I'm not complaining, but..."

"Good." The Doctor sat at Turlough's side, trying for nonchalance but succeeding only in looking embarrassed. "I told you, I cleaned you up, at least they've let you have water in here, even if it's not as clean as I'd have liked."

"Water on its own wouldn't have done this. What else?"

"Suspicion will get the better of you one day." The Doctor grinned easily, seemingly unconcerned by the precariousness of his situation, his manner little different than if the conversation was being conducted over tea in the Tardis.

Turlough knew when he was being hoodwinked. He glared, "Doctor..."

"Well, I might have speeded up your natural healing process a little bit." He looked almost disconcerted, and asked ingenuously, "You don't mind, do you?"

Turlough shook his head in wonder that the Doctor could even ask. "Why on earth should I? I've got every reason to be thankful — I was beginning to hate waking up."

"Good! That's all right then."

"Why didn't you tell me before that you could do this?"

"There was never any need. And besides, most of the time I try and forget about it myself."

"Why?" Turlough was trying to puzzle out the Doctor's reticence.

"Because..."

"Doctor...tell me the truth?"

A long pause, then the Doctor spoke softly. "It started because it brands me as different, as alien."

"What? Alien where, not Gallifrey, surely?"

"No, Earth. You see I have tried, very hard, to be human."

"And that matters?"

"Yes, stupid isn't it, spending so long with another race that you want to become one of them." He sighed.

"I always felt very superior to Earthlings when I was there, I've learnt to change my mind since then. Would you have felt different if Time–lords played cricket?" Turlough's pale eyes teased almost shyly.

"Who knows." The Doctor's reply was abstracted. "And, more importantly, somewhere along the line I learnt that I can't save everyone."

"Someone died?"

"Too many people." He sighed. "But one particular one, when I was young and believed I was going to change the world. That one death showed me differently, and I decided that what I had wasn't a skill, it was a curse, a half–measure, nothing else. I've been very stubborn about that belief."

Turlough reached out hesitantly, and briefly touched a grey–clad arm. When the concerned eyes met his own he spoke very slowly, the question so important he could hardly find the words. "Now that you're betting back into practise, I hope you can perform the same trick on yourself."

"Oh, I expect so." The Doctor straightened his shoulders and tried to sound positive, though he couldn't quite meet Turlough's intense gaze. He shrugged, then answered the silence, "Unfortunately, it doesn't stop it hurting at the time."

"Can't you just...magic the pain away as well?"

"No. Certainly not with the Master in charge — he'll stop me if I try. That's the trouble with having one of my own people as an opponent — he knows all the tricks."

"What a pity." It would have been good to know that the Doctor was immune to the Master and his cruelties. "Can he do the same? I mean heal people."

"No. I was different."

Being different on Gallifrey where to conform was all. No wonder the Doctor despised his skill. "Not that the Master would have used it."

"Not to heal, no."

Turlough briefly wondered how the Doctor's skills could be used for anything but healing, then decided he didn't want to know.

He wiped a slightly unsteady hand over his face and stared at the Doctor, frowning. "They've taken your clothes!" His voice held a mixture of outrage and realisation.

Picking at the rough fabric of his prison coverall, the Doctor agreed. "Prison issue for everyone."

The Doctor looked different, less...less like a Time Lord perhaps. Though that wasn't true, for that easy grace lent the shoddy uniform a spurious glamour that was unmistakeable. But all the same... "Why did they do that?"

"I think they thought I'd got a dematerialisation unit hidden in its seams. Never mind, I've got more clothes in the Tardis."

"I liked that coat!" Turlough protested. It was easier to complain than point out that the likelihood of seeing the Tardis again was rather remote.

"So did I. Still, you can understand them being wary; an unarmed man is a dangerous proposition."

Turlough ignored the attempted humour and frowned, recalling his own entry into the cells; the body–search had not been pleasant. That the Doctor might have endured the same, or worse, was loathsome. Not that he voiced his concern, there were some things it had always been difficult to discuss with this so very private person.

For a while he watched as the Doctor's long legs carried him around the small cell, his pacing almost silent in the soft canvas shoes he had been given. After a while Turlough swivelled round so he was sitting properly, his bare feet touching the stained and pitted metal floor. A floor he didn't recognise. In fact the whole cell was unfamiliar, as was the smell of damp. "Where are we?" Turlough asked.

The Doctor shrugged. "Isn't this where you were kept before?"

"No, this is older, dirtier." He looked around properly. The cell was similar to the last one, it was perhaps a little bigger, though still not enough to house two in any comfort. Not that comfort had been attempted. He concentrated, listening. Apart from the faint background noise of machinery, there was silence. "I don't think we're in the compound with the others. I wonder why?"

"I don't think I'd bother."

Turlough looked up at the Doctor's face and grimaced. "I can't help it — curiosity about my future was always one of my failings."

"I'm sure the Master will let you know what he has planned soon enough." The Doctor stopped pacing and went to slide his hands into his pockets, then tutted when he found there were none. He crossed his hands behind his back instead. "Though hopefully now that I'm here, he'll leave you alone."

A sharp wave of anxiety left Turlough giddy; that possibility worse than anything that might happen to himself, as bad in fact as his worst nightmares — the refining of which he'd been practising since coming under Raman's care. He looked down at his hands remembering, trying not to think of the Doctor strapped into one of Raman's toys.

It wouldn't be long before the Custodians came to take one or both of them for interrogation. He had no doubt that the Master would delight in destroying the Doctor piece by piece. Almost without realising, he reached out a hand and took hold of the Doctor's arm; reassuring himself with the life and strength he could feel under the rough cloth. It was hard to remember that this was a Time Lord; that he was so old, possessed of such arcane knowledge. Sometimes it was hard not to see him as an equal.

"Doctor, why does he hate you so much?" The question slipped out before Turlough could stop it and he cursed himself as the fair head dipped, hiding any expression from prying eyes behind the fall of his hair.

"Because we are so different. Because I despise everything he stands for."

"I know that, but it must go deeper. He hates you so thoroughly."

"I used to wonder what I'd done to deserve him as an enemy, but I suppose to him it makes sense." The Doctor spoke almost to himself, his eyes fixed on a darkly stained patch of wall. Then he seemed to shrug, he turned, his eyes meeting Turlough's once more. He moved and crouched at the Trion's side. "Can you stand a confession? Once upon a time, a long way away, I thought I loved him."

"What!"

"Unbelievable, isn't it?" Shame was there, along with remembered misery. "He wasn't always a renegade, you know. He was a brilliant student with a glorious future. He had the whole of society at his feet but gave it all up, because he wanted nothing but power." He paused, then looked up, a wry smile touching his face with melancholy. "Not only did I think I loved him, I was his lover."

"You were what...?"

"Shocked? I'm surprised at you, it must have been all those years on Earth that's given you such outmoded ideas of morality."

"No!" Turlough held both hands to his head. "That's not what I mean. It's not that you could fall for a man, though yes it is... Oh, hell! But him?"

"Ah, well. My only excuse is that he was different then."

"Really?" Turlough's lip curled in disbelief and he crossed his arms.

"Really." The Doctor shifted, sitting on the bed which creaked as he settled. "At least I thought so. Maybe he changed because of me. Maybe I deserve all his hatred."

"You didn't create him, you would never encourage someone to do evil. He hates you because you are everything he would like to be."

"I doubt that very much. But thank you for defending me."

Turlough looked embarrassed. Pleased though. "There's nothing to defend..."

"No? I used to think that the Master was my mirror image, that he was the balance against which I was set." The Doctor gave a small laugh, and he looked less tense. "Now I don't know. And don't you think you should be getting some sleep, I doubt if they'll leave us alone for much longer."

"I'm all right." The tone was reminiscent of the sullen boy who had joined the Tardis so long ago.

The Doctor sighed. But truth had to be told. Especially here, where the Master might try and use any knowledge in his power as a means of humiliation and destruction. He looked across the small distance to where Turlough sat, his shoulders hunched miserably. The thin, haughty, bruised face was as appealing as ever. Ridiculously so. Chemistry was such a strange science. "Don't despise me because once upon a time I was too ignorant, too spell–bound to know any different. It was more infatuation than true love, though I didn't know the difference then."

Ashamed that his surliness had forced such a confession, Turlough shook his head. He was truly contrite. "It's your concern, not mine. I'm sorry I..."

"Don't. I had to tell you. He might have told you himself — with a different interpretation of course."

Turlough nodded, a question burning through the exhaustion in his mind. He asked it obliquely, "I somehow never imagined you...like that."

"In love?"

"No, making love." There, he had said it. He almost blushed.

"Oh, I do that from time to time." The Doctor smiled and warmth suffused Turlough right down to his toes. "Once or twice every hundred years or so." The smile broadened to show he was teasing.

"I thought Time Lords, well, didn't."

"They don't, not much. But some of the things the Master taught me were actually worth knowing. I'm not like him though, I only make love when it is love. Sex on it's own doesn't interest me at all."

"No?"

"Not on its own." He paused, then asked, "Will you come back and travel with me, if we get out of this?"

The non sequitur made absolute sense. Turlough took a deep breath, knowing exactly what was being asked, said, understood. "Yes." There was no hesitation.

"Good!" The Doctor squeezed Turlough's fingers, his mouth open as if to say more, then he noticed the drawn exhaustion of his companion's face. He changed the subject as if what they were talking about was not so monumentally important after all. "I think it's time to get some sleep."

"But..." Turlough wanted to keep talking, to be sure that the Doctor was real, that he was no longer alone.

The Doctor smiled. "I know. But there'll be plenty of time to talk, and I'm certainly not going anywhere."

"Can you read my mind?"

"Just your face. Now, I think I'll take the floor."

Turlough was on his feet. "No you won't, I will." He was quite obstinate, though slight unsteadiness ruined the effect.

The sound that came from the Doctor was definitely a laugh. "You never were very good at taking orders."

"No, not when they're idiotic." His voice was slurring.

The Doctor uncurled and stood very close to his companion. He was smiling slightly, his face serene. "We could always try and share the bed."

It was a lovely idea. But... "But the Master..."

"Won't be taken in if we pretend not to know each other. And at least that thing does have a mattress of sorts, which the floor doesn't."

Turlough looked into the confident eyes and the words of dissent died on his tongue. He shrugged. "May as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. Come on, you get in first — I take up less room."

The Doctor busied himself in the task of lying down. He pressed his back up against the wall, holding the moth–eaten blanket up so that Turlough could slip under it, his back in turn pressing hesitantly against the Doctor.

With a squeeze, they just fitted.

Giddy with fatigue, Turlough closed his eyes. The gentle breath scudding past his ear was the most reassuring sound he had ever heard. He didn't care if that security was entirely illusory — it was here now. He sighed, body relaxing. "'night, Doctor."

"Good night, Turlough. Sleep well."

Suddenly drowned by exhaustion, the Trion was almost there. He could almost have believed that the sensation of a solid arm curling gently around his waist was part of a dream. Except that dreams didn't come as good as this. He smiled and shifted slightly, finding fingers close to his own, lacing their separateness together, holding on as if the touch could ward off tomorrow.

* * * * *

They were woken by the rush of the force–field being switched off. Turlough was standing up almost before he heard laughter. The Doctor with great calm merely sat and stared at the intruders, for all the world as if he was quite in control.

Raman couldn't have cared how haughty the prisoner was. He was still laughing at the picture they had made curled up together on the bunk. "That's one way to keep warm, such a shame these new quarters are so nippy. We considered somewhere warmer, then decided there was no point wasting heat on you." He laughed and raked his eyes over Turlough. "Tell me, what's the Trion like to fuck? I've had my eye on him since he arrived; I've always fancied a bit of Imperial arse."

"I wouldn't know." The Doctor swung his legs off the bed. "He makes a splendid cup of tea though. I don't suppose there's any on offer now?

"You'll be asking for breakfast next!"

"Well, muffins would be nice. English, not American, please."

Raman slammed his baton against the wall. The echoing crash made both prisoners jump. "Shut up. And get yourselves moving, the Chancellor wants to see you."

"You only had to say so." The Doctor gracefully rose to his feet. He was about to say something else but a huge hand shoved him through the doorway.

"Get on with it. I haven't got all day!"

There were four other guards waiting to act as their escort. Their hands were cuffed before them, then they were pushed and bullied to the end of a corridor that had building waste scattered down its length, cables hanging loose from its high ceiling and flickering lights. Damp showed wetly across the floor. They had to be a long way underground, far away from the normally inhabited areas of the complex. At the end of the long corridor was a single door. One of the guards rapped on it, then opened it without waiting for a reply.

"Good morning, Doctor." The Master was seated at a monolithic desk, far in the corner of a large room. The same smell of disuse and decay was here as was in the corridor and the cell they had been taken from. "I trust you found your new quarters uncomfortable?"

"Oh, I slept very well, thank you."

"Did you? What it must be to have so able a bed warmer." The Master turned his gloating gaze to Turlough. He frowned. "Doctor, I thought that the only remnant of your skill was your name, but he looks almost healthy."

"Better than yesterday, anyway."

"But I thought you found your talent distasteful, or dishonourable, or some such stupidity."

"Disconcerting, maybe." The Doctor answered warily, afraid of what this curiosity might mean. "It got me into enough trouble with Gallifrey before now."

"Yes, I know you for a meddling fool, but this was pure energy transference, not just simple physicing. Boy!" He stared intently at Turlough. "Do you know how honoured you are?"

"Yes."

"I wonder. I suppose its possible he's opened up to you, he's always had a soft spot for his lovers. Doctor, is it true? Have you bared your soul, shown Turlough the misery that lies in its depths? Have you explained the reasons you wander space like a vagrant. Now, did you share your innermost thoughts whilst making love, or was it after you forced yourself to heal him?"

"If I've told Turlough anything, its none of your business."

"Oh, but it is. Everything about you is of great interest to me. Think of yourselves as rats in my laboratory; I'm the scientist about to study you, see how you react to certain stimuli."

The Doctor interrupted before he could go on. "For goodness sake! Why don't you just let Turlough go, try your experiments on me." He stared the Master in the eye, close to challenging. "I'm sure I'll be just as much fun on my own."

"Do you really? I don't know how you can be such an innocent, after living as long as you have. After knowing me as long as you have..." The Master shook his head.

"But he can mean nothing to you!"

"Can't he? When you would clearly do anything to save his skin? Watch this. Raman, go and stand by the Trion."

Swallowing nervously, the Doctor watched with narrowed eyes as the guard went to stand close at Turlough's side. He glanced at the Master, who was sitting back, a faint smile of complacency imperfectly hidden by his beard. "What are you doing?"

The Master shrugged. "Showing you why I want both of you here; why I'm so glad I kept the boy alive."

"You don't have to demonstrate anything, I believe you." Raman was already grinning, holding Turlough immobile in his grasp. The Doctor went to move but two other guards were there, gripping his arms, ruthlessly holding him back. "Master, there's no need for this!"

The Master smiled and spoke very smoothly, "Raman, give the Doctor more work to do; hurt the boy, hurt him quite badly."

The Doctor only had time to shout a despairing, inchoate denial before the guard commander held a small device to Turlough's shoulder and the thin body convulsed. A long, appalling scream ripped through the room. The Doctor fought with the hands that held him, watching in horror as the Trion sank in slow, wrenching agony to the floor.

"Thank you." The Master smiled at the guard commander, who stood back, leaving Turlough curling into a ragged heap. He then nodded at the Doctor's guards to release their hold.

The Doctor almost fell as the hands let him go. He scrabbled to Turlough's side and touched a hand that flinched under the hesitant contact. "Turlough..." He whispered the name and slowly the vicious tightness eased and a harrowed, bone–white face turned towards him.

"Doctor?" The word was a whisper.

"Yes, it's all right." He held the thin shoulders and tried by force of will alone to make his word true.

"He won't die." The Master was on his feet, walking around the desk to watch the display with all the curiosity and salacious interest of a voyeur. "Though I'm sure you could make him feel less like he's going to, if you tried."

"No." Dazed, but somehow aware of what was being planned, Turlough was fighting to sit up. The pain was fire in his nerve–endings, but this was worse. His voice slurring, almost unrecognisable, he begged, "Doctor, don't do what he wants. Don't!" If the Doctor gave in to this, then the Master would have him. He would have won. "Please!"

The Doctor was shaking his head. He held Turlough still, awkwardly supporting his body, compassion and reflected pain clear on his shocked features. He turned to the Master "I know you want to hurt me, but why do you have to do this as well?"

"You know why."

"Because you are twisted and warped beyond redemption. I wish I had never set eyes on you."

The Master shrugged. "Luckily, your wishes are about as valuable as Pelean gold–dust. Raman, it obviously wasn't enough, do it again."

"No!" The Doctor shouted the word. Then, when the guard stayed away, he took a deep breath and in a dull voice asked the question the master had been waiting for. "What do you want?"

"Heal him, I want to watch."

"I..."

"No!" Turlough was fighting to lever himself away from the Doctor's grasp. He got his feet under him and suddenly was upright and without thought was launching himself at the Master.

The surprise attack took them both to the floor in a sprawl. Turlough's bound hands were tight around the Master's neck, his fingers buried under the silky beard. Blind and deaf, his being focused on the strength in his fingers, he squeezed.

He was allowed one moment where the possibility of triumph danced into his brain, then the guards were there, dragging his hands away and suddenly he was thrown hard onto the floor. There were two seconds when he knew what was about to happen, two seconds when his eyes tried to find the Doctor. Then the guards were upon him.

Given no chance to intervene, the Doctor could only stand and fight uselessly at the hands restraining him. He was almost screaming himself, shouting at the Master, who was being helped up off the floor, to stop the beating, to show some mercy. It was all useless.

The only mercy shown to Turlough was that unconsciousness came far sooner than they intended. Even then, only when he lay still did the guards cease the beating and back away. After a moment of sudden silence the Master dusted himself off and went to stare at his assailant. The boy was covered in blood, his clothing torn. The Master gave the body a sharp kick, but there was no response.

He turned and gestured to the Doctor. "Come here."

Tight in the guards hands, the Doctor had no choice. Pushed to the ground he was forced to kneel.

The Master reached down and touched the long throat, feeling the fast pulse that beat erratically under the fine skin. "Your prot?g? has more courage than sense. I suppose you taught him that." He fingered the Doctor's cheek and smiled as the light touch elicited a flinch. His voice was slightly roughened but otherwise he showed no effect from the attack. "I could do far worse to him. Far worse."

"Let him go, he's done nothing to you." The Doctor's eyes were dull, his attention fixed obsessively on the sprawled body. He ignored the touch against his skin.

"There is a tribe on Vazia where they consider red–hair to be a sign of a blessing from the gods. They take boys born with this auspicious sign and geld them with a single iron blade, then, if they live..."

"Stop it!" Sickened, the Doctor looked away.

A hand turned his head back. "No? Don't you think Turlough would like it there? I believe each boy only has to service ten men a day, hardly overwork, is it?"

"Bastard..." The doctor hissed the word through clenched teeth. Sweat was beading his skin, dampening his hair where it lay against his temples.

"No, perhaps you are right; the simple plans are often the best. I'll just kill him. Of course, I'll still have you. I suppose I might keep him alive long enough to watch me take you."

"Please..." The word forced itself past the Doctor's dry lips. He was shivering.

"What would you do to save him?"

The Doctor couldn't meet those triumphant eyes anymore, he bent his head, staring blindly at the deep black of the Master's robes, seeing the way light played on the weave, seeing in the pattern the image of Turlough destroyed.

A strong hand took hold of his chin, forcing his eyes up. "What would you do?"

Defeat dulled his voice. "What do you want me to do?"

The Master sighed in pleasure. "Give yourself to me. Come to me and do whatever I want."

"Yes."

"Willingly?"

"Yes."

"Then dine with me tonight."

The Doctor shivered. "And what else?"

"Whatever I feel like."

Swallowing on the dryness in his mouth, the Doctor asked without hope, "For tonight only?"

The Master laughed at the arrogance and triumph made him lenient. "We'll see. But for now, yes."

The Doctor forced himself to nod, to mouth the simple word of agreement. He had to look away from the dark mockery. "Let me go to him?"

"Of course. Oh, didn't I tell you? You have to heal him first."

"Yes." The Doctor winced very slightly.

"I want to watch."

A nod.

The Master sighed happily.

At a command the guards pulled him to his feet and unlocked the cuffs from about his wrists. For a moment he stood, dazed, then went to kneel at Turlough's side. The Trion was seemingly lifeless, though he still breathed. Blood was drying, thick and dark on his face. With one dismayed glance around at his audience, the Doctor bent back to his task, pushing them from his mind, trying to ignore the presence of the Master who was watching every move

The healing was hard. He held a hand close to the fine bones that formed the Trion's haughty face. Slowly, after a long shudder that sprang sweat from every pore of his body, a soft grinding sounded and the indented, broken cheek–bone lifted, the skin closed, turning from red to pink, then finally to healed. The Doctor breathed out, sweat darkening his coverall, trickling unheeded down his face. He was shaking from tension, from the need to do this quickly, from the intrusion of prying eyes watching what was for him almost more intimate than sex. Turlough shifted uneasily, a hand touched him and the shadows held him close. Two fingers were bent unnaturally and the Doctor held his own above them, feeling with his mind along the broken bone and crushed tissue, easing the trauma, healing. Ribs were cracked; worse. They slid back through skin, a bone–shard cleared a lung, the puncture closed. The Doctor worked on, sweat blinding him, eyes closed with effort until the worst of it was done and Turlough slept, his face eased finally of the deep lines of pain. The Doctor knelt back on his heels. He swallowed dryly, very thirsty. And so very tired.

He stroked an unsteady hand through the long, bright red hair, seeing the pride that was there even in sleep. So much pride. Too much, perhaps. Still, he wasn't to know how this bargain had been cast. Wouldn't, if the Doctor had any say in matters.

There were footsteps behind him and without ceremony he was hauled to his feet, the room spinning giddily around as exhaustion trapped him. Tiredly he snapped at the guards, "Don't you ever just ask?"

Raman was at the Master's side. "Why should we?"

"Why indeed." The Doctor nodded, as if his own question had been quite absurd.

"That was very edifying, Doctor."

"Glad you enjoyed it."

"I did, very much." The Master crossed to his side, looked hard into his eyes. "Remember your half of the bargain."

The Doctor nodded weakly. "Yes."

"I'll send guards for you when I'm ready." The Master consulted the chronometer tucked into a fold of his robes. "You've got about five hours, get some sleep, I expect you to stay awake whilst talking to me."

"I'll do my best."

"I know you will — I'll make sure of it."

* * * * *

The return to consciousness was so smooth, so relatively pain free that for a long blissful moment Turlough believed he had been dreaming. He opened his eyes slowly, wincing as the bright light set his head throbbing. But the cell was the same one; battered, damp, barren. It hadn't been a dream. He lifted his head and propped himself on one elbow; seated awkwardly on the floor, deeply asleep, his head resting on an arm folded across the side of the bunk was the Doctor.

Levering himself upright, Turlough frowned as he deliberately recalled the last he remembered of being conscious; the terror, the appalled knowledge of what the Master planned, the feeling of the master's throat in his grip and then, just simply pain. He held his hand up and flexed the fingers. They were stiff, certainly, but they worked. Nothing was broken. Yet he could clearly remember one of the guards grinding it between his combat–boot and the floor. He had heard the bones crack and splinter. Now it was fine. Grubby, certainly, with dried blood incompletely washed off, but whole. His eyes slid to the Doctor and he reached out the hand, touching the fall of pale hair very gently, wishing harder than he'd ever wished anything that somehow that fatal message had never arrived; that the Doctor was now safe and sound on some far and distant world.

Almost as if stirred by the thought, the Doctor lifted his head and smiled sleepily, his eyes deep–shadowed with exhaustion. He cleared his throat, though when he spoke his voice was still rust–edged. "Hello. Are you all right?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Such delightful manners. You never used to be this appreciative!" He was faintly amused, the skin around his tired eyes crinkling.

"No, I was an ungrateful brat, wasn't I?"

The doctor considered, his head tilted to one side. "A touch surly maybe."

"Surly?"

The Doctor nodded. "At the beginning."

"How unpleasant for you."

"No, not really. You always had other qualities."

"Name them." Turlough stared in disbelief.

"One day." The Doctor began to smile but the expression faded. "One day when we're far away from here. I don't think our surroundings would do what I want to say justice." He shifted and climbed clumsily to his feet, easing the shoulder that had been twisted while he slept. He hadn't meant to sleep at all, but once he'd sat down... Well, he had been very tired; the weight of sleep pulling him in before he could really do anything to stop it. He remembered waking, the tentative feel of Turlough's finger's, the stark expression that had wiped clean from the thin features almost before he'd had time to register its presence. "What were you thinking about when I woke up?"

Turlough shrugged, his eyes guarded. He hesitated, then clearly decided to tell the truth. "I was wishing that you were safe; a long way away."

"And let you go through this alone?"

"I was only ever a lure to get you here." Turlough curled his arms around his knees, continuing almost on a different tack. "Did they watch?"

"When?"

"When you did this." He held up his unmarked hand, twisting it, flexing the fingers before letting it fall back to clasp his elbow tightly.

"Yes."

Something else to be sorry for. Turlough tasted the bitterness of guilt, saying nothing. He was startled when immediately the Doctor was at his side, perching on the side of the bunk, his hands strong around Turlough's arms. "You shouldn't be sorry for anything. You need all your strength to get through this. We are here, somehow we will get away. Don't waste time and energy regretting something that I wouldn't change."

"What's this, the Companion's pep–talk?"

"No." The Doctor shook his head. "Can't you understand that if you had died here, alone, then I would never have forgiven myself?"

"So you think it better that we die together?"

He relaxed his hold slightly, giving Turlough a little shake, humour finally lifting his spirits. "No, I think that two minds are better than one and between us we must be able to come up with a way out of this. Besides, if the Master makes me heal you often enough, then I'm bound to get over my phobia, aren't I? Call it aversion therapy."

"Oh, I'll tell him that shall I? Arrange a couple more sessions with the guards." Turlough was almost grinning at the stupidity of their conversation; this dark humour was better than despair.

The Doctor, despite having started this attempt at lightness was suddenly serious. Desperately so. "No, I don't think I would like that." It had been so hard to have to watch, not knowing if at the end of the orgy of violence the Trion would be alive or dead. He shook his head a spoke with deep intensity, "I'll try and keep him away from you, I promise."

Turlough almost spat. "How, by presenting yourself as a sacrificial victim? Do you think I want that." He frowned as a strange expression passed over the Doctor's open face. Realisation was a cold hand gripping his lungs. "Doctor, what have you promised him? Doctor!" He pushed the hands that still held him away, taking hold of the Time Lord's shoulders tight with his own, forcing compliance, forcing their eyes to meet.

There was a long silence. Into it, Turlough whispered his horror, "No."

"He was going to..."

"...kill me."

The Doctor shook his head. "Yes." He swallowed, his face pinching as he told the truth. "Eventually." He reached forward and gently cupped his palm to the fine line of Turlough's jaw, feeling the smooth skin, the beat of a pulse running fast under his fingers. Pressed, he stated the simplicity of his need. "I couldn't let him."

Turlough took the hand in his own and pulled. Suddenly they were so close that it was as if the dark–lashed blue eyes filled the cell, the universe. Their breath mingled, warm in the cold air, clouding slightly where it touched. Static was suddenly prickling the fine hairs on their skin.

With a sigh as soft as a wish, the Doctor tilted his head, closing his eyes as lips met his own, their warmth indescribable. After a moment he was pulled closer, shifting awkwardly along the narrow bed in a search for contact, for touch, for the simplicity of nearness. As arms were wrapped around him his own found their home and they held close, sighing as the kiss deepened, became suddenly shocking as their tongues met, the equal hesitancy an arousal that killed all doubt, all thought, all self.

After a long while they broke apart, still holding close but needing to stare into each other's eyes, seeking and finding truth as it had never been before. When the Doctor tried ineffectually to smile, Turlough buried his despair in the dark safety between the Doctor's shoulder and neck.

Rubbing his cheek against the red hair, the Doctor sighed. To have found this now, when it was all so hopeless. The Fates must be laughing so loud. He closed his eyes, every sense touching the man in his arms, his every need focused on him, his every emotion. This was passion, unlike anything he had ever felt before. Even when he was young, when he had wanted the Master beyond sanity, it had not been like this. Perhaps, without ever knowing, this was what he had been searching for all his life. A singular love. Quite unlike the all–encompassing love he felt for Universe, his Companions, life itself. This was one love. A singular love. He sighed.

Turlough lifted his head, cautiously peering at the Doctor's face. "You all right?"

"Perfectly. Relatively speaking you understand." This time the smile worked.

They looked at each other and in silence they understood the simplicity of it all. The complexities they could take a life–time to fathom. One day.

"So." Turlough sniffed, wiped a hasty hand across his eyes, and encapsulated their problem in a nutshell. "So, now all we have to do is escape."

"Indeed. Any ideas?"

Turlough shook his head.

"Oh well, I'm sure something will come along. I wonder what the time is."

"Why?"

Why indeed... A pit seemed to open up in the Doctor's belly and fill slowly with ice. Time was passing and the Master would be waiting.

The silence went on too long and in the end Turlough asked, his voice quite desolate, "What exactly have you promised him?"

"Only what I had to."

"What exactly!"

"Me. Willingly."

"Damn him!" Turlough took hold of the Doctor's face, his fingers running into the fine hair. "Why? What did he threaten to do to me that was so bad you agreed to this?"

"Destroy you, sell you." The Doctor's voice was unsteady. "Do you want to know how? I certainly don't want to remember it. Do you really think I should have refused him?"

"Yes."

"Don't be a fool!"

"I'm not. What has agreeing to his demands got you, probably worse treatment that he threatened me with."

"I don't have red hair..."

"What?"

"Something the Master said... Turlough, I will be fine."

"Thank heaven for small mercies." Sarcasm dripped from Turlough's tongue. "And should that make me feel that it's all right? You're just going off to be raped and Christ knows what else by person who hates you most in the whole of space and time, and I'm supposed to sit here and not worry? Well, I've got news for you..."

"You're forgetting one thing." The Doctor didn't deny the Master's intentions, he simply removed the hands that were digging into his skull and held them tight, his expression close to pity. "He wants me to be willing, so it won't be rape."

"Now who's being a fool!"

"Oh, Turlough. I had no choice." He was pleading.

"Do you want to go?"

"No! But I'm not going to allow him to hurt you again. Not if I can possibly prevent it. I need you alive."

It was different argument to counter, but Turlough tried. "Look, surely if you just say no..."

"He'll do as he threatened. The Master doesn't bluff, I learnt that a long time ago." The Doctor leant forward and placed a gentle, almost impersonal kiss on Turlough's face, just to the side of his mouth. "Trust me."

"I think you are the only person I have ever trusted in my life." Turlough dropped his eyes, intently studying the hem of his cuff. "I just don't want to lose you."

"Nor me you. But I have to go. Quite soon I should think."

He suddenly looked very tired, his skin pale and thin–stretched, darkly shadowed around the eyes. Turlough hated himself, but he nodded, forcing all the screaming doubts to the back of his mind. "Just promise me one thing."

"If I can."

"Make sure you come back."

"He won't kill me you know. Not tonight, if ever. It's not really my death he craves so badly."

"No." Turlough closed his eyes and leant into the warmth, holding the blood and bone and reality tight as if indeed this was the last he would see of it, the last he would feel of it. He shuddered as strong arms held him tight and spoke, his voice uneven, half muffled by the grey cloth covering the Doctor's shoulder. "When I was alone here, I thought about dying. When I could think of no way out, when I believed there was no way I could ever get a message to you, then my only solace was to dream of ways to die." He felt the Doctor wince. "It was a cosmic joke on me, because you see for most of my life I've dreaded the very thought of dying, I would have done anything to save my own life. I even played along with the Black Guardian in an effort to live. It took me a long time to learn that there are worse things than death. Far worse." He straightened. "Clearly the Master knows that too."

"Oh, he knows it. He probably patented the concept. No, I don't think he will kill me."

"What he's going to do might be worse."

"I don't suppose so." The Doctor spoke bracingly. "I've been around a bit you know, the Master isn't the only one to have had a go at me!"

"No, of course not." Somehow they were both trying to lessen the dread that the immediate future held; to chart a way past it. "And if he wants to use me as a tool against you, then he's bound to send you back."

"Yes. You never know, he might only want to humiliate me tonight, show me who's boss. I might only be gone for a few hours."

Their smiles dimmed. "Doctor, if it isn't like that, well, if..."

"If the worst comes to the worst!" The Doctor prompted with a flare of dry humour.

"Yes. Then I'll have to say this now." Turlough was wide–eyed, somehow afraid when he hadn't been afraid before. "I..."

Footsteps sounded loud outside their cell and his confession died on his lips. The Doctor stood and looking down smiled quickly, sadness touching the attempt. "I know, don't worry, I know."

The cell was opened and the guards was there. It was time. The Doctor took a deep breath and tried to wipe the appalling weariness from his body, to wipe the need to be here at Turlough's side from his mind. He was still very thirsty.

Anything, that had been the bargain. The thought made him want to shudder. Now all that remained to be seen was if he could keep his word.

* * * * *

The tower quarters of Chancellor Corrus were as splendid as his rank and wealth allowed. From this room vast windows overlooked the city. In daylight the living space would be bright with light and air; an eyrie far above the oppressive, polluted streets. Now, in darkness, the city lights jewelled the night, as if the stars had fallen from the heavens, their brightness scattering the barren ground for as far as the eye could conceive.

It was a beautiful sight. A sight neither of the chamber's occupants appreciated at all.

The two old enemies were alone. The escort of guards had left as soon as the long journey was complete, though two prowled outside in case the Doctor forgot his honour completely and made a bid for escape. The easiest escape of all though would be through one of the windows; a thousand floors to the ground. There were no guards, there was no need — the Master knew his prisoner too well, knew he wouldn't give in, not like that. At least it meant they were alone, with no guards present to witness his humiliation, a fact for which the Doctor was profoundly grateful. He wondered about Turlough, but pushed the concern from his mind. There was no room for it. No room for anything but now.

It was warmer here, almost oppressively so. The Master unbuckled his heavy velvet gown and tossed it carelessly over the back of an ornately carved chair. He was dressed in form–fitting black, the touch of white at his neck merely serving to make him resemble, incongruously, a priest. He poured himself a glass of wine into a spun silver goblet and sipped appreciatively as his eyes consumed the presence of his enemy. The Doctor was dishevelled, there was blood on his hands, blood staining his clothes; the Trion's blood. The Master smiled.

"Go and clean yourself, you'll find a bathroom through that door." He pointed with a sharp nailed finger. "You'll find some clothing as well, I thought you might like to change."

The Doctor, biting his tongue on the answer that wanted so desperately to be spoken, merely sketched an ironic bow and went to enjoy the luxury of being clean. He anticipated it as being the last pleasure he would have for a long while.

The bathroom was sparkling white. Folded neatly in a corner was a heap of clothes, topped by a fluffy cream bath–towel. He reached for it, pulling the pile apart, seeing with confusion that the clothes were his own. He held the jacket up, inspecting it. All the pockets were empty, not that he had really expected anything else. Momentarily confused, he held the well–known fabric loosely in his hands, surprised that he was being given even the slight comfort of familiar clothing. The Doctor frowned, yet couldn't conceive of a reason why he shouldn't take advantage of either the water or the clothes. It would be impossibly good to be clean. It would also be good to be rid of the filthy prison cover–all. He shrugged in resignation and began to undress. Whatever the Master wanted, none of this could hurt.

Choosing water, he stood under the shower–jets for a long time, trying to let the warmth and wet clean his limbs and steady his careering, uncontrolled thoughts. The cleanliness was easy, the rest... In the end the Doctor gave up and finding some soap scrubbed every inch of his skin, working blank–faced to remove the traces of blood from under his nails and from where it had dried impacted into the fine whorls and lines of his finger–tips. He soaped his limbs impersonally, trying not to think of what might happen in the next few hours. Trying not to think of Turlough.

Eventually, with a sigh, he turned off the water, standing for a moment in the sudden silence, dripping. There was no point having regrets though, no point at all. He was here. Willingly. It would have to be enough.

Stepping onto the tiled floor he quickly dried himself. Already he had drawn out the proceedings far beyond what he needed to simply be clean. The Master would be getting impatient.

Crouching down, again he fingered the clothes. As far as he could tell they really were his own. He shrugged and stood to pull on the trousers, raising a resigned eye–brow at the lack of underwear or boots. His hat was missing as well. The shirt was crisply laundered, smooth and cool against his skin. He laid a finger to the question marks on its collar, then shrugged. The jacket came into his hands like an old friend, sliding across his shoulders in a perfect fit. If the these weren't his own they were exceedingly good copies. He smoothed a lapel. The jacket at least made him feel like himself. And Turlough would be pleased to see it again. If he did. That thought though was too much. With a hurried look in the mirror that registered with fleeting surprise the lack of a celery button–hole, he went to find the Master.

* &#