A Time Lord Case Study

Okay, so it isn't really a case study. :) This is a story written by the player in my Time Lord solo game. I asked her to give me a background for her character that would justify two things: (1) her being a Renegade and (2) her going by the title "Valeyard", the way the Doctor goes by "Doctor".

I hope you enjoy it. Please forgive the formatting; it's a quick-and-dirty port from WordPerfect.

I'll be posting her character sheet in a couple of days, after I've had the chance to enter it in to Hero Designer.

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<html> <head> <meta name="generator" content="Corel WordPerfect 10"> <meta http-equiv="content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"> <style> p { margin-top: 0px; margin-bottom: 1px } body { font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt; font-weight: normal; font-style: normal; margin-left: 0.0625in; padding-left: 0.1in; margin-right: 0.125in; padding-right: 0.1in } </style> </head> <body> A Murder of Crows Ariyal wasn’t exactly running–just walking briskly, thank you–but as she strode back into the Panopticon, one booted foot slipped and she had to make a frantic grab for support. Blasted formal attire, with its hard-soled boots! Those boots--and the voluminous robes, and the ridiculous headgear--made up in discomfort what they lacked in practicality. “Which is everything,” said the Lady Talsumnavariyal, youngest Valeyard ever to hold the office. She released the pillar that had kept her upright–one of a pair that stood where Rassilon’s Way opened into the Panopticon--and gave its partner on the other side of the corridor a sour smile. “Of course, I’m also the youngest ex-Valeyard.” Leaning against the pillar, Ariyal pulled off her boots. For a moment she stood there, deliberating, and then with considerable force, hurled the offending footware back down the hall. Now if only recent events could be that easily dismissed. Barefoot, she strode off across the dim cavern of the Panopticon, heading for the winding Patrexian Narrows, the quickest way to the Citadel at this hour. The Citadel...and Geth, who seemed to be perennially on duty these days. Strange to think that her old friend was now a lieutenant in the Citadel Guard...always assuming, of course, that Geth did still consider her a friend. Ariyal was uncomfortably aware that she was hard on friendships, and this one had been no exception...but Gethhanen, dear Geth, was the only person in the Capitol likely to offer sympathy, reassurance or reasoned alternatives in this situation. And she needed him now. “I wouldn’t resign,” she said softly. “That’s what it boiled down to. I wouldn’t quietly pack up my things and go home, and I got....offensive when asked.” Ariyal’s determination--styled “stubborn perversity”at the lengthy High Council hearing just concluded–was something she’d always regarded as one of her greatest strengths. She had been astonished to learn just how deeply some members of the High Council resented it--and her. How quickly the Council had moved in the aftermath of the Lady President’s death, moved to banish the gadfly from their midst...Ariyal was disgusted by her own naïvety. She’d thought that commitment and skill were enough. And under Lady President Harrenen, they had been. But with her gone.... “Never mind that my term as Valeyard was nothing short of brilliant. Apparently brilliance is just too uncomfortable for the senile Lords and rigid Ladies Temporal!” Ariyal’s words echoed in the deserted Panopticon, empty defiance that did nothing to soothe the pain and outrage she’d felt–was still feeling–when an authorized plurality of the High Council had dismissed her from her position as Valeyard. “Unsuitable.” Chancellor Kastor’s description. And how carefully he’d made the case for that unsuitability...the Lord Chancellor had spoken of her youth, of her reactionary political views, of the carelessness that had caused her early first regeneration, following a fall from the spire of the Capitol at the age of one hundred and fifteen. Totally irrelevant to the case at hand, of course, but the Lord Chancellor was working wonders of insinuation and aspersion. Ah, that beloved legal fiction Equality, moral favorite of generations of Time Lord bigots; it didn’t hamper the Chancellor in the slightest. The Law never has hampered beings of his ilk. The Lord Chancellor had been scrupulous indeed in his observance of the traditions of the Fellowship Compact, pointedly avoiding words like “miscegenation,” in stating his objections to Lady Talsumnavariyal continuing as Valeyard. But the Chancellor had not always been so discreet.... As a much younger and more incautious Time Lord, Kastor had gone on record condemning “mixed unions”--a term used by the old-school conservatives to describe the mating of a Time Lord and a Gallifreyan--as “the ruination of the race of Time Lords by the contamination of inferior genomes.” And Ariyal had never made any secret of her parentage. “Rather the opposite,” she said loudly, trying to shout down the echoes. “If it hadn’t been for the affection of Lady Karelianda and Captain Huon, I wouldn’t be here now...and I regard my own accomplishments as the strongest possible endorsement of hybrid vigor.” Unimpressed, the echoes rolled away across the muted splendor of the great hall. The Panopticon was an eerie place when emptied of its usual inhabitants, the circular walls and the dome of the ceiling seeming to cup the shadows close. Under her bare feet, Ariyal felt the cold glassy polish of marble give way to the satiny smoothness of wood, and then to carpet, as her long, swinging stride carried her through the great double doors, now standing open, and into the Council Chambers. The home of the Gallifreyan Parliament...and no longer any concern of hers. Why did I come back here? Ariyal gazed across the great room, circular like the Panopticon itself, and tried to catch the distant murmur of the Eye of Harmony, entombed eternally beneath the carpeted floor. All she could hear was the beating of her own hearts. Ariyal walked down the long flight of shallow steps towards the President’s Bench, a great crescent of polished wood raised on a low dais, and presided over by eleven high-backed chairs. Five slightly smaller ones stood to either side of the huge central chair. I never noticed before how much like thrones they look. The curvature of the backs made it look as if the chairs were craning to catch their own reflections in the perfectly-polished tabletop. And there, two places to the left of the rococo and red velvet of the President’s seat, was the Valeyard’s place...her place. Once I’d made that spectacularly ill-chosen comment to Chancellor Kastor, I had to leave. No time for goodbyes. Is that why I came back, to say farewell? Moving with purpose now, Ariyal stepped up onto the dais and went around behind the chairs, her robes rustling stiffly as she squeezed between them and seated herself. Not in the Valeyard’s place, where she had sat so many times during the fifty years of her tenure--but in the Chancellor’s place, at the right hand of the President. No, not to say farewell; to execute my office a final time. Leaning forward in the chair, elbows on the table, Ariyal steepled her fingers. “Very well, Chancellor, I’ve put myself in your place. Now explain to me exactly why you felt it your duty to remove me from my position as Valeyard.” She stared out across the Central Chambers, seeing faces and times just passed. After a moment, she closed her eyes. x X x The Hearing, Hour One: From my place at the President’s Bench, I watch my Time Lord peers arrive. Like a flock of bright-feathered birds in their elaborate robes, the Lords and Ladies Temporal mingle and jostle, squabbling in the wordy, brittle fashion that passes for good manners here. I sigh surreptitiously; this is going to be a very long meeting, no matter what assurances to the contrary Chancellor Kastor offered. This may all in fact be just a formality, a prerequisite to my fifty-year reconfirmation as Valeyard...but when two or more of my fellows of the High Council are assembled, they’re hard-pressed indeed to avoid making mischief and playing politics–or playing mischief and making politics. How much more so in a hearing before the full Council? There will be sixteen of us present for the hearing, one more than usual. If I am called on to respond, I will move to the witness box and Ordinal Occlutis–not a regular member of the High Council, but deputized for this one duty--will take my seat at the Bench. That’s the closest Ordinal Non-Entity will ever get to the President’s Bench...but for now, he’s in the Pit, along with four others denied seats at the Bench this time. The four condemned High Councillors–Cardinals Ortigue, Livilla, Tolivar and Syndis–are milling about, striking up conversations and delaying as long as possible the moment of truth, when they’ll have to take their low-prestige seats. Even after fifty years, I still don’t completely understand the arcane rules governing who sits in the Pit; rarely is it the same four Councillors twice in a row. Being seated there seems to be a reflection on the unfortunate individual’s status–except when it’s not. Usually someone with sufficient force of personality, charm or arrogance can opt for “not.” I count heads, no easy task with their owners encased in the curling crests of their formal collars. Birds of paradise, the Lords and Ladies Temporal; glorious plumage and the voices of crows. There are eleven others here besides myself and Occlutis, and I mentally review the roster, in order of precedence: Chancellor Kastor, Cardinal Gamebarde of the Prydonians, Cardinal Talinash, Cardinal Hyminnia of my old College, the Patrexian, Cardinal Zytes, Cardinal Antaxes of the Arcalian College, Cardinal Fortin, Cardinal Ortigue, Cardinal Livilla, Cardinal Tolivar and Cardinal Syndis. Missing are the President, the Castellan and Cardinal Orquil. Ordinal Occlutis emerges from the mob and comes to stand below the Bench, looking up at me. I know what he sees; a tall, haughty female whose long blond hair is twisted back in a style both old-fashioned and severe. I look at him, unsmiling. “Valeyard,” he says. “I just wanted to say, no hard feelings, I hope? With me filling in, I mean. I mean, since it is your hearing--oh, it’s all rather like musical chairs, isn’t it? Ha ha?” The beseeching look suits him. Occlutis has the face of a beagle, all large eyes and drooping skin. When he speaks, his jowls quiver. “Indeed not, Ordinal,” I say. “You’re doing the High Council a favor.” Occlutis brightens as if I’d patted him on the head. “Well, do like to do my bit, you know. Take my duties very seriously....” Such as they are. “I think we’re about to start, Ordinal,” I say, and even though it’s a patent falsehood, he’s flustered. With an apologetic bob of his head, he rushes off to find his place, and I smile sourly. About to start? Perhaps some time in the next hour, if we’re lucky. President Vorliss has yet to arrive...though his tardiness is both expected and almost-universally forgiven. When still an Ordinal, Vorliss was one of those individuals who could take a seat in the Pit and make others regret they were seated at the Bench. I’m one of the few who don’t find his manner charming. Frankly, Vorliss makes me uneasy. The Lord President is a Prydonian, and reminds me strongly of another, infamous member of that College. Irritably, I dismiss the thoughts of Jehosephat–his continued existence the greatest reproach possible of the Time Lord way of life–and continue with my birdwatching. x x x The Hearing, Hour Three: Though he’s been reviewing the record for almost two hours, President Vorliss is still studying the images displayed in the huge holo-tank with every appearance of interest. The record must be nearly complete, because this is my closing argument from the prosecution of the so-called Heirs of Morbius. “...why should we extend the protections of this society to those who have chosen to reject it in such a brutal and summary fashion? Because we are civilized beings, and the actions of a reprehensible few shall not serve to make us forget that. We have chosen to be governed by laws, and we will not–must not–reject that choice now, in impatience and outrage. It is evident that the accused would not offer the same rights to us...but it is not for the accused that we extend these rights. It is for us, so that we may know beyond a shadow of a doubt who the moral, the civilized beings are in this room today.” I’m startled when there’s a patter of applause. Kavalundar, the Lord Castellan, is applauding openly, as are Cardinals Talinash, Xytes, Livilla, Tolivar and, yes--nervously but audibly--Ordinal Occlutis. Cardinal Talinash leans forward on the Bench, and when I glance at him, he winks. Rogue. With his curly black hair and blue eyes, Talinash is certainly one of the better-looking males in the Council, and he knows it. President Vorliss joins the applause just as it’s beginning to trail off, which of course provokes a new round of clapping as the others rush to follow his lead. Cardinal Gamebarde half-rises in a symbolic ovation; since the President evidently approves of my performance, Gamebarde is anxious to appear enthusiastic. Cardinals Antaxes and Hyminnia seem distinctly unenthused, but they do applaud. The Chancellor doesn’t. I rise and bow to the room at large. “Thank you, my lords and ladies. May we always know, in any place and time, exactly who the moral beings are.” There is some scattered applause, a few polite nods. I’ve just expressed my doubts about the morality of our civilization as a whole, and the Lords and Ladies Temporal are clapping and smiling, oblivious. Either they don’t understand... or they simply don’t care. Unfortunately, heartbreak is rarely fatal, especially in beings with two hearts...so I smile politely and sit down. And the President rises, in all his glory, and smiles at me. “Valeyard, we are in your debt. You have a clarity of vision and a depth of conviction rarely seen these days.” Vorliss is a magnificent male, broad and powerful, his thick, brindled hair wavy, like the pelt of a beast. And his praise is as unexpected and welcome as it is suspicious. We’ve never been seriously at odds in the past, but the Lord President is quick to rein me in--as he puts it--by means of indirect and demeaning “object lessons.” I had never reasonably expected to find a champion in yet another president...but perhaps, despite his insufferable arrogance, President Vorliss has promise. “In your role as prosecutor and counsellor,” the President continues, “you have guided Parliament and the High Council of the Time Lords successfully through the complexities of post-Minyan law, to arrive at results that were not only equitable, but moral. You are an example to us all, of what may be done by those with the courage to care.” There is a profound silence in the Council Chambers. It’s an extremely generous speech. But Vorliss cannot have been ignorant of at least one outcome of his generosity: By singling me out for such lavish–albeit deserved–praise, the President has made me a target for the further resentment of my peers. Not that I was ever particularly popular with the others on the High Council–partly because of my office and partly, that same “vision and conviction” with which the President is so impressed--but now they have reason to be jealous too. I suspect the Cardinals’ reprisals will take the form of shunning, inconveniencing or spreading malicious gossip about me...which actually bothers me very little. It’s nothing they haven’t tried before. The President opens the floor to questions and comments, and I look up quickly when he says, “Yes, Cardinal Ortigue.” “Thank you, President Vorliss, thank you,” says the thin, piping voice of one of the oldest–if not the oldest–members of the High Council. Despite his manner, I know he’s no more senile than is required to get his own way...but he is sitting in the Pit this time, and apparently feeling prickly about it. “It’s so good to be recognized. When you get to my age and feel that you’re entitled, yes, entitled to a little recognition, well, it can be hard. But thank you for your recognition....” “You’re most welcome, Cardinal.” The Lord President is at his most urbane. “Now did you have a comment or question for the Valeyard?” “Valeyard?” Ortigue peers up at the Bench, scanning the faces with wet blue eyes. “Not the woman, surely. Bad enough that there are women Cardinals, but a woman Valeyard...oh, that’s a mistake. Haven’t the stomach for it, not at all, and anyway, it’s blasted presumptuous! Where did she do her military service, I’d like to know. Didn’t, did she? Because they don’t. Women don’t. And then they bring their nonsense to the Bench....” I’m not going to shout Ortigue down–he’s being deliberately provocative–but Cardinals Hyminnia and Orquil are already on their feet, eager to make their objections known...eager to give Ortigue the reaction he wants. I can’t resist a tiny headshake: And the Ladies Temporal move that much closer to a seat in the Pit next time. x x x The Hearing, Hour Four: Half an hour of wrangling over the Mandatory Service requirements. Half an hour, and never mind that they were last systematically enforced five thousand years ago! Evidently, the Lords Temporal believe that race and position guarantees them victory in any argument...how unfortunate that the guarantee of Time Lord infallibility applies equally to both sides. When the Lord President recognizes Cardinal Livilla, the one female Cardinal who didn’t get involved in the verbal brawl with Ortigue, she twinkles at him. Livilla is short and rounded in every contour, and her mouth seems designed for smiling–and perhaps it was. “I just wanted to say that I think it’s sweet, the way the Valeyard has worked so hard for all of us. And she’s so good at her job. It’s just amazing, how committed she is. Of course she should stay, my Lord President. I don’t see how there could be any doubt.” Ortigue immediately rises and launches into his rebuttal without waiting to be acknowledged. “I know your type, Livilla, yes, in my day I’ve known a great many of your type. Always sticking together, always, won’t let a fellow get a word in–” The President cuts him off. “Cardinal Ortigue, you’re out of order. Cardinal Livilla, please, continue.” Muttering direly, Ortigue sits down, but there’s a smirk on his thin lips. Interrupting another Cardinal is a serious breach of protocol, but Ortigue got away with it...again. He plays at being irascible as part of his chosen character, and the Lord President humors him. “Oh, that was all, my Lord President,” says Cardinal Livilla. “I was quite done when the Cardinal, well, when the Cardinal had his little lapse. Given his age, it must be so hard to be patient with us young folk....” She chuckles, as do a few of the other Cardinals. Livilla’s message to me is in what she said and how she said it...and all with that sweet motherly smile. It’s not a welcome message. The Cardinal will support me as Valeyard, contingent upon my remembering that I work for the High Council first–and if I forget, she is prepared to use the matter of my age to bring me down. With effort, I keep my face composed. My age–how is it in any way relevant, if I’m competent in the office? There’s an impatient muttering from the Councillors when the President recognizes Cardinal Syndis. The High Council is very familiar with his obsession. I’ve held the office of Valeyard for fifty years, and I’ve seen this performance twenty-seven times...and the routine was old before I was born. “I just want to know what she knows about the Grand Conspiracy. I demand that she reveal the information granted to her by the Hidden Tyrant, the information she’s keeping from you, me–from all of us!” Eccentric Cardinal Syndis, a thin, agitated blond male who is simply underemployed and bored. I looked into his conspiracy theories once, early in my tenure as Valeyard–utterly groundless. The Cardinal would evidently rather be mad than responsible. “Do you wish to respond, Valeyard?” the President says. “Yes thank you, my Lord President,” I say, because I can’t actually say, No thank you, my Lord President, not again. Syndis is an annoyance the Lord President has made use of before, particularly when he’s had fresh complaints about my “lack of humility.” “My Lord Cardinal,” I say, “I have no information concerning either the conspiracy or the individuals you describe. However, should you ever be in a position to provide such information, I will act upon it to the best of my ability as Valeyard.” Syndis laughs suddenly, loud and shrill. “You’ll act? You will? Fool, fool, you won’t even be here, you’ll be gone--they’re conspiring against you too, and you don’t even know it. You don’t even know it! You don’t–!” “Cardinal Syndis, you are overwrought,” says the President. “Please calm yourself, or leave the Chambers.” He nods to the Castellan, Lord Kavalundar, sitting at his left hand. My place, the Valeyard’s place, is on the Castellan’s other side, and I watch him as he gets up; Lord Kavalundar’s face is hard, serious...unreadable. With his masses of soft brown hair and attractive gray eyes, the Castellan should look youthful and appealing. He doesn’t. There’s a quality in his every mood, his every action that sets him apart–focus. When the Syndis sees the Castellan approaching, he starts backing away, mouth working. Castellan Kavalundar says something quietly to the Cardinal–and Cardinal Syndis turns and bolts for the doors, howling. A moment later, the boom of the heavy doors slamming is almost drowned out by the laughter of the Councillors. I don’t laugh. What the Cardinal said...disturbed me, as did his reaction to the Castellan. I’ve never seen Syndis’ behavior this extreme before. So now he thinks the nebulous “they” are conspiring against me, too? This may be a case of a role played too long and too well taking on a life of its own. Obsession is an ugly word...I’ll have to recommend to the Castellan that Cardinal Syndis undergo evaluation. President Vorliss is rising from his seat, and I expect to hear him announce that the hearing is concluded. Instead he turns to Chancellor Kastor. “My Lord Chancellor, I regret that the press of presidential business requires my presence elsewhere at this time. Will you, as my appointed deputy, now administer the hearing in my name, until a satisfactory conclusion be reached?” Chancellor Kastor stands up, with a silken-sheets rustle of his robes. “I will, my Lord President.” The Chancellor is another attractive male, bearded and dark, his long hair braided back in the archaic style--but I am not sympathetically inclined towards him at the moment. This entire proceeding is becoming ridiculous. “Then, please....” The President waves Kastor to the great chair, with its ornamental carving and velvet cushions, then turns to the Council. “My lords and ladies, my deepest apologies for this disruption of the proceedings. I must ask that just this once, you overlook my ill manners and continue with the business at hand, despite the several distractions to which you have been subjected...some, but not all of which, must assuredly be laid at my door. Thank you all for your efforts.” He leaves, and the Cardinals don’t raise so much as a murmur of protest. x x x The Hearing, Hour Five: I’m becoming ever less sympathetically inclined towards this farce of a hearing. Walking out–without first declaring the hearing concluded--sets a new standard of irresponsibility and rudeness on the part of the Lord President. And now the Chancellor is making a wordy formal address more appropriate to the opening of a legal proceeding, and it seems all too likely that this hearing, having already endured for five inconclusive hours, will continue for eternity. Perhaps this is all just an elaborately-staged insult on the part of the Lord President. It’s the most charitable explanation I can think of for his conduct. Cardinal Antaxes rises and stands patiently, shoulders stooped, waiting for the Chancellor to recognize him. “In essence,” the Chancellor is saying, “the responsibility entrusted to us now is the same responsibility once borne by Rassilon himself, and discharged by him for the benefit of all the peoples of Gallifrey. We must strive to do as he would have done, so many eons before.” He pauses, and there is muttering from the Cardinals, and some uncertain applause. The Chancellor nods pleasantly to the Council, then turns to Antaxes. “Yes, Cardinal Antaxes?” Antaxes is gray and tidy; gray eyes, gray hair and skin the color of ashes. His voice is almost toneless. “My Lord Chancellor, as Cardinal of the Arcalian Academy, I feel it mete at this point in the hearing to enlarge upon the relationship of the Gallifreyan Colleges to the Law. That august and magnificent body of doctrine and ethics was initially promulgated by those same Colleges, and was recently most ably defended and prosecuted by the Valeyard, the reconfirmation of whom is the occasion of this hearing.” How good of someone to remember. “Agreed, my Lord Cardinal,” says the Chancellor. “The sense of history and continuity embodied in our most significant institutions is important both to us as Cardinals, and to this hearing generally. I therefore cede the floor to you, for the duration of your remarks.” I don’t sigh in exasperation, though others of the Cardinals are not so restrained. I hear Cardinal Talinash groan, though the Lord Chancellor appears not to notice. “Appears” being the operative word; Chancellor Kastor has a vindictive streak and a long memory for slights. “This is a very poor joke,” Cardinal Hyminnia snaps, and I am inclined to agree. The departures begin shortly afterwards. x x x The Hearing, Hour Six: Cardinal Antaxes still has the floor; still and always, apparently. I stiffen my jaws to hold back a yawn, as his near-monotone drones on and on, rendering the dry historical data intolerably dull. Nor am I the only one to find the presentation somewhat... lacking. The departures that began so soon after the Chancellor ceded the floor to Antaxes have reduced our numbers to five...no, six of the fifteen appointed members of the High Council. No-one else in our diminished assembly seems inclined to speak, which is unfortunate in the extreme. It wouldn’t be fair to say that Antaxes is rambling, but he does have a store of long, complicated legalistic stories of ages past, long past, and now he has a captive audience. With only a third of the Council remaining, the minimum necessary for administrative action, no-one else will be excused. So here we sit, perforce, we unhappy few, and run the very real risk of death by stupefaction. Why are the others still here? What motive could require their continued presence, as time drags and tedium builds? With the High Council’s power of veto, they could have declared the hearing concluded long since. I glance around the Council Chamber at the durable few that remain, considering each: Chancellor Kastor sits comfortably in his place, his face composed and attentive. Attentive? To the Edicts of Anderien 4th, last cited officially a thousand years after the Crisis of Spirallis–and never since? The Chancellor’s gloved hands rest casually on the table, tips of his long fingers touching; he isn’t even fidgeting. At his side, the Lord Castellan is watching Antaxes. His face might as well be a steel mask–hard and still--for all the expression it betrays. Once, just once, the Castellan’s large gray eyes flick to the Lord Chancellor--and they narrow. Otherwise, the Castellan’s attention seems to be all for the Cardinal. He looks nowhere else, not even at me, seated on his other side. In fact, I believe he’s avoiding looking at me...that’s unsettling. The unctuous Cardinal of the Prydonians, Cardinal Gamebarde, is asleep with his eyes open, and has been since the Lord President left. His corpulent form is wedged securely in place, propped up between his chair and the Bench, and his hair, short and flat and oily, gleams dully in the light. No mystery about his presence; the Cardinal’s here because he thought the President wanted him to be. Far down the Bench to the right looms Cardinal Fortin. Grave and stolid, he resembles a stone slab draped in robes of office; he doesn’t move, barely seems to blink and seems perfectly at ease in this interminable hearing. Apparently he has the patience of a rock, as well. There have been unpleasant rumors about him, but nothing I’ve been able to verify. Cardinal Antaxes is still holding forth with all the inflection of a time/date recording. Why is he here? Probably because he’s an elderly Time Lord, politically marginalized and desperately lonely. I suspect that his only social outlet is the endless round of meetings and hearings in which our government specializes. Well, he’s certainly getting his fill this time. Down in the Pit, Cardinal Livilla is fiddling irritably with her collar...of course, these grand and glorious alabastrin flowers were never meant for prolonged wear. With every regeneration, Cardinal Livilla takes on the face of everyone’s mother, everyone’s favorite aunt... but I wouldn’t care to confide in her. The wits behind the face are her own, and so is the ambition. Livilla’s the only one of those consigned to the Pit still present. Usually, they’re the first to depart, eager to flee their ignominy and hoping for better next time...so what mission has kept the unhappy Lady Cardinal here, so long after the delivery of her message? No, wait...actually, Livilla isn’t the only one still down there. Sprawled and dozing in his chair is the beagle-Ordinal, Occlutis. I shake my head, marveling a little...yes, he does in fact take his duties seriously. I stretch, surreptitiously. By now, the Lord President’s intention has become all too plain, underscored by every departure of a Cardinal, every delay in the proceedings. I can’t think of any other explanation, much as it galls me. This ridiculous hearing–this ridiculously prolonged and fatuous hearing that I was required to attend--is another of Lord President Vorliss’ object lessons. The topic of this one appears to be obedience: I may be the Valeyard, but if the Lord President or his representative choose to keep me waiting around, wasting my time while they inflict the most pointless, tedious, ridiculous duties on me, I don’t have the age or the authority to refuse. And why? Because Vorliss is President, that’s why. Seven hours wasted, eight Time Lords inconvenienced, and that is the Lord President’s message to me--Because I’m President, and you’re not. Oh, I understand, and I am duly humbled. Will I have to make some sort of statement to that effect before the Lord Chancellor closes this blasted hearing? “I think we are a plurality, Cardinal Antaxes,” the Chancellor says suddenly. “You may yield the floor, with our thanks.” Antaxes breaks off, straightening his shoulders, and a stir goes through the group. “You’re most welcome, my Lord Chancellor,” says Antaxes pleasantly–and sits down. x x x The Hearing, Hour Seven: Standing in the witness box, with a baffled Ordinal Occlutis sitting in my place at the Bench, I watch the Lord Chancellor, waiting for his conclusion. Presumably he is building to a conclusion? I’ve been waiting for some time. The Chancellor studies me, his gloved hands clasped behind him. Then he smiles, inclining his head to me graciously. “While your youthful enthusiasm and profound convictions do you credit, Lady Talsumnavariyal--” “Valeyard.” “Yes of course, Lady Valeyard.” From the Bench, Cardinal Livilla titters. While I hadn’t forgotten how ambitious she is, I had thought we were allies–but political ploy or no, she’s enjoying this. “Ah, Lord Chancellor? My lord?” Cardinal Occlutis raises a hand, dabbing at the air as if he’s testing the wind. “Cardinal...Occlutis, isn’t it?” the Chancellor says. Livilla titters again, an unpleasant, high-pitched sound, and Cardinal Gamebarde sniggers. How dare they? Ridiculous or not, this is a High Council hearing, and demands a due standard of decorum. I’m about to remind the Bench of that when the Castellan forestalls me. “You know very well who he is, Kastor.” The Chancellor stares at Lord Kavalundar, his lips tightening. “Thank you, Castellan.” And then– “Well, Cardinal Occlutis, what do you want?” “I just thought, Lord Chancellor, I mean I thought--” Occlutis hesitates, nipping at his lower lip. “That is, as these are formal proceedings--and they are, you know, just rather extended, ha ha--I thought that protocol would demand that the Bench be, you know, quiet while you’re addressing the Valeyard. My lord.” There is a pause. Brave puppy-Ordinal, does he even realize what kind of gauntlet he’s thrown down? And not just to Livilla and Gamebarde...this blasted hearing was President Vorliss’ idea, after all. I smile at Ordinal Occlutis, as does Chancellor Kastor--and of the two, mine is the more sincere. “Your knowledge of High Council protocol is excellent, Ordinal,” the Chancellor says. “Thank you for bringing this lapse to my attention.” Blushing proudly, Ordinal Occlutis ducks his head, murmuring something polite and self-deprecating. The Chancellor nods. “And, Ordinal? One other point, if you would.” “Yes, my Lord Chancellor?” Occlutis straightens, holding himself rigidly at attention. “Please be easy, Ordinal,” the Chancellor says, chuckling. “This is an administrative hearing, not a military tribunal.” “Oh, of course, my lord. Silly of me, silly, silly mistake....” Livilla snickers behind her hand, and the Chancellor turns on her suddenly. Seated where I am--behind the Bench, and close to the Chancellor--I can’t see the look he gives her, but it must have been quite extraordinary...because Livilla abruptly subsides. The Chancellor turns back to Occlutis, smiling. “Yes, simply a silly mistake. Now as to this small point of procedure--” “Yes, my Lord Chancellor?” “Ordinal Occlutis, would you please remind me of the circumstances surrounding your elevation to the High Council, whose proceedings these are?” “Excuse me, my lord?” Occlutis is baffled, of course. “I’m not on the Council...I mean, I am a member of the Parliament, and I was supposed to be here, to sit in for the Valeyard and for the voting and so forth, but so many people have gone already–” “You’re not a member of the High Council, Ordinal?” “Well, no, my Lord Chancellor, I’m not, but I wasn’t supposed to be. I mean, they just wanted an Ordinal to sit in, not a Councillor or anything like that–” The Chancellor inclines his head to Occlutis. “I quite understand. Thank you for your assistance, Ordinal...and I’m certain you will understand why, at this point, I must ask you to leave these proceedings of the High Council. Castellan!” x x x The Hearing, Ten Minutes Later: No, the Chancellor hadn’t forgiven Occlutis for correcting his protocol, nor the Castellan for reproving him. And that was Kastor’s revenge; by forcing the Castellan to remove Ordinal Occlutis, he turned the one into a common soldier and the other into a common nuisance. Masterful, and viciously petty. The Councillors–with the exception of the Castellan and I–are all laughing now. As the Castellan returns to his place, I meet his eyes, trying to communicate support and encouragement. He pauses for a moment, looking back at me, and all I see in those gray eyes, before he looks away, is shame. Shame. He knows what the President really intends...and finally, so do I. “Kindly pardon the delay, Lady Valeyard,” says the Chancellor, his laughter banished, though a smirk lingers on his lips. What he says could be an apology, albeit clumsily worded, but his tone makes it a command. “I do not, my Lord Chancellor. I always resent delays caused when a governing official abuses his position in order to demean another Time Lord.” That causes an audible gasp, but I can’t look away from the Chancellor to see who it was. Livilla or Gamebarde, at a guess; the Castellan wouldn’t, Fortin doesn’t and Antaxes might. Chancellor Kastor smiles slowly, and I fight to contain my anger. “Had that been the case, Lady Valeyard,” the Chancellor says, “that a governing official behaved so towards other Time Lords, your resentment would have been quite justified. However, since this is manifestly not the case, I must insist that we continue with the business of this tribunal.” “Tribunal? The Lord President referred to this as a hearing.” That’s a point for me...but I’m fighting a rearguard action now, at best. I have no allies here. They all left during Cardinal Antaxes’ filibuster. “Indeed. Now, as I was saying prior to the interruption by an unauthorized person–” “Ordinal Occlutis, my lord, and duly recognized and authorized.” My faithful Ordinal, revealed belatedly as my best friend at this hearing, will not be reduced to merely an “unauthorized person.” But Chancellor Kastor only tightens his lips in annoyance, and continues. “While your youthful enthusiasm and profound convictions do indeed do you credit, Lady Valeyard, the Lord President feels that it might be more appropriate to the dignity of the office if a more experienced candidate were to be installed. You are what, four hundred and ten years of age–” “Four hundred and fifty six, my Lord Chancellor.” The Lord President feels? So Vorliss doesn’t even have the courage to carry out his own executions; Kastor is to do it for him. “Of course. And despite your age, your efforts as Valeyard have been most respectable. However, there does come a time when tradition demands a more suitable candidate–” “Have there been any criticisms of my performance in the office of Valeyard, my Lord Chancellor?” Something of a gamble, given my personality and demeanor--but I’ve always maintained the highest standards of professionalism in my office. I wonder if anyone noticed. “No. There have been no criticisms of your performance, Lady Valeyard,” the Chancellor says tightly. So apparently someone did notice. I smile at the Lord Chancellor. And how are you going to deal with that little testimonial to my fitness, Kastor? “However,” he says, “that is hardly relevant to this tribunal.” “Hearing,” I respond automatically. Not relevant to a reconfirmation hearing? Even though the President means to have me dismissed, this latest blatant injustice appalls me. “Hearing,” says the Lord Chancellor magnanimously. “This is not a question of your abilities, Valeyard, but of your apparent abilities; to what extent do you, in your own person, instill in our people confidence in the legal system? So while I certainly applaud your accomplishments up to now and strongly recommend that you continue to apply your remarkable abilities in furtherance of our common goals, tradition demands--and the Lord President feels--that you should be encouraged to seek some position other than the second-highest judicial office on Gallifrey. “Of course, no criticism would attach to such a choice, to pursue the more prudent goals appropriate to your age while altruistically vacating a position that requires a certain order of experience and social integrity–” “Social integrity? And that is what, my Lord Chancellor?” “For the purposes of instilling confidence in the constituency, a successful candidate would be of the highest moral character, including appropriate family background–” “Appropriate?” I lock eyes with the Chancellor and let him see the depth of my contempt, let him see my knowledge of what he is and what he will become when the President has no further need of him. I let him see the Valeyard. The Chancellor actually takes a step back. “Appropriate,” he hisses, “meaning only Time Lords. No mules!” And there it is--but there’s no-one here who’ll bear witness. “Thank you for clarifying that, my Lord Chancellor,” I say. “But for the record, I don’t believe I shall be resigning the office of Valeyard.” x x x The End of the Hearing: There is more laughter as the Chancellor calls for the vote. A nice, impartial judgement, from Lords and a Lady Temporal whose decision was made long before this hearing ever began. They’ve been waiting more than seven hours for this, the opportunity to voice their well-rehearsed decision and win the Lord President’s favor by dismissing me from the office of Valeyard. I swallow drily and keep my face composed. If they but knew it, these Cardinals and drones; there is more at stake here than any petty political victory. But they know it not–or just don’t care–and the damage is done. The results are read a moment later, with commendable solemnity, and the only surprise is the single dissenting vote–the Lord Castellan’s. I hope it does something to soothe his conscience. The Chancellor, generous in victory, asks me if I’d like to say anything. His mistake. Of course I say yes. As I stand in the witness box, the Council Chamber seems very distant, though every detail is sharp and clear. I recognize the effects of adrenaline, and take a deep breath, knowing that I shall have cause to regret what I’m about to say...but later, not just yet. “Lords and Lady Temporal, I offer my deepest thanks to you for confirming what I had previously only suspected--that the upper echelons of Time Lord society, as embodied in the High Council, are so ruled by selfishness, so jealous of their prerogatives and so devoid of morality as to make their confusion with the race of the Great Vampires they so resemble, inevitable.” Antaxes makes a peculiar sound, almost a squawk, and what little color he has drains from his face, leaving it the same sallow shade as bad cheese. Fortin growls, “You dare...?” His massive eyebrows are drawn together in a single thicket as he scowls at me. “By all means, Lady Talsumnavariyal, throw away your reputation on insults and abuse,” says the Chancellor. “It will make an impressive sequel to the story of how you were stripped of your office by this august council.” At this point, I remember to breathe. My face feels oddly warm, and my hearts are thundering. Antaxes is huddling in his seat, looking sick, and Cardinal Livilla is looking at me; looking with such a gaze that the edge of the stand should be dissolving beneath my hands–her look is pure venom. Cardinal Gamebarde seems uncertain whether or not to get up; he keeps bobbing up and down like a fisherman’s float, his tiny mouth pursed tightly. He’s dividing his looks of outrage equally between the Chancellor and I. Standing now and staring at me; Cardinal Fortin and Chancellor Kastor. Fortin is plainly furious; apparently only the Chancellor being in his way prevents him from striding forward and rending me limb from limb. And the Chancellor is smiling, looking at me as if he expects me to fall to my knees in tears and beg forgiveness. His eyes are very dark brown. I look back at the Chancellor, letting my own eyes fill with the full force of my fury and disgust. “How appropriate that you’re here to hear my condemnation of the High Council, my Lord Chancellor. Your mentality–traditional, rigid and hypocritical--makes you uniquely suited to the role of grave-marker for this, the once great civilization of the Time Lords.” His face darkens–I assume from the constriction of blood vessels brought on by anger–and he says, very softly, “You’re quite insane, my lady. And you have no future here, not after this.” “You’re almost right, Chancellor,” I say, equally softly. “I suppose you recall the ancient Writ of Banishment?” the Chancellor says. “Get out, exile. Get out now, and don’t look back.” I bow to him, to all of them sputtering or speechless or spiteful, and then draw myself up to my full height. “Before I depart, my Lord Chancellor,” I say, “would you assuage my curiosity on something that’s been puzzling me in recent months? Given your demonstrated intolerance, it does seem highly unlikely--but then again, “Kastor” is such an unusual name for a Time Lord. So, tell me, my Lord Chancellor...is there a Gallifreyan in the woodpile?” x X x Ariyal opened her eyes and blinked a few times. “How those fossilized relics on the High Council detest being poked,” she said softly. But brave words and a brave face weren’t going to be much help now, not when in one fatal hour she’d managed to alienate an authorized plurality of the High Council.... Well, perhaps a plurality minus one; she hadn’t noticed the Castellan participating in the mob scene. And then there was the question of the Writ. Sitting in the Chancellor’s place hadn’t brought her any answers, just a new appreciation of how tangled this skein truly was. The President wanted her removed from office because of... her potentially divisive influence? So he enlisted the Chancellor, who–what? Despised her because of her Gallifreyan father? Was ambitious enough to use the situation as a entrée into the good graces of the President? Intended to use the incident to destroy the President’s credibility with the Gallifreyans? And then the Chancellor or the President enlisted each of the other Lords or Lady Temporal, each with their own agendas...and the end result is something that typifies all that’s worst in our culture. Slowly, Ariyal stood up, surprised by the heavy rustling of the purple and dark green robes she’d forgotten she was wearing. Well, she wouldn’t have to wear them much longer; just back to her quarters and then a respectable retirement to an empty rack in the back of the wardrobe. It wasn’t as if she’d miss them, the awkward and uncomfortable things...or at least, not much. Ariyal dropped down off the dais and walked through the Pit to the stairs, pausing a moment to look back at the Bench, before starting up them, three at a time. She stopped at the great double doors long enough to swing them slowly closed, and then, surrendering to the inevitable, headed back towards Rassilon’s Way to retrieve her boots. And after that? Despite her bravado before the Chancellor and the High Council, Ariyal had never really contemplated leaving Gallifrey. It was her home, and even if socially, home were a sinking ship, her duty was to wade in and start bailing...not to desert it like the proverbial k’vess. But now, it seemed that not only were her efforts with the bucket not appreciated, they would no longer be permitted–though Infinity knew, someone’s efforts were still desperately needed. Perhaps, in time, people of good conscience would find a way to do more than just keep the stricken ship of state afloat–but Ariyal wouldn’t be part of it. Couldn’t be part of it, now. And that hurt. They’ve thrown me overboard, or perhaps I jumped. Either way, it’s time to start swimming. What would life consist of, for a Time Lord banished from Gallifrey? Ariyal could only guess. The High Council did not often invoke the Writ of Banishment, but it had happened in the past, and more than once. As a punishment, it seemed that its effectiveness was decidedly mixed; while some of those banished descended quickly into obscurity, never to be heard from again, other exiles apparently not only survived, but prospered. Jehosephat, now styling himself the Master, was unfortunately one of the latter. And then there were those misfit Time Lords who’d departed Gallifrey voluntarily; the Self-Banished, living their primitive and rackety lives somewhere out in the encircling Cosmos...of which I have seen very little, and have no desire to see more. I am no explorer; I detest the discomfort and inconvenience that travel so frequently involves. “I am the Valeyard,” Ariyal said. “I am the Valeyard, still.” No answer from the empty expanse of the Panopticon. No, I’m not. I’m an ex-Valeyard with no prospects, and the threat of a Writ hanging over my head. There is very little here for me now, and perhaps there never was. But this is still my home. Do I surrender it to Vorliss and Kastor and their cronies and remain here on sufferance, or do I leave at a time of my own choosing, and on my own terms? Thoughts in turmoil, Ariyal headed back down Rassilon’s Way, passing the columns at the corner without seeing them. Her boots had traveled further than she’d have guessed; the wretched things were apparently quite aerodynamic. “That must be their one virtue,” Ariyal said, scooping up the boots–purple with tooled green and silver designs--and tucking them under one arm. Back out in the Panopticon, the air seemed heavy, muffled as if tainted with the weight of the shadows. As Ariyal finally headed for the Patrexian Narrows, the tortuous corridor that would take her directly to the Citadel, bypassing the always-bustling Archive Towers, she found herself stepping a little more heavily, trying to create some sound to disturb the stillness. In more primitive cultures, the practice might have been referred to as “whistling past the graveyard”--but though Ariyal was young, she was hardly superstitious. Of late, silent, empty rooms were a lot less threatening than those occupied by a plurality of her peers...or perhaps even just by the Lord Chancellor. Overboard, and it’s sink or swim now...but as the Lord Chancellor was responsible for initiating this crisis, perhaps he might be persuaded to provide me with a life-raft? “Especially if he isn’t consulted first,” Ariyal said softly. Theft of a TARDIS? Certainly it had happened before, but never with one of the exclusive 87-X models employed by the High Council...though that was probably more a matter of accessibility than anything else, as the Type 80s and up were certainly the most desirable models of the line. Many of the persistent navigation problems had finally been cleared up with the Type 80, and data storage and recall capacity had been increased exponentially by use of fluid memory. Emissions from the secondary Eye were normalized within much narrower parameters, making power-levels higher, and the Type 80 also had a stabilized form of the block transfer computational matrix originally developed for the old Type 40. If previous models of the TARDIS had been vessel, sanctuary and laboratory for their Time Lord pilots, then the Type 80 was a metropolis. And according to confidential performance reports, the Type 87-X was to the Type 80 what the Type 80 was to the old Type 40. A status symbol that was actually as effective as its reputation suggested, the Type 87-X TARDIS was the apex of spatio-temporal engineering. And absconding with the Lord Chancellor’s Type 87-X -- it was just too appropriate. It was irresistible. And so when things get difficult, I’m as quick to ignore the rule of law as any of my peers... and for no better reason than my own convenience. Still the Valeyard? I’m no more than just another hypocritical Time Lord. Shadows moved across the marble floor, and Ariyal glanced up, annoyed to see another Time Lord in formal robes crossing the Panopticon. There’s only one person I have any desire to see now, and you aren’t him. She altered her path to avoid the other Time Lord, skirting the walls of the great hall instead of cutting across, in no mood to exchange the polite formalities required by a meeting in formal attire. Infuriatingly, the other Time Lord also altered his course, striding towards her with his black and gray robes billowing. Black and gray? Those weren’t colors Ariyal recognized...so he’s pompous as well as presumptuous. And since he’s determined to accost me, he’ll get his meeting–and learn how little love I have for fools. Like Ariyal, the stranger wore an ornate ceremonial collar, his face deeply shadowed by its fluted curves. He was taller than her–no easy feat–and he walked fast, his stride short and purposeful. Officious, too, evidently. He didn’t speak. Ariyal stopped where she was and watched him approach, knowing that because of his ill-timed advance, this stranger was about to receive the brunt of her fury and frustration for events just passed. Then perhaps this will teach him that not everyone welcomes his intrusion. As the stranger came closer, moving within arm’s reach of her, Ariyal took a step back. There was something–his face! Inside the shadow of his collar, the stranger had no face! Impossible. Ariyal kept backing away, staring fixedly at the stranger. Of course he had a face; it was nonsense to think otherwise. He had–yes, he simply had a form-fitting black mask drawn over his face. A simple enough explanation. But why? The stranger was closer than Ariyal had realized. Now he reached out and struck her solidly in the chest, and she glanced down, puzzled and aggrieved. “What do you think you’re doing...?” Then the breath slipped out of Ariyal’s lungs in a prolonged sigh, as she stared in bewilderment at the dark stain spreading over the front of her formal robes. It didn’t...make any sense...she touched the stain and frowned as her fingers came away wet and sparkling red. And then the terrible cold, like an icicle in her chest.... Ariyal looked up at the stranger, looked up at the black mask and the long pale blade half-hidden by his sleeve. “Why?” she whispered, her lips so cold, so numb.... The marble floor was warm against her cheek. x X x She doesn’t need me. Lieutenant Gethhanen had been telling himself that repeatedly throughout the interminable duty shift, as he patrolled the quiet corridors of the Capitol. He’d been too restless to sit quietly in the Citadel, behind the stacks of reports he had yet to review, so he’d assigned himself to foot patrol, a duty that had always been his favorite...well, that and investigations, but those came up so rarely, they weren’t really worth including. It was the middle of the night, shadowy and still, and if Ariyal were going to come and find him, she’d have done so long ago. Geth knew how difficult things had been for her recently; he’d made it his business to know, even though she didn’t know he knew. That was one of the nice things about being in the Guard; if you made it your business to find about something, there wasn’t much that could stop you. Of course he’d had to be careful; it wouldn’t do Ariyal any good to have her name linked with yet another Gallifreyan. Why was he even making the effort? The Ariyal he’d known–his baby cousin, the daughter of his mother’s brother–had become the Valeyard, a critical, demanding female with no time for a lowly Citadel Guard. But he’d kept track of her; reviewed the holos of her trials, read the transcripts, applauded her performance in secret...and worried about her. She really thought she could change the way things were...but that was Ariyal; as soon as somebody said no, she wanted to know why not. What was supposed to happen tonight; it had been a long time coming, but in a way, it was inevitable. Ariyal had always been so convinced that doing the right thing was the most important thing, and she’d never had any patience with anyone who disagreed. Geth had warned her, sent her messages and tried to arrange a meeting, but she’d never replied; now he was wondering if she’d actually received any of them. As cynical as she is, she never realized just how bad some of these people are. There are some things you have to be a Guard to know about. They could have been quite a team, the Valeyard and the Lieutenant. But that was probably just wishful thinking...she doesn’t need me. In reality, Ariyal didn’t want to know him, couldn’t afford to know him--and yes, he resented it. Resented it, resented the system that caused it and resented her too, sometimes...though even now, he was heading toward the Council Chambers, where he knew Ariyal sometimes went to think things over. Was he in love with her? Yes, no, maybe...probably not, but she was his oldest friend. “If we are still friends,” Geth muttered. Ariyal knew things about him that no-one else did, and he knew things about her, too; the good, the bad and the ridiculous. Of course, the ridiculous was usually a joint effort; the mysterious plague of white rabbits in the Citadel, the herd of drollnah in the Council Chambers...that was their doing, and no-one ever found them out. Those blasted drollnah! They were Ariyal’s idea, the way the most outrageous pranks always were. Even though she was younger than him, Ariyal was usually the ringleader, always showing off for him. That day when...when she climbed the Spire, it was Geth she’d turned to wave to--and he was the one that saw her fall. And I was too slow to catch her that day; maybe I’ve been trying to catch her ever since. Shaking his head, Geth forced himself to complete his circuit of the Archive Towers, before heading for the Panopticon and the Council Chambers. And if Ariyal was there, what could he say to her? What could he possibly say to let her know that he still cared, and that he was there for her? Maybe she does need me. She’s my friend, for Rassilon’s sake-- Walking into the Panopticon, Geth was struck first by the smell. Both familiar and alien, the meaty-salty metallic smell was everywhere. And there was a dark form huddled against the far wall.... Geth was across the rotunda of the Panopticon in instants, kneeling beside the fallen figure and turning her, his hands coming away awash in red, in sticky wetness, in blood. “No, it’s not possible....” His mind might have been denying it, a deadly assault in the Panopticon...but Geth’s hands, the well-trained hands of a Citadel Guard, were already moving over the wounded woman, ready to offer assistance to--Ariyal? The color drained from Geth’s olive skin, leaving his face a moldy gray. He took a quick breath, then another, and went on with his examination. Ariyal’s robes of office were soaked with blood, and blood made a widening crimson pool on the marble around her. Geth was kneeling in it, practically wading in it--and Ariyal was barely breathing, her breath a shallow flutter against the wet fingers he held to her lips. Ariyal’s hearts were still beating, but their slow, irregular rhythm was more a spasm of pain than a heartbeat. Her skin was cool and tacky and deadly pale. Someone...had stabbed her in the chest, between the hearts, severing the intercardial aorta...and she’d lost so much blood. Too much blood to live. So why--why wasn’t she regenerating? Geth rolled back one of Ariyal’s eyelids, leaving bloody smudges on her damp forehead...her blue eyes looked very dark, her pupils dilated and fixed in a frozen stare. “Shock. Damn it!” Rapid loss of blood volume; yes, that could lead to shock--and if not treated, a victim would quickly become comatose. It was what he feared most, at this point. Energy levels...the residual energy levels could drop so low that the victim wouldn’t be able to regenerate. In Gallifreyans, no less than in single-hearted species, shock was a killer. “I’m sorry, Ariyal,” Geth said, “but I have to–” Quickly, with hands that hardly trembled, Geth dipped his fingers into the wound in her chest. Raw and sticky, the edges of the wound clung coldly to his hand. Geth swallowed hard, and twisted his fingers around in the wound, forcing them up between the slick layers of exposed meat. Just above the aorta...yes, there. Brutally efficient, Geth drove his cramping fingers past the savaged blood vessel and into the net of nerve fibers surrounding it. And squeezed. Ariyal jerked violently, then sagged back. Geth squeezed the nerve bundle a second time, and again she shuddered–but not as fiercely this time. “Ariyal, Ariyal no,” Geth murmured. With his free hand, he reached up and touched her temple, waxy pale over the little blue veins beneath. No hint of a pulse there, but--what am I thinking? I’m not a Time Lord. And even for them, it’s dangerous.... But Ariyal’s dying. Not allowing himself to think about what would happen to him–to both of them–if this failed, Geth shoved forward with all the force of his will, his very self, reaching for that closing window into Ariyal’s mind.... “Contact,” Geth said. A long, long moment–and then Geth felt the nerves sparkle and twitch under his caressing fingers. He snatched his hand away, letting out his breath in a great hoarse gasp; he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it. On the floor in front of him, Ariyal was...shimmering. Not taking his eyes from her, Geth pulled out his communicator and keyed in an alert. A belated alert, but there just wasn’t time before. Watching the faint distortion spreading in ripples across Ariyal’s body, Geth realized suddenly that this was the second time he’d seen her regenerate–her third body, and he still had just the one he was born with, his first and only body. He didn’t envy her. Four hundred and fifty six years old, and already a veteran; at this rate, she wouldn’t last out her ten millennia and two–damn it. Who could have done this? Geth reached down and stroked Ariyal’s cheek with a fingertip. Her cheekbones weren’t as prominent this time, and she was going to be a lot shorter, shorter and broader both. Her hair was going to be auburn–unless that was just blood. “Ariyal, what happened to you?” Ariyal blinked and opened her eyes...not the pale blue that Geth remembered, but a restless hazel, shifting shades of green and gold. “I was murdered.” “Murdered...?” Ariyal smiled pleasantly and sat up. “Yes, quite right. Murdered. Done in, snuffed, bumped off, exterminated–as a certain cheerless species of limited conversational ability would say. Somebody murdered me. A very tall somebody in black and gray robes of office, with a black mask over his face...or her face, come to think of it.” Geth nodded. “There will be a full investigation, of course. But right now, I think we should get you taken care of.” He smiled at the engaging lady Time Lord, now investigating the slash in the front of her robes. She’s so...different. Well, given how her regeneration was triggered, maybe it isn’t all that surprising. She might calm down with time, but for now–this is definitely a crisis regeneration. So how do I find out if she even remembers me? “Ayrial–” She looked up at Geth, her head cocked. “No, no thank you, not Ariyal.” She frowned, looking puzzled, and then brightened. “Not Ariyal, no. I’m–well, I’m the Valeyard. Still and always!” She inclined her head to Geth, strangely dignified despite being swaddled in oversized, bloody robes of office. Her collar hung crookedly over one shoulder, a flower on a broken stem, and the Valeyard absently reached up and tore it off. “Thank you so much for all your help, Geth,” she said suddenly, giving him a brilliant smile. “You’re a wonder. Oh, and by the way...when you have a moment, would you help me steal the Lord Chancellor’s TARDIS?” x x x Later that year, the Type 87-X TARDIS belonging to Lord Chancellor Kastor was stolen from its secure private bay in the Citadel docking facility. Lady Talsumnavariyal was initially considered a prime suspect, given her inexplicable disappearance shortly before the discovery of the theft. However, a full investigation conducted by Captain Gethhanen of the Citadel Guard exonerated Lady Talsumnavariyal of all wrongdoing, and attributed the theft to “a person or persons unknown.” </body> </html>