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The Master checks the indicator panel again and frowns. The level of stored psionic energy is increasing, yes, but more slowly than he'd like. Probably due to the low population of this planet, combined with the poor quality of its minds. And to think, their ancestors built this machinery, this entire underground laboratory containing some of the most powerful psychic technology ever made, and then, instead of using it to its full, glorious potential, they turned their backs on it, buried it beneath the ground, and let their civilization decay back into simplistic agrarian imbecility. Well, their loss will be the Master's gain.
Quite literally, in fact. He adjusts the intensity of the psionic capture wave upward. Not too far, not yet. He can't risk killing them all before they're entirely drained, or the machine will never reach full power. And it must be fully powered for the Master to put his plans into action. Just imagine! The ability to control minds, to alter memories, and to turn thinking beings into his obedient servants on a grand, no, on a cosmic scale! The Master is justifiably proud of his own finely honed mental skills, but hypnotizing beings one by one is nothing compared to doing it to entire galaxies, all at once.
And soon that power will be his. All he needs now is a little patience, some small adjustments, and then, when all is ready, to align the triggering apparatus with the final psychic frequency produced by the machine. Well, that and, of course, no interference from--
And at that, the door to the laboratory bursts open. The door that he has personally sealed, and which no technology that remains to this world's benighted inhabitants could possibly breach.
"You!" says the annoying white-haired, velvet-clad figure that comes bursting through. "I might have known."
It often seems to the Master as if the mere thought of the Doctor may be sufficient to summon him. An irrational notion, of course. Indeed, a prime example of confirmation bias. He finds himself thinking of the Doctor entirely too often, irritant that he is, so statistically it isn't entirely surprising if the moments the Master's mind strays to him and the moments he arrives occasionally coincide.
Simultaneous with these thoughts, another calculation passes through the Master's mind. The Doctor is closer to the main console than he is, there by the door, and he cannot be allowed to tamper with the machinery, not now. He'll have to be stopped before he has the opportunity. Ah! The remote triggering mechanism! Even unaligned, even with the machinery at less than full power, it should be capable of directing a weak pulse of psychic energy. More than enough, at this range, to affect one person. Enough, perhaps, to scramble the Doctor's brains temporarily, to take him down long enough for the Master to capture him, tie him up, perhaps even, at last, to kill him.
"Hello, Doctor," he says. "I was just thinking about you!" And he dips his hand into his pocket to wrap his fingers around...
Around nothing but his key. Blast it! He left the damnable thing sitting on the console of his TARDIS!
He gives the Doctor what he hopes is a disarming smile, keeping his body language carefully casual, then, at what he calculates is the optimal moment, as the Doctor begins to make some no doubt inane reply, he bolts for his TARDIS – currently disguised as an alien storage cabinet – with the key held in front of him. He reaches it...
A moment too late. The Doctor hurls himself at him, knocks the key from his hand with a well-placed Venusian martial arts chop, and, as the Master yells out and grabs at his now-aching wrist, dives down to scoop the key up off the floor.
"Going somewhere?" the Doctor taunts, stepping back and dangling the key just out of the Master's reach.
The Master does not compromise his dignity by snatching for it. "Why are you here?" he says instead.
"Funny thing," says the Doctor. "I happened to come here for a bit of a holiday. Lovely world, you know. Peaceful, pastoral, full of art and wisdom."
The Master lets out a small scoffing sound. "I had no idea your standards had sunk so low." Can he retrieve the key? Unlikely. The Doctor is as fast as he is and, in this moment, no doubt just as much on guard. His TCE is not currently in his pocket. Like the remote trigger, he removed it to prevent interference while calibrating the magnetic resonators, and then failed to retrieve it. An annoying oversight. Perhaps if he can now reach the main control panel before the Doctor does...
"Some of us," says the Doctor, dropping the key into his pocket, "are capable of appreciating things that don't involve world domination plans. You should really try it sometime." He looks past the Master at the machinery, gleaming metal and crystal among the dull orange stone. "So, that's what you're using to psychically drain the people here, is it? Some sort of psionic battery?"
"It's considerably more than that," says the Master. "A truly impressive artifact of alien technology." Without warning, in the middle of the final word, he turns and lunges for the controls. One brief, concentrated burst of psionic energy will do it, if he can only aim it properly.
The Doctor, of course, lunges with him, grabbing at his hands.
He fights back, reaching for the knob he needs, for the levers. Yes, there, that should do it, now all he has to do is--
He scrambles for the activation button.
"Stop that!" The Doctor pins him bodily against the console, twines his arms around the Master's, tries to pull him away.
The Master manages to throw one of the Doctor's hands off of his and hit the button.
The Doctor's hand, simultaneously, flails against a bank of switches, knocking all of them into new positions.
There is a hum.
The Master looks at the new control settings. "Oh, f--" he says.
There is a light.
And there is nothing.
**
There is nothing. And then there is... existence. A sentient being, located at a specific point in space and time.
Where that point in space and time is, and who this being is, he cannot quite seem to put his finger on, just now. This is concerning.
His thoughts and perceptions, at least, still seem to be in working order. As far as he can tell, anyway, having no baseline to compare them to. He takes in the environment around him in a brief swivel of his head, one sharp, analytical scan.
He is in an enclosed space, hewn out of orange-brown rock. There are no windows. Likely underground? Perhaps an artificially improved natural cave? Integrated into the rock, flowing almost seamlessly out of it, there is gleaming metal machinery, including the console he is all but sprawled across. Dials and switches and flickering lights. There is something familiar about it. Not in specific detail. The control beneath his hand, the lights flashing purple and amber beside it, these things are alien to him. If he's ever encountered them before this moment, he can not recall. But the technology behind it, the scientific principle that animates it... He has the sense that, with time and investigation, he could understand it. That he has knowledge of such things, even if he can't remember learning it.
And then, of course, there is the other being with him. A being like himself: he knows this somehow, even if he has no recollection of what he himself might look like. This other is close, pressed against him. Entwined, even. Their hands almost touching, as if they have been working the controls of this machinery together. He can feel the other's double heartbeat against his chest. It is simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar, comforting and disturbing.
He twists his head around to look into the other's face, sees wide eyes looking back with a perception as sharp as his own. A shock of silver hair, a prominent nose, creases and laugh lines. An appealing countenance.
"Hello," says the other, still pressed against him. "I'm sorry, this is extremely awkward, but I'm afraid I don't quite remember how I got here. Or who you are. Or who I am, for that matter." The other lifts his hand from the console and scratches thoughtfully at his nose.
"I see," he replies. "Then it would seem we have something in common. Well. Several things, I should think. Beginning with the physical space we're currently occupying."
"Er," says the other. "Yes. Sorry about that." And he straightens up and pulls away.
The withdrawal of the stranger's touch, of his closeness... It feels like a loss. It stirs something in him, some half-sensed, half-familiar emotion. Resentment? Desire? Odd, that it should be so difficult to tell the difference. Perhaps it has something to do with his current mental state.
He stands and turns to face the... the what? "Stranger" does not really seem to fit, but he cannot remember this person's name any more than he can remember his own. Nor does the man seem capable of offering it. So how should he think of him?
Friend. The word comes to him, from where he has no idea. Some fleeting vestige of a memory? That will bear future exploration. Perhaps it will provide a key to regaining what he has lost, or at least explaining how he has lost it. But for now, he considers the word itself. Friend. Given the recent intimacy of their positions, it may be an inadequate description. But something about it feels right. Feels like something he wants to take hold of and keep.
"Do you feel as if you recognize me?" he says.
Friend's brow furrows. Beneath it, his eyes are puzzled, intelligent, and kind. "Yes and no?" he says. "I don't recognize your face. I certainly don't know your name. But something about you feels extremely familiar." Friend reaches out, just for a moment, and touches his arm. The touch is not physically warm, not through the fabric of his sleeve, but something in him responds as if it was. Interesting.
"Yes," he says. "I feel the same. Not total erasure of autobiographical memory, then? Could be partial, with remaining traces, or more likely only a suppression."
Friend smiles at him, as if delighted by this observation. "My dear fellow, that's precisely what I was thinking! And if it is only suppression--"
"Then restoration should be possible, yes," he says, pleased that his thoughts have been understood so easily. He turns to the console beside him, although it is surprisingly hard to look away from Friend's face. "It would seem a reasonable assumption that this machine has something to do with the mental interference."
"Yes," says Friend. "We did seem to be doing something with it when the effect happened. But did we cause it or were we trying to stop it?"
He considers this. "You think we might have deliberately erased our own memories?" He looks back at Friend.
Friend smiles and rubs his chin. "It does seem unlikely. But we might have had some reason to, I suppose."
"Perhaps we didn't like who we were," he says. Why does that feel strangely plausible to him?
"Yes, well," says Friend. "I don't suppose standing here speculating will get us closer to the answers. Let's have a look round, shall we? What do you make of this equipment?" He gestures towards the console.
"I did a cursory examination of it from here when I first came to," he says. "I have no memories of the technology itself, but I do seem to have retained some relevant expertise in the basic scientific principles."
"Yes," says Friend. "As do I. No doubt we were working on it together."
"No doubt." He contemplates the controls a moment longer, then strides over to to the bank of readout monitors. "Ah!"
"What have you found?" says Friend, moving over to stand behind him, peering over his shoulder. To feel him this close again is... interesting. But now is no time to get distracted.
"Here," he says, tapping an indicator. "This one appears to be measuring stored psionic energy."
"Of course!" says Friend. "Psionic storage and manipulation! That could certainly explain the memory loss, if we were caught in its effect."
"A very powerful and elegant example of psionic technology, I feel," he says, touching the indicator panel gently with one finger. "The minds behind this must have been brilliant."
Friend laughs. "Careful. For all you know, you may be stroking our own egos, there."
He blinks. "Why should that be a bad thing?"
Friend laughs again. "Fair enough. Perhaps we are brilliant minds. I feel a bit as if I might be, don't you?"
"Oh, indubitably," he says. He intends it as a joke, but even as he says it, he can feel the truth behind it. His own mind, blank as it currently is, feels like a powerful, idling machine. "But I would be happier knowing the details. This machinery might explain the how of our memory loss, but it brings us no closer to the why. We need to find out who we are, and what this place is."
"Well, says Friend, "there's a door." He gestures towards it. "Perhaps we should look outside."
They walk towards it, side by side, and frown identical frowns as they reach it.
"Quite a sophisticated locking mechanism there," says Friend.
"Yes." He tries it, grasping the knobbly orange-brown handle. As anticipated, it fails to open. "Set to lock automatically upon entry, I imagine."
"Mmm," says Friend, "Not bio-locked, it seems. Pattern-traced input code?" He touches the display beside the door. It lights up with a pattern of squares and circles. Friend draws a finger across it, and it lights up the path he traces, then emits a loud, dull tone and goes blank again. "Yes," says Friend. "I don't suppose you remember the code?"
"No," he says. "There are no doubt ways the lock could be forced, or bypassed."
"No doubt," says Friend, "but I can't quite recall what they are. It seems we're trapped here together for the moment."
"Well," he says, "at least the company is agreeable," and is rewarded by another smile from Friend.
"Yes," says Friend. "Could be worse! Well, if we can't examine the outside environment, perhaps we should start with ourselves." He looks down at himself, touching his chest thoughtfully with his hands. "Bipedal and mammalian. Hard to be certain without a mirror, but I'd venture to say we're of the same species."
"Yes," he agrees.
"Clothing," Friend continues. "Quite elegant from what I can see. What do you think?" He grins and twirls around. His clothing is richly colored, with frilly sleeves and a small cape. Rather ostentatious, really, but...
"It suits you," he says. He looks down at himself. Black fabric. "My own appears more minimalist," he says.
"I think you look quite elegant," says Friend. "The beard is rather dashing, too."
He raises his hand, feels the hair on his chin. "Thank you," he says, pleased. Then he runs his hands down his clothing again, and reaches them into the pockets of his trousers.
"Anything?" Friend looks curious.
"Empty, I'm afraid."
"Let me check mine." Friend plunges one hand into a pocket. "Goodness, I seem to have quite a few things in here. Let's see..." He moves back to the console and begins placing items on it, one by one.
"Dear me, Friend, you don't exactly travel light, do you?"
"I suppose it's good to be prepared," he replies. "Right, I think that's the lot of it."
They contemplate the results before them: Several pieces of string. Some boiled sweets. A fountain pen. Three handkerchiefs. Stray bits of wire. A pocket torch. A candle stub. Matches. A spool of thread. A bottle of ammonium carbonate. A small holographic toy. A nail file. A hand mirror. A piece of uselessly broken etheric circuitry. A cork. A crumpled playbill from a theatrical performance in a city whose name neither of them recognizes. Some sort of sonic device. And two keys, each on its own chain.
Friend picks up the sonic device. "Now, this feels familiar. Does it seem familiar to you?"
"No more than any of the rest of this," he says.
"Hmm." Friend activates the device. It hums, but does nothing else. "Well," he says. "Perhaps it will come back to me eventually." He drops it back into his pocket.
"I'm more interested by the keys. They obviously don't go to the electronic lock on the door."
"Yes," says Friend. "I wonder what they open." He looks around. "Maybe that cabinet?"
He looks at the cabinet Friend has indicated, sitting unobtrusively against the far wall. "It does appear to have a lock with a keyhole." He taps one of the keys. "Try this one."
Friend swiftly returns the rest of his possessions to his pockets, then takes the key and slots it into the cabinet. "It's turning!" he says, smiling. But the expression turns to a frown as he pulls at the door and nothing happens.
"No, you're doing it wrong. You need to push."
"Push? My dear fellow, there's hardly room--"
But he knows. He knows. There's something familiar about this cabinet. Something deeply, strangely familiar.
He puts his hand over Friend's and pushes.
The door swings open. And inside is... is...
"Home," he finds himself saying.
"Dimensionally transcendental space," says Friend. "Very nice. That does feel homelike, doesn't it? But..." He looks around. "Hmm. Can't say I'm terribly fond of the décor."
"Oh, I am." It's black and silver, gleaming and stylish.
"I suppose we must've put you in charge of the decorating, then. Let's look around, shall we?"
In the center of the room is an equipment console. He feels immediately drawn to it. "I know this," he says. "It's a spacetime vessel!"
"Do you know how to operate it?"
"No," he says, "no, it's..." He closes his eyes and concentrates. It's on the tip of his mind, frustratingly just out of reach, but the harder he concentrates, the more elusive the memory becomes, until his mind is filled with humming, frothing static. He makes a noise of frustration and opens his eyes. "It's inaccessible," he says.
"Well, we shouldn't be surprised," says Friend. "Here, any idea what these are?" He's picked up two devices.
"The cylindrical one may feel familiar," he says.
"All right, presumably that one's yours, then. Here, catch!" Friend tosses the device to him, and he snatches it easily out of the air. It's simple design. Aesthetic. But as for what it actually does? "Some sort of weapon, perhaps?"
"Best not to fiddle with it, then," says Friend. "Until we're certain."
"Yes," he agrees, and slides the object into his pocket. It does feel as if it might belong there.
"What about this?" Friend holds up the other device.
"Hmm." He steps closer and considers it. "It appears to be of the same technological design as the machines out there. But with some later additions." He runs his finger across a clearly retrofitted micro-circuit. "You see?"
"Something we did?" asked Friend.
"Likely," he says. "We should hold onto it, in any case. It may prove relevant."
Friend makes a sound of agreement and slips the device into the pocket with the loose wires and the sweets. "Right, doesn't look as if there's much else of interest in this room," he says, heading for the room's single interior door. "Let's see what's through here."
What's through there turns out to be a corridor, and off it are more rooms. Many, many, many rooms. Laboratories full of equipment he half-recognizes. Storage rooms, most of them also filled with half-familiar equipment. A kitchen full of gleaming food machines. A bathroom with a large, indulgent-looking marble tub. A bedroom, decorated in black and silver with hints of red. But there are no personal diaries, no photographs, no convenient identification cards.
Eventually, by mutual agreement, they give up the search, make their way back to the kitchen, and refresh themselves with cups of tea. The name of the beverage on the food machine's menu had seemed only vaguely familiar, but the taste is warm and welcome, and he feels glad to have so easily rediscovered something he enjoys.
Across the small silver table, Friend sips his own tea, apparently with equal enjoyment, and says, "All right, let's see. What have we learned?"
"I live here," he says. "I'm certain of it. I don't remember any of it specifically, but it feels... right."
"Hmm," says Friend. "I don't feel that, quite, but there certainly is something familiar about it. As if it's the right sort of place, but..." He makes a face. "I say, this amnesia is damned inconvenient. Do you get static, too, when you try too hard to remember?"
"Yes," he says. But he doesn't wish to become sidetracked from the immediate matter at hand. "You're the one who had the key. It would seem a reasonable assumption that you live here as well."
"Yes," Friend says. "It does make sense."
"Perhaps," he says, "it was mine first, and then you joined me here? When we..." But he isn't entirely certain how to finish that sentence. Or whether he should.
But Friend doesn't seem willing to let him stop there. "When we what?" he says. There is a faint smile playing across the man's lips. He cannot take his eyes away from it.
Well. All right, then. "It can't have escaped your notice," he says. "That we found only one bed."
"There are rooms we haven't explored yet," says Friend. His tone is hard to interpret, but there's an expression in his eyes that might almost be a twinkle.
"Yes, but would you want to have to trudge deep into the bowels of the ship when you wanted to sleep?"
"Probably not, no." The smiles that's been playing across his lips grows a little bigger, and considerably softer. "So, you think we're... together, then?"
"It doesn't seem implausible, does it?" It certainly does not seem implausible to him. This person, this friend... He feels as familiar as the ship. More so, perhaps. And with every moment they spend in each other's company, the feeling grows stronger and more certain. "Don't you feel it? I have a strong sense that you are..." He stops. For some reason, it is hard to say the word. Why should it be hard to say the word? It is no bad thing. "...important to me," he finishes, pushing through that strange reluctance. "Extremely important."
"I feel..." says Friend. He closes his eyes and winces, presumably at the static. "I feel as if I've known you for a very long time." His eyes move behind closed lids for a moment before he opens them. There's a distant, inward look in them now. "I think I remembered, just for a moment. Just the barest glimpse." Friend looks at him, and now the distance is gone, the gaze intense and directed fully at him. "Red grass," Friend says. "I think... We were young together. In a field of red grass. I think I held your hand."
Friend reaches out across the table, and he reaches back and takes the man's hand, unhesitating, gripping it hard. As if it's something he lost and has found, and doesn't want to let go of again. Static bursts across his mind. "We vowed we'd see the stars together," he finds himself saying. It isn't a memory, not quite. But it is a fact, a thing he knows in every cell.
"Yes, I think we did," murmurs Friend. And then leans across the table.
He leans in, too, unthinking, unable not to. Friend releases the hand he's holding, reaches up to cup the back of his head, and kisses him gently on the forehead. It feels... It feels very wrong, and extremely right. Suddenly he wants to cry, he wants to scream, he wants to throw his head back and roar with triumphant laughter. Why? Why should he want any of these things?
Friend slowly withdraws his lips, Then he lets go, leans back, and smiles.
"Right," says Friend, picking up and drinking the last of his tea, as if such gestures were nothing, as if this were simply a thing that they do. (Which it is, probably. Isn't it?) "Let's go have another look at that machine, shall we? If we can figure out precisely what it did, then between our two brilliant intellects, we should hopefully be able to reverse it so we can properly remember--" He makes a back-and-forth gesture between them with his teacup. "--this."
A cold feeling seizes him, creeping up the back of his neck, chilling his blood. No, he thinks. No. No. "Yes," he says, his lips twitching into a spasming attempt at a smile. Because why wouldn't he want to remember his lover, their history, himself? What possible reason could there be? "Yes, let's get started."
**
Lacking as they are in any usefully specific knowledge, they find themselves with little choice but to examine the machinery component by component, from the guts of its wiring to its complex programming, deducing from basic principles each element's function and its interrelationships with the rest of the mechanism. And of course, they must do so without irreparably damaging any of it. And, in the process, they must look out for indications of possible malfunction, as erasing their own memories likely was not the intended consequence. The more he thinks about it, the more he feels quite certain that, were he to do such a thing for any good reason, he would at least leave himself a note of explanation to prevent exactly this kind of effort at undoing it. Circumstances permitting, of course.
It is slow, delicate, painstaking work, not made any easier by the bursts of deja vu he sometimes feels, holding a psionic circuit in his hand or tracing a voltage reading. As if he's done at least some of this before. It isn't the muscle memory he feels holding the possibly-a-weapon device in his hand, or operating the food machine in the time capsule. This feels less like a lost part of him and more a mere irritant, scratching at the back of his brain.
Interestingly, Friend has no such feeling, or at least he claims not to when asked, and there is little reason to distrust him. Perhaps the suppression was more complete for him? Hard to know whether it is something to envy or to pity, if so. He would prefer to be free of the itching. But perhaps a more complete memory wipe means restoration will be more difficult for Friend, perhaps even impossible. The thought makes him angry. Makes him feel, in a dim and distant way, as if he would like to hurt whoever did this to his Friend. A mind like that, it should be whole.
But even confused and memory-less, Friend's presence is a relief. Without his assistance, this task would be much more difficult, and infinitely more tedious. Together, their minds spark off one another. They draw diagrams, debate hypotheses, correct each other's infrequent mistakes. And when the irritation and the tedium get too strong, Friend sings or jokes or pats his hand, smiling them through it.
It makes the static come, sometimes, when Friend smiles. Static, and a strange feeling of tension, as if part of him is desperately trying to remember – was there another face he saw that smile of Friend's on? was it very long ago? – and part of him is fighting it for some reason he cannot guess at.
It's worth the static and confusion, though. It's a very nice smile, and the thought of the mind behind it turning that expression on him suffuses him with a warm and satisfied pride, every time. Good to think that some feelings, some attachments, cannot be erased, even by technology such as this.
**
The days go by. There is no view of the sky here, and no timekeeping devices, but none are necessary. He can feel the time passing, smooth, continuous, and linear.
And with the passing of time, there seems to come an increasing sense of tension, as if the closer they come to completing their task the more his unconscious mind is attempting to prepare him for some conflict that his consciousness, cut off as it is from memory and context, cannot begin to fathom. He dislikes it. Dislikes the vague, creeping feeling of dread that comes with it, dislikes the lack of control he has over it, and over whatever it portends. Most of all, he hates the way it distracts him from his pride in their progress, from his enjoyment of Friend's company, from his pleasurable anticipation of the moment when they'll regain their memories and be able to leave together, and from the equally pleasurable memory of Friend's lips on his skin.
A memory that is playing itself in the back of his mind once again as he attempts to trace a particularly complicated pattern of semi-fluid psionic linkages, one that leaps with startled ease to the front of his mind when he feels Friend's hand coming to rest on his shoulder, Friend's fingers gently brushing his neck above his collar.
"It's been nearly four days," says Friend. "Perhaps it's time we took a break and got some rest."
"I don't need rest," he mutters. No, damn it, this doesn't link up the way he expected it to at all. He'll have to back up, trace the output from the signal regulators the way Friend suggested in the first place...
"No?" says Friend. "You weren't swearing at the circuitry like that when we started."
He blinks and turns to look at Friend. "Was I?" Had he lost that much self-control? To show all his frustration in front of...? No. No, that's ridiculous, isn't it? If you can't show weakness in front of your friend, who can you? Who can you be yourself with at all? What kind of existence would it be, never to accept another's concern? He's being foolish. "Yes, perhaps I was."
"Come on," says Friend. "A nap will do us both good."
He allows Friend to take his arm – a strong and comforting touch – and lead him to their bedroom. The bed does look comfortable. Opulent, even. Yes, no doubt he could stay awake for days yet, should he choose, but, really, what is their hurry? Why should they not indulge in a few hours of respite? And why should he pay attention to the strange, half-felt churn of apprehension in the back of his mind, if it provides no reason for its resistance?
Friend is undressing, now. Not a rapid process, given the number of layers he's wearing, and the leisurely pace at which he's moving.
It is... an arresting sight. He finds himself entranced by the man's movements, by the revelation of curling gray hairs against pale skin, by the unexpected appearance of the serpent tattoo on his arm. Does that mark mean something? It seems to him as if it does, as if he can almost remember a similar mark on his own skin. Something meant to be shameful, in which he had decided instead to take pride and purpose... But then the static rises again, and the shadow of the memory is gone.
Friend, now stripped down to his unremarkable white underclothes, catches him watching, and smiles. The lines at the corners of his eyes crinkle with... Is that affection? Why is affection so difficult to recognize when aimed in his direction? "You might be more comfortable if you removed yours," Friend says, and gestures towards him. "Up to you, of course."
He stammers some sort of agreement – how unbecoming! what is he, a schoolboy with a crush? – and turns away, beginning to disrobe.
There is no serpent on his skin. If there was ever one there, it has been removed. Or perhaps the skin itself has changed.
When he looks up again, Friend is in the bed, holding the covers up beside him, and tilting his head in invitation.
He feels his hearts doing a peculiar little skip. Why does some part of him appear to be expecting a trap, or a fight? Or to feel caught out because he hasn't prepared a trap, or a fight? Exactly what kind of relationship is it they have?
"I know," says Friend quietly. "It feels strange to me, too. However we are ordinarily, I think perhaps this isn't quite it. But I also know that it is what I want just now. If the scraps of memory in my mind are to believed, it may be what I always want. To lie down peacefully with you, and then get up and work with you again in the morning." He rubs his face. He looks... sheepish, perhaps. But entirely sincere. "I really do simply mean a nap. For now, at least."
"I..." His lips appear to have gone dry. He licks them and tries again. "Yes," he says. "I want that, as well."
"Well, then." Friend smiles and pats the bed. "Come on. I don't know about you, but I really am rather tired."
What else is there to do? He climbs in beside his friend – beside whatever this being is to him – and pulls the covers over them.
"There we are," says Friend. He does not move. He very carefully does not move. The absence of his movement is conspicuous, the restraint he's radiating palpable.
Oh, to hell with it.
He rolls over and puts an arm around the man, nuzzling his head into Friend's shoulder. The press of his body, the warmth of his skin, they don't feel familiar, exactly. But they do feel...
Static. Static. However he tries to end that thought, his brain produces only a confusing burst of static.
The feel of Friend shifting beside him brings him out of it, back into the comforting, context-free moment. He can feel Friend's arm winding around him, can feel him smiling as Friend's lips touch his hair and leave a gentle kiss there. "Good night, my friend."
"Thank you," he says, strangely hung up on that word, "friend." On the mutuality of it. "Good night," he adds, belatedly.
Friend hums vaguely in response. A few minutes later, he's asleep.
It's surprising, how easily he can tell that. It isn't only the regularity of Friend's breathing, the relaxation of his limbs. It's also as if, this close, he can sense it, somehow. The alterations in Friend's brain waves, the alphas and the thetas.
How trusting Friend is. How vulnerable he is, in this state. One could do anything to him. Slit his throat, take him captive. Or simply drift off to sleep beside him.
He takes that last option. Why would he ever want to do anything else?
**
When he wakes, Friend is propped on one elbow beside him, smiling. "There you are," he says. "Good morning!"
Friend leans in, still smiling, and brushes his lips softly and lightly against his own. And then, before he has time to sort through any of the conflicting responses rushing through his mind – Push him away, this is wrong! Grab hold of him, pull him to you, take what you want from him! Kiss him back, savor this moment and his company and the satisfaction of having what you want! Kiss him slowly, be his friend, be his lover, ignore the building static in your mind and the things it whispers against you! – Friend withdraws, leaps out of bed, and begins putting his clothes back on.
"Well," says Friend cheerfully, "Back to work, eh? I do believe that was just the thing." The nap. He means the nap, surely. "I feel fresh as a daisy, how about you?"
"Er... yes," he manages to reply, trying to pull himself together, trying to reintegrate all the contradictory impulses in his mind back into one solid consciousness. It would help if he knew which one was meant to dominate. At least, he thinks it would.
"Excellent!" says Friend. "You know, I'm quite convinced that we should be able to figure out the source of the psionic charge very soon, now that we've got a handle on those diagnostic protocols. Why don't I work on that while you continue tracing the output signals? That idea you had yesterday about using that handheld device we found to help with the resonance calibration was really quite brilliant."
"Why, thank you," he says, rising smoothly from the bed as his mind settles once again into diagrams and circuitry. The praise makes him feel warm and pleased. And valued, in a way so much simpler and more straightforward than whatever that kiss did to him that it is something of a relief. An invitation to set physical touch aside and instead focus on the harmonious coordination of their minds.
**
Not that he is entirely able to set it aside, any more than he was able to with their earlier contact. The feeling of it is still lingering, faint and distracting on his lips, when Friend straightens up from where he's been working, a confused and troubled look on his face, and says, "Come take a look at this, will you?"
"One moment." He switches the remote activation device they found in the spacetime ship into what he is now quite certain is standby mode. It's still not remotely ready for calibration – it will probably need the primary mechanisms to be fully active for that – but it has certainly been providing useful diagnostic feedback. Perhaps if he adjusts the gain...?
"Will you just come and look?" says Friend, his tone impatient and surprisingly urgent.
He frowns and goes over. "What exactly is it I'm meant to be looking at?"
"I think I've located the source of the stored psionic energy," Friend says. "And if I'm right, the answer is extremely disturbing. Take a look for yourself. The receiver circuitry, here, and setting for the control frequencies, here."
He looks where Friend is indicating, taking in the patterns and connections. The psionic feed conduit is cross-circuited through the signal regulators, and together they are gathering energy from... "Is that a wide-field psionic extractor?"
"Yes," says Friend. His tone is grim.
"I see," he says. "Yes, well, that would make sense. Clearly the stored psionic energy must come from somewhere." He looks at Friend curiously, awaiting further explanation.
"Exactly!" says Friend. "Don't tell me you don't see the implications."
"It implies that the planet outside the door is inhabited by sentient lifeforms," he says.
"Lifeforms it's draining of their psionic energy! Look at the power levels! To achieve this... it must be killing them."
"Most likely," he agrees.
"I wonder who did build this machine, and to what purpose?" says Friend. "It's clear now that it wasn't our doing."
He blinks. "Why not?"
Friend stares at him, his expression strangely shocked. Why? What did he do? "My dear chap! My..." Friend stops. Was he reaching for another word? An endearment? Whatever it may have been, he doesn't seem to have found it. "Surely you see how monstrous this is?"
He doesn't respond with, "Yes, and your point is?" The fact that he is thinking it, though... Should he be disturbed by this? Is he monstrous? Does he mind if he is? That look on Friend's face... It hurts him, to see Friend so disappointed by him, so disgusted. And yet, at the same time, something about it is exhilarating. The reaction he has provoked, the attention.
What is wrong with him? There are relevant memories, he can feel them just beneath the surface trying to rise up, and he doesn't know if he wants them. He wants to kiss Friend, wants to laugh at his dismay, wants to say "Oh, yes, I see now, that is a terrible thing" and mean it, wants to drain Friend's psychic energy and replace Friend's memories with his own, wants to pull him close and tell him "Never mind the inhabitants of this world, this is our chance! With this power we can rule the universe together!"
It hurts. It hurts so much to almost feel like himself.
"Are you all right?" says Friend, and only then does he realize that he's clutching at his temples, and his eyes have closed, and he might be making a rather embarrassing noise.
He forces his hands down, forces his eyes open. Friend's face is close to his now, his forehead creased with concern. Friend's arm is around his shoulders, Friend's other hand coming to rest on his forearm. "Steady on!" Friend says. "Here. Come over here. Sit down."
There are no chairs in this room. They could have brought out chairs, made themselves comfortable here. Why haven't they?
Friend steers him towards a wall, tries to lower him down against it. Stop this! a voice in his head demands. His own voice, but harder, angrier. Stop showing such weakness, you pathetic worm! And in front of him! This is unworthy of-- There might be a name after that, but if there is, it's lost in the static.
He doesn't sit down. Instead, he clings to Friend, buries his face against Friend's chest, draws in a deep and calming breath.
Friend's hand strokes his hair. It feels strange. Unfamiliar. Not as if Friend has never done this before, but as if this particular hair, this particular scalp has never felt it. Never felt any such touch at all, perhaps. How alone was he, that bitter, defensive man who appears to be trapped inside him? And for how long? But even thinking about such things feels wrong.
He lifts his head and straightens up, intending to pull away. But Friend reaches out, and softly strokes his face. The gentleness of it is almost unbearable. "Are you all right?" Friend says.
"No." He steps back. The loss of Friend's touch is equally unbearable. Damned if you do, damned if you don't. That sounds about right, somehow. "That is..." He straightens his clothing, stiffens his back. "Memories have been resurfacing. Partial and unhelpful ones, I'm afraid. It is proving difficult to integrate."
Friend also takes a step back. There's a decorous space between them now. He ignores the impulse to close it again. "Mmm, yes," Friend says. "I've been experiencing much the same thing. Although rather less traumatically, it would appear."
"Have you?" He doesn't want to ask. He doesn't want to know. But he cannot stifle his curiosity. Perhaps that is a trait he has retained, through the amnesia. "Have you remembered anything about me?"
Friend rubs his chin and gives him a long, considering look. Then he smiles. "Nothing I've chosen to listen to," he says.
For some reason, that gives him a pang, right through both hearts. Irrelevantly, he finds himself wishing he could remember this man's name. That he could say it now.
Instead, he sighs. "We should get back to work," he says.
"Are you certain?" Is Friend asking whether he's recovered enough to work now, or is he asking something else?
"We can't stay here like this forever," he says.
"True. I may already have had enough of this room for several lifetimes." Friend says. He looks towards the console. "And the machine? What about what we've just discovered?"
He closes his eyes for a second, tracing readouts and connections in his mind. Yes, interrupting this series of relays should do it. He opens his eyes and flips the necessary switches to stop the extraction. With the psionic draining halted, those not already too weakened by the process should eventually recover.
"There's sufficient stored psionic energy for the reversal," he says. "And I very much doubt it's possible to return it to the victims."
"No," says Friend quietly. "No, I don't think it is, either."
"Then we finish this," he says. "We use it to unlock our minds."
"And then?"
"And then you can destroy the machine." Something deep inside him howls at that. He ignores it. He doesn't have to listen to it. Not yet.
"We can destroy it," says Friend. Friend's keen eyes look into his, as if they can see all the way down to that howling. As if he's not afraid of it.
He looks away. "As you like," he says, without conviction, as he returns to the machine. "Now, if we are able to reverse the polarity of this receiver circuit..."
For a moment, he thinks Friend isn't going to join him. Or that, perhaps, he's going to say something else, something that cannot be unsaid.
But instead he clears his throat and says, "Yes, that does seem like a productive line of thought. Here, let me make the adjustments, and you monitor the readback, how does that sound?"
It sounds like a more sensible plan than abandoning all of this, turning their attention to figuring out the spacetime ship instead, and leaving here with incompletely suppressed memories that will torment them for the remainder of their lives. Probably. Maybe.
"Excellent," he says, and clears his throat, and gets to work.
**
It goes more swiftly after that. Understanding the exact nature of the psionic energy the machine has gathered is the key to understanding many of its more obscure functions. And a surprising number of systems interact with the receiver circuitry, if only indirectly. The neural pathway remapper, for example, would not work without it. Clearly, whoever built this machine to siphon energy from the local population did so because no other source would suffice for their purposes. Either that, or they decided on that source first, as the most efficient method, then single-mindedly built everything else around it.
He wonders, as he works, whether Friend would make an ethical distinction between the two possibilities. Surely the pursuit of power – power to effect change in the universe, to accomplish one's goals, to wrest some semblance of order from unbearable cosmic chaos – surely this is a worthy goal in itself, whatever the means one uses to accomplish it?
He decides to raise the question with Friend. The fellow is good for a lively philosophical argument; he'd be certain of that even without the fuzzy flash of confirming memory that accompanies the thought. Whatever they were arguing about in the memory is entirely lost in the static, but the feeling of deep-seated enjoyment comes through with an almost painful clarity.
Friend does not disappoint in the present, either. "Well, what's wrong with a little chaos?" he says. "I have the feeling I was rather fond of it." And "What's the point of changing the universe if you're changing it for the worse?" And, tapping his head, "I think the best kind of power is in here. Machines can be destroyed, people you use will turn against you, but nothing can take away your intelligence. Look at us! Even without our memories, we still have our wits, and we're making excellent work of this, I must say."
But perhaps he himself has lost some subset of his intelligence. He is certain his former self would have devastating rebuttals for all of these statements. Smoothly savage comebacks, even. But whatever the reasons for disagreeing, he seems to have forgotten them.
Instead, he makes noncommittal noises. And he finds himself, from time to time, drifting back to the psionic receiver, contemplating it and its supposed monstrousness. If he forces himself to, he can imagine its effects. Beings – perhaps the same species as himself and Friend, perhaps not – slowly being drained of the essence of their sentience, their capacity for thought. Of, indeed, the one thing Friend appears to regard as inalienable. He imagines them finding it harder and harder to think, to feel, to move their bodies, until at last they sink into irreversible torpor and die. No doubt they had loved ones watching, feeling helpless. How would he feel, if someone did that to Friend? If someone had that sort of control over Friend? Someone other than him?
Perhaps this is a poor facsimile of empathy, or only a faint, impoverished trace of it trickling down disused neural paths. But it does at least appear to be a thing he's capable of. What in the cosmos, he wonders, happened to him to make him unlearn it? And whatever it was, does he want the memory of it back?
Friend sees him contemplating, gone still and quiet with his fingertips trailing slowly along the circuitry of the receiver. Friend says nothing, but gives him a look so understanding it frightens him to his core, and gently takes his hand and holds it until he's ready to go on.
And the thing inside him howls and howls and howls. No, this is the wrong way round! He needs to become more like me!
Well. That is not achievable with this machinery, no matter what he might do to it. Who they were is locked inside them. They cannot change it. All they can do is free it, or not.
**
And then, suddenly, they are done. They have been over every millimeter of the machine, have learned every important secret of its dizzyingly complex, impressively subtle alien design. They have determined, from deduction, induction, and careful trial-and-error exactly which controls were accidentally activated to rob them of their memories and precisely what the effects and interactions of each one were. And, not incidentally, how lucky they were that only their memories were affected and not, say, the functioning of their brain stems.
It is clear, now, how to undo it. Unfortunately, they cannot test the process beforehand. Or, rather, they can test it only on themselves. But no matter. He is confident in their work, and in the functions of the machine. They've spent too long being careful and methodical, anyway. This does not appear to be his preferred way of working, and he can sense that Friend feels the same.
"Right," says Friend. "I suppose that's it, then. Nothing more to do but try it out. Are you ready?"
Is he ready? He is ready to be done with the static, with the howling, angry voice inside him, with the feeling of dread that, increasingly, has come to feel like a steel band slowly constricting around his hearts. "I..." he says, but he can't seem to continue.
"Yes," says Friend. "I know." Friend smiles – sadly, perhaps? – and reaches out to touch his face. "It's all right," he says. And then Friend kisses him.
It isn't like the earlier brush of their lips. Nothing so simple or so casual as that, even though it starts off equally gently: a single, intimate point of contact between them, still and unmoving for a moment.
And then it becomes something else, something soft and yearning, warm and intimate. A promise of things to come? Or a goodbye?
He realizes, then, that Friend has spoken the truth. Friend knows. He knows. Friend can feel it, too, that there is something wrong with this being Friend is kissing, something rotten and awful underneath, and that once he's restored, he'll no longer be anyone Friend would wish to know.
He kisses back with increasing desperation, and maybe what he's saying is goodbye, maybe it's please help me or I'm sorry or even I think I might love you, please don't stop caring for me, after. Maybe it's simply that he doesn't want it to end, because then the next thing will inevitably happen.
But, of course it will. Even though the kiss goes on long enough that he can feel his respiratory bypass system kicking in, his desires will never make anything last forever.
They pull apart at last. Friend lets him go, clears his throat, looks at him with an awkward expression that makes something flutter inside his steel-banded chest. "Right, well. I suppose we should get on with it," Friend says.
No, he wants to say. No. Let's not do it yet. Let's go back to our bed – which I think both of us may know in our hearts now isn't really our bed – and get to know each other before we have to... to know each other. Let's delay a day, a year, a century or two.
But it's too late for that, isn't it? It's far too late. And he cannot live much longer with this dread in his heart and this voice in his mind. So instead he says, "Yes. Both of us at once, or one at a time?"
"Hmm," says Friend. "Well, the latter is safer. That way if it goes wrong somehow, the other may still be able to fix it. Why don't I go first?"
No, together, says the front of his mind. I want it to be together. I don't want you to remember me first.
Yes, perfect, says the back of his mind. Perhaps something will go wrong. Let him take the risk. Let him suffer, if necessary. You like to watch him suffer. You like to see the expressions he makes and think of him making them for you. Do you remember that? You will remember it soon.
"Yes, all right," he says, but it isn't because of the voice. It's only because he's a coward.
He watches Friend set the controls, and carefully double-checks his work. All correct. All functioning properly. If it's going to work at all, it should work now. And it will. He is confident in everything they've done together.
"Right," says Friend. "See you soon, then!" He smiles, and presses the button, and closes his eyes.
The machine is silent. Indicator lights flash. The readouts are good, the psionic energy levels precisely correct. It is working. It must be working.
Why is it taking so long?
"Friend?" he says. There is more worry in his voice than he'd expected.
Friend opens his eyes. "Doctor," he says.
"What?" What does that mean? Is he experiencing brain damage? Did it not work, after all?
"That's my name," Friend – Doctor – says, gently. "I'm the Doctor."
"And... and you know me?" Oh dear, is his voice shaking now?
"Yes," says the Doctor. "Yes, I know you very well." His eyes are soft, and sad, and kind.
He swallows. "We aren't lovers, are we?"
The Doctor smiles. The expression in his eyes doesn't change. "We were, once. It was a very long time ago. Do you want to remember?"
"What else will I remember, if I do?"
The Doctor bites his lip, and doesn't answer.
"Yes," he says. "Yes, that's what I thought." Stop dawdling, says the voice in his mind. You useless cretin! Reclaim your mind and your memory and your power. Become who you are, who you were meant to be. Become the master of yourself and of this world! He draws in a deep breath and allows himself to think a different thought, one that he's kept hidden even from himself. "If we increase the signal power by .3," he says, calmly, "and disengage the safety override before adjusting the depth parameters, it should be possible to erase the old memories entirely, rather than unlocking them."
Friend's – the Doctor's – eyes go wide. Is he appalled? Or only surprised? "You want to erase yourself?"
"It won't stop, otherwise," he says. "It's like a... a relentless drumbeat, in the back of my mind. It's intolerable. You don't know the things it says to me. The things it tells me about who I am."
"I may have a good idea," says the Doctor. "But you do realize that if you reintegrate the memories, the problem will go away."
He doesn't intend to say it. He doesn't intend to think it. But somehow, he can't stop himself. "But then I won't be someone you can love. Will I?"
The Doctor flinches, as if he's been slapped. It hurts to watch. It's gratifying to watch. It hurts that it's gratifying to watch. The Doctor closes his eyes for a moment, visibly gathering himself. "Oh, I'm very much afraid you will," he says. It's almost too soft to hear. Almost.
The band in his chest constricts. Perhaps he's experienced things more painful than this, but if so he doesn't remember them. "I won't be someone you'll want to be with."
"No," says the Doctor, only a little less quietly. "Nor I you."
"But I've enjoyed this," he says. "Working with you. Being with you."
"So have I," says the Doctor.
"Well, then," he says. "I'll need you to perform the operations. I can initialize the process myself, of course, but when the neural activity meter reaches the red zone, you'll need to re-engage the safety, or I could end up with no mind left at all, and I doubt I'll be in any state to do it. I trust you'll do it properly."
"No," says the Doctor.
"Oh, come now. You know the mechanism as well as I do. It's a simple matter of--"
"I won't let you erase yourself. Especially when you're not sufficiently yourself to make the choice."
"No? I'm fairly certain the old me would have happily done it to you. With or without your permission."
"You know," says the Doctor. "I'm not so sure he would?" He touches his head. "There are a lot of memories of you here. Of good times, both before and after we fell out. We work like this together sometimes anyway, do you know that? Usually to get you out of some scrape you've got yourself into, but still." He smiles gently. "Would you really want all of that lost forever? Think about it. Would you want some hapless blank slate to replace me? Some of who I am, we made together, you know."
"Is that what you think I am? A 'hapless blank slate'?" The thought is unexpectedly hurtful.
"I think you're not the Master," the Doctor says. Inside him, something thrashes and smiles at the sound of the name. "Not fully. And you're not the boy I loved on Gallifrey, either. I was wrong before, you know. Intelligence isn't everything. Memories are an important part of who we are."
"And you'd rather have the me who's... who is evil?" Who is this man, now that his memories are restored? Has it made him a fool?
"I admit, it's not ideal. But there's always the possibility for change, don't you think? Non-brain-damage-induced change, that is."
"You are a fool," he says. Or maybe the voice inside him does, rising to the surface.
"You wouldn't have me any other way," the Doctor says, smiling. "Ready now?"
No. He still has the remote activator. He put it in his pocket after the latest round of calibrations. He could start the process from here before the Doctor even realizes he's doing it, leaving the Doctor only the choice of whether to re-engage the safety or to let him burn out everything that's left of his mind.
And then what? Throw himself, blank and innocent, at the Doctor's feet? Knowing that every time the Doctor looks at him, he'll see the face of someone he once cared for who is now effectively dead? Seeing grief, or worse, pity, in the Doctor's eyes every time?
"Yes," he says. "Yes, I suppose I am." And he moves to reset the controls.
"I really did enjoy working with you," says the Doctor, and presses the button.
The restoration comes like a flood, a raging, frothing torrent of himself filling him faster than he can process. Memories churn through him like storm-tossed debris.
Red grass, orange sky, another boy's hand in his. We'll see every star in the universe! The schism, the schism, the Untempered Schism, so frighteningly uncontrolled. A screaming argument, him breaking his now-former lover's things, regretting it, refusing to apologize. Mad laughter. Control, control, the need for control. Screaming and pain, his and others'. Regeneration, change. Bitterness, betrayal, a callus forming on his soul. Reaching for the stars, grasping them alone. The one person who appreciated my intellect has turned his back on me, but the entire universe will learn better, and so will he! The Doctor, the Doctor, the Doctor, the Doctor.
He opens his eyes. "Doctor," he says. He does not tremble. He is not a man who trembles.
"Master. Welcome back."
"It was foolish of you to bring me back," he says. "But thank you."
"Don't mention it."
"Oh, don't worry. I won't. I'd much rather forget this entire incident. Ironic as that may be."
"You do realize," says the Doctor, "that I still have to stop you." He looks... Oh, dear, is that a pang of empathy? The Master pushes it down. If the Doctor looks unhappy, that is no more than he deserves.
"Very much back to your tedious old self, I see," the Master replies.
"Do you remember what I said? About change?"
"Yes, and I remember saying you were a fool then, too. The weak amnesiac version of me had that much right, at least."
"Master..." The Doctor stretches his hands out, pleading. Fingers that, not long ago, were touching his cheek. As if he were loved. "It doesn't have to be like this. Haven't we just proved that? You don't have to be like this."
"Yes, well" says the Master. "Neither do you. Are you planning to change for me? No? No, I didn't think so. You had your chance, Doctor, and you were stupid enough not to take it."
The Doctor sighs and lowers his hands. "Well. I did have to try."
The Master's lips quirk up into a wry smile. "You wouldn't be you if you didn't."
"True. I also wouldn't be me if I didn't do this." With a smooth motion, he pulls the sonic screwdriver from his pocket. "Would have been very handy if I'd remembered how to use this sooner, wouldn't it? Ah, well." He activates it and turns towards the machinery.
"No!" The Master lunges at him, but it's too late. It's all going up in sparks and smoke. He bats frantically at the console, trying to quell the flames, but it does no good. Fried, it's all fried. All that beautiful, powerful alien circuitry. Everything the two of them spent so long lovingly studying. Gone.
Belatedly, it occurs to him that he could in fact have used it to excise his memories of all this. Of the two of them in the bed, of the kissing, of the Doctor's twisted mercy. It might have made things easier, not to remember that. Too late. Too late, again.
He turns towards the Doctor, fury in his eyes. He reaches into his pocket for the TCE.
The Doctor holds out a hand. Dangling from it is the Master's TARDIS key.
The Master pauses. He relaxes his grip on the weapon. Slowly, he withdraws his hand from his pocket.
He takes the key.
For a long moment, they look at each other.
I do wish we had gone back to the bed, something traitorous in the back of his mind whispers, when we had the chance.
"See you next time," says the Doctor, and the look in his eyes, the soft, sad, sweetly promising tone of his voice, these are things the Master cannot begin to process, any more than he can banish them from his mind.
"Yes," he says. "Until next time, Doctor."
The Doctor's lips quirk in another expression the Master refuses to read. Then he turns, and sonics open the lock on the door, and leaves.
The Master stands in silence for a moment, among the broken, still-smoking ruins of his plan and the empty silence of his bunker.
Then he throws back his head and laughs, loud and long and echoing.
Well, what else is he supposed to do? He is not a man who indulges in regret, and he is not a man who cries.