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Almost 600 years ago...
Romana was alone. At last. It felt like her universe had been a whirlwind of activity for nearly 20 years now, even more since Flavia’s downfall. But finally, here she was. A renegade, a rebel, a gifted student gone awry. President of the Time Lords. If she had stayed home, she’d have another 600 years yet before having a hope of running for even a low-level office.
She strongly suspected they didn’t realize just how young she was.
It was a relief to pull off the high collar of office and throw herself into one of the many comfortable chairs scattered around the Presidential quarters. She’d have to get to decorating the too-open space, of course, but that could wait. Her plans for finally engaging Gallifrey with the rest of the universe came first. Plans she should start on first thing tomorrow.
Oh, who was she kidding? Romana was at her desk within the hour, still in the deceptively plain inauguration robe, feet comfortably bare, half a dozen screens pulled out of the desk in all directions and covered with neat lists and double-checked calculations.
It was one thing to be confident she was correct when the person she was arguing with was the Doctor, who for all his charm rarely knew what he was talking about. But here, up against lifetime traditionalist politicians, she would have to do more. Prove that this wasn’t only right, but good for Gallifrey. Prove that she really deserved this.
There was a soft knock at the door. Her door.
“Come in!” she called without turning around. It was unreasonably late as it was, so whoever it was could deal with her being busy.
It was the polite cough that first got her attention. Every politician she had encountered so far had—with the appropriate shows of respect via title—jumped right into what they wanted.
So, she did him the courtesy of looking up.
“My Lady President,” the Cardinal was tall and thin and vaguely familiar, “I wanted to offer my personal congratulations and offer some thoughts, it I may.” His voice was too warm and smooth to fully trust, but his face was kind.
His mustache, she decided, was ridiculous.
Five weeks ago...
It had been too long. Romana knew it. Narvin knew it. The entire agency probably knew it.
Brax was not coming back. Ace was not coming back. She had been so stupid—
The soft bleep of a new report-in behind her stopped her pacing. Everything was set to go to her console first, awaiting approval before being sent on to the other agents.
Which was why she was the first—the only—person to see Brax’s last message in its entirety. He was alive, at least. Danna wasn’t—which surprised her largely because she thought Danna had died purely of age centuries ago—and neither was Ace.
It had been so long since Romana cried she no longer felt capable of it. But she almost wished she could, now. Ace had still been young—she thought, at least—and brave and full of life. Someone who reminded her that silliness really did still exist out there in the universe. For her to be lost so early in the war...
But there was something else. An attachment, labeled “Last Resort to Prevent War.” It was encrypted and password-locked and not even mentioned in his message. She kept it in her separated system, deleted it from the message, and let it go on its way to Narvin’s inbox. She would allow herself to feel for Ace’s death later when he arrived to tell her.
For now, she had to figure out what this was and if it would really help. And why in Rassilon’s name Brax hadn’t given her any hint as to how to unlock it.
It took her more than a day to realize, and she cursed her slow brain. The daleks. And her. And it would be just like Brax to do this, to set a test to be sure she was ready.
Romana laid her fingers on the keys. She hesitated, for a moment, but her hands didn’t shake when she finally typed Etra 117.
The document opened, the encryption clearing, to reveal a single holo-link to call.
Oh, why not? She had tried everything else.