Part  Five:  Repairs

We cannot read the labels on the wrappings and boxes in the crate on the control room floor, but it is obvious these are pieces and parts to repair the TARDIS.  Several panels in the bottom of the console at the centre of the room have been removed and leaned against the walls, exposing the interior.  A complexity of components is revealed, mounted and interconnected within a webwork of cables.
Above one of the open sides, a bank of lights flashes red then green and stops just as the Doctor runs into the room.  He goes directly to the dark panel and turns knobs, pushes levers with no apparent effect.
"Try that again!"  He calls out through the door into the main corridor of the TARDIS.  "If you can keep it powered long enough she'll stabilise."
A verbal response from the corridor is unclear, but the panel lights again, blinks twice and beeps before fading.  With a grunt, the Doctor pokes his head and shoulders into an open side at the bottom of the column and begins muttering at the apparatus there.  He does not hear questions from the corridor and after several repetitions, Lord Cramol enters the control room, somewhat annoyed.  He stops at the sight of the Doctor's lower half on the floor.
"It didn't work, I see."  He comments.  "No reason it should have.  Type 40 stabilisers need to be balanced separately.  It's a bit of a chore."
"It's a grablich for one person, alone."  Comes a muffled response from the Doctor.  "Which is why I modified the merkin structure and installed an updated Verirol sequencer a while back.  There."  He backs out of the column base.  "I had disconnected it when I bypassed the perialgon circuits, but it should work now."  He stands and turns knobs, pecks at a keyboard.
"Verirol sequencer?"  Cramol questions.  "There is a promising new student at the Academy this year named Verirol.  Is there a connexion?"
"Likely.  Forget I mentioned it."  The Doctor shrugs apologetically and turns through the door into the corridor.  Stooping to look into the open side of the console base where the Doctor had been working, Cramol uses his hand to follow the cables through an intricate pattern of attachments, stopping at one and tapping it thoughtfully before standing to observe the panel.  There is a whirring sound and the lights flash erratically a few times, glow steady for a moment and go out, leaving one blue indicator to signify that the system is functional.
"That's it!"  Lord Cramol calls down the corridor before turning to the crate to sort through the items there.  Finding what he seeks, Cramol removes the wrapping as he takes it to the console and sits beside an open section.  Placing the component on the floor beside him, he begins disconnecting a similar part from the webwork that holds it.  The lights flicker and Cramol pauses to adjust a lever on a control panel above him before separating the module from the merkin web.  He is verifying polarity references of the two parts with his sonic screwdriver when the Doctor returns to the control room carrying a tray with a steaming brown round belly teapot, two simple white mugs and a plate of sandwiches.
"Hrumph.  This resonating limiter may be the original fitting."  Cramol comments with a bit of wonder in his voice.  "And it's still working."
"If it's still working then why replace it?"  Settling the tray on top of the Time Rotor, the Doctor takes a sandwich and leans over Cramol to look more closely at the part.  Crumbs fall randomly.
"I can think of several reasons.  First, to insure it doesn't stop working when you need it.  Second, to find out how long it will continue to operate under laboratory conditions."  Cramol leans into the console slightly to install the new resonating limiter.  "Third, because it was one of the parts in the crate delivered to my office before the Select Committee was dismissed by our friend, Draiser."
"Delivered?  You didn't arrange for these parts yourself?"  Sandwich forgotten, abandoned atop a monitor in a avalanche of crumbs, the Doctor looks suspiciously at the crate and its contents.
"Delivered.  I assumed by Draiser."  Cramol makes a final connexion and stands.  "It had all the parts on the list I made earlier and a few more."
"I'm still changing out the last set of parts the C.I.A. gave me to repair my TARDIS!"  The Doctor's sudden anger takes Lord Cramol by surprise.  "Those arrogant, interfering...!"  He slaps the console and several lights blink on, a monitor screen lights and a chime is heard.
"Well, that works."  Cramol reaches for the Accept key on the control panel below the screen.
"It didn't before."  The Doctor comments looking ruefully at the hand he used to slap the console.  An image flickers to life on a wall monitor and after a moment of recognition and disbelief, he whispers, "Antarn."
"Good.  You got it working."  The aged face on the monitor screen is framed by a shaggy halo of white hair.  Bristling white eyebrows, piercing eyes, a prominent arching nose and thin lipped mouth convey irritation at the follies of youth.  "Took you long enough.  Now, if that one,"  His disapproval at Cramol's presence apparent by the scowl in that direction.  "Can be trusted?  Wouldn't do to make this a Matter for some Select Committee."
The Doctor quickly agrees, shooting a Look at the awed Professor which silences any objections or questions before they can be voiced.
"I'm sorry you destroyed that algorithm, boy,"  Antarn's voice warms a bit.  "But you've still got the Key and I've no doubt that you can recover the rest when your time comes.  As often as you regenerate...   In the meanwhile, that surly young friend of yours has started up a nasty piece of business that you'll need to be stopping."
"Friend?"  The Doctor responds, puzzled, looking at Cramol for suggestions.  Cramol shakes his head and shrugs, unable to help.
Antarn sighs, searching for other words.  "That arrogant snipe - can't remember his name - the insidious, oily one who has been such a problem to you in your past.  I know you're attached to him, but it's no grief to me if he destroys himself and his interfering companion, even at this young age - might simplify life for you if he does."
"Do you mean the Master?"  The puzzled look is gone, replaced by concern.
"Ah, yes.  That's what he calls himself."  Antarn's tone rasps with dry humour and lacks any approval.  "Given the greed of the two in question, I've no doubt that he'll decide the fastest route is the best way to get there and ignore the Resonance Interval in the process.  Once he expires from the overload or loses control, the TT capsule may well continue spiraling until it bores a hole through the Space Time Continuum.  Once that starts, you won't have much time to find and stop the machine he's in before the hole expands."
"He's gotten hold of your equation?"
The Doctor's apprehension is contagious and Cramol frowns.
"Or constructed it from the fractals - they were on file."  Lord Cramol adds softly.  "He's got the Math..."
"Where, Antarn?  When?"  Stepping forward, the Doctor grabs the supports on either side of the monitor, shaking it slightly.  Lights blink around the control room, some whirrings and grumblings are heard as portions of the system come back online.
"Can't tell you that.  Proliferation, you know."  The old man grins and winks from the screen.  "Besides, I'm not there when it happened, but you will be, so watch out for it, eh?  It won't be long, now.  And do relax boy, Draiser thinks he arrived in time to take charge, so you'll probably succeed."  Lord Cramol jumps slightly at this, mouth open, but his questions remain unasked.
"Antarn."  The agitated Doctor is making an effort to speak calmly.  "Where are you now?  What happened to your Attic?"
"Oh, it was a while ago that we became dislodged and drifted away.  I don't suppose you noticed at the time, I certainly didn't.  It came as quite a surprise to find that the Attic functioned independently."  With a distant look and a vague smile, Antarn's voice becomes dreamy.  "As it's own Time And Relative Dimension In Space...  Responds to my requests - all I need do is think."
The monitor screen grows cloudy from the edges inward.  Antarn speaks again before his face is obscured.
"By the way, I took your advice boy, got involved with a project and it's been quite invigorating, changed my whole outlook."
His smile might be mischievous as the mist thickens and the monitor goes blank.
The Doctor slowly turns toward the Professor.
"I need to know everything the Young Master's up to - who's his companion?  SaBortanyl?"
"Likely."  Cramol stoops and reaches into the crate on the floor, pulling out a wrapped component, which he hands it to the Doctor.  "She arrived at the Committee Hearing wearing a Yoke Minor - from the House of Rassilon, yet."  A pause for scandalous effect.  "She was still being questioned when Draiser limped in and summarily dismissed the lot of us."
"Limped?"  The Doctor looks up from the wrappings; the object in his hand resembles mating cephalopods, appendages waving softly in response to his movements.  "The current Draiser doesn't limp."
"This one did."  Cramol contemplates the teapot for a moment.  "I can't say I remember seeing him limp on other occasions, but it is possible that I've never watched him walk."  Picking up the pot, Cramol pours out a mug of tea and takes a sip, looks at the cup with approval.
"Did you mention my situation directly to him?"  The Doctor squats and removes yet another panel from the console base.  Within a nest of cables rests a component much like the one he has just unwrapped and the Doctor begins to disconnect it.
"I sent him a private advisory through the MATRIX net asking if he had any interest in your circumstances."  Lord Cramol sips the tea again, appreciatively.  "I never heard back from him - unless you count his appearance at the Committee Hearing."
"Or this crate of parts."  The Doctor stands with the old component and places it, appendages vibrating, on the paper beside the new one.  "His limp and crooked fingers were inflicted in the pain tanks of...  no.  That's Proliferation, since I remember his rescue and it's quite a bit ahead of us here, sequentially speaking."  He pours a mug of tea and drinks distractedly.
"Pain tanks?"  Cramol sips again from the white porcelain mug.
"Immersion beds on a large scale."  The Doctor winces, pulls to one side reflexively and shakes his head.  "They support life but inhibit healing or regeneration and are wired to amplify pain.  The fellows who use them make a sport of pulping people and immersing the still throbbing remains in a tank."
"You rescued him."  Cramol's sharp eyes don't miss much.
"I can't discuss it."  Looking at the tea with some distaste, the Doctor returns his mug to the tray and wipes his hands on a towel nearby, palming a tool on the console, which he pockets smoothly while holding Cramol's eyes with his own.  "Besides, we've got a TARDIS to fix."  He looks down at the two nearly identical pieces and hesitates, hands hovering, uncertain.  Cramol points to the newer part and the Doctor smiles in thanks, moving it to the nest for installation.
Cramol selects another wrapped object from the crate and starts to work.
"Now that I'm a co-conspirator, guilty of second degree Proliferation and abetting a fugitive of the High Council, perhaps you can explain Antarn's concern that the Young Master would choose the fastest route."
The Doctor sighs and hesitates, apparently unwilling to discuss this matter.
"You've obviously seen the fractals..."
Cramol nods with a grunt, then pats his pockets in search of something.
"The perimeters of the loop pattern can be expanded vastly - in fact, should be - when the equation is applied.  According to Antarn, the only way to prevent a Paradox is to program the loops wide and slow.  Each loop may take a lifetime since it is necessary to discharge the Paradoxical plasm before another encounter is made."
"And is that what you're doing?"  Examination of his pockets proving fruitless, Lord Cramol begins inspecting around the console, under wrappings and techno litter.
"Trying to avoid it, actually."  The Doctor responds with injured dignity, taking the sonic screwdriver from his pocket.  "Antarn's concern is that the Master is going to set the variables to produce the smallest practical loop.  The plasm overload will likely throw him into a regenerative coma at the beginning of the second or third loop cycle while the TARDIS continues the program, spiraling in progressively tightening loops until, according to Antarn - who never verified that this is more than theoretical - it creates a hole through which all existence is sucked."  The Doctor's voice is muffled as he puts his head, arms and shoulders into the console base in pursuit of a loose connexion.  "He never offered a satisfactory explanation about where we'd end up, either."  After a brief pause.  "But maybe he's never been there."
Cramol is standing over the Doctor, his search still unsatisfied.
"You knew this at the infirmary and yet answered my questions with fatuous dissembling!"  His stance might be threatening and his voice has undertones of outrage.  "You had me nearly convinced that you knew next to nothing about the Forbidden Formula!"
"Well,"  The Doctor's head is still in the console "It IS forbidden, you know, and technically theoretical, so I don't discuss it with, or in front of just anyone - look how unpleasant everyone gets when the matter comes into conversation."  His head emerges and he sits up, sonic screwdriver in hand.  "Anyway, since I don't want what it offers, I don't waste much time thinking about it."
Cramol pounces on the sonic screwdriver and reclaims it triumphantly.  "You have a point there."  He returns to the component he had been installing.  "Let's get this TARDIS back to working order while we sort out just what SaBortanyl and her friend the Young Master are about."
 

"Trisilium Praecox is arriving tomorrow, in the morning."  SaBortanyl's pleasure in this news is more noticeable than the Young Master's.  "She will be attending the Induction Ceremonies for the newest additions the Chancellery Guards - a couple of them are relations of hers."
"Why should I be interested in the affairs of a relic like her?"  The Young Master glances up irritably from the pad and stylus that are absorbing his attention.  "Unless she knew Antarn - which is possible, given her age."
"Her TT capsule isn't that old.  In fact, it's quite new."  SaBo twirls her long handled spoon in the crystal bowl of thickening bethiren juice for elaborate casual effect.  "And the old girl has a very short memory, these days.  Last time she materialised here at the Academy, she lost her key and had some spares made up."
"And?"  The Young Master thumbs the pad, changes the display and studies it, scowling.  His attention is not on the conversation in the vine hung balcony.
SaBortanyl remains pleasant in spite of this, her smile wide and blue.
"I know where one of those keys is kept."
This takes a moment to register with the Young Master and SaBo sucks her spoon patiently.
"A key to a working TT capsule?"  There is interest in his eyes as he looks again at his companion.  "Can you get at it?"
"Will you be ready by tomorrow morning?"  She nods at a data recorder beside the pad and stylus on the marble topped table.  "You were just saying that you may never get it right."
"Most of my calculations are simply a matter of working out proofs of the series."  The Young Master offers defensively.  "I've gotten it down to one set of variables which doesn't seem to affect the ultimate outcome of the product, one way or another.  Like a mathematical catalyst..."  His attention goes back to his pad.
"And if you don't get the right figures in that set, what happens?"
The Young Master grunts but otherwise ignores the question.
"I said, what happens?"  SaBo presses, her spoon for once motionless in the thickening bethiren juice.
"The calculations turn out the same, no matter what numbers I insert at that point."  The Young Master is attempting patience, but it sounds patronising.  "Likely it makes no difference to the ultimate outcome of the equation, so I'm looking for the figures which will produce the tightest loop sequence."
"There was a notation in the files about loop sequence."  She remembers the bethiren juice and stirs again, thoughtfully.  "The Paradox increases inversely to the loop size.  It is possible that a smaller loop might generate the power to become self sustaining..."
"Which is exactly the point of this escapade.  To become a high powered, self sustaining loop."
"Circularity."  SaBortanyl's smile is calculating.  "So you will be ready by tomorrow morning?  The TT capsule will be delivered to Holding after she arrives at the PanOpticon - midmorning at the latest.  We should be there early."
"Why the hurry?"
"Her name is listed as a speaker at the Reception following Induction, but she may decide to leave before the celebrations are over.  I'd rather have the TT capsule back before she wants it."
"Coward!"  Slamming the stylus to the table, the Young Master stands.  "What difference can it make?"  He begins to pace the small balcony, stirring the vines with his motion.
"If we are mistaken and the experiment does not work out as expected..."
"It won't matter, we'll likely be dead!"  His voice is too loud for discretion and he stops short, hearing himself.
"...Then I'd rather not have the apparent theft and unauthorised use of a TT capsule to draw attention to other charges that may be pending on our return."  She continues evenly as she twirls another thread trailing spoonful of purple goo.  "And if we are successful..."
SaBortanyl raises her eyes from the crystal bowl and watches the Young Master agitate in the small balcony for a few moments.  "It might be better if no one knew what we've accomplished - for the time being."
The Young Master pauses to absorb the implications, weigh potentials.  His eyes narrow and he sucks in his cheeks as he thinks; this accentuates the dark angularity of his features, making his angular face appear gaunt.
"What they don't know can't hurt us, right?"  He speaks at last.  "Tomorrow morning, early."  Sweeping up his pad and stylus he starts for the door behind the vines.
"Just make sure you've got your sums right."  SaBortanyl isn't looking at him, her attention on the bowl and spoon.  "I wouldn't want your pet grablich to get loose and bite someone."
The door slams when it closes behind the Young Master and SaBo smiles in cold, blue satisfaction.
 

Shadow wrapped shapes loom in the echoing storage facility known as Holding.  Various models of air cars, TransTemporal capsules, ancient transmat units and even a small space vessel of unusual design rest in the gloom.  The twilight constant here results from pools of blue light where the walkways that grid the enormous structure intersect.  Any motion between these points is detected, triggering further illumination in the zones of activity.
A light appears out of sequence in the pattern; at its centre is the blue police box beside a security field generator.  The motion which triggered the lights comes from the Doctor, now squatting in front of the security field generator and talking to himself as he studies the circuitry and makes modifications.
"Bypass the second level and connect the...Ow!"  A sudden spark and hissing from the Doctor, indicative of a small sharp pain, interrupt the monologue as he shakes his hand and sucks his fingers.  The injury proves minor on inspection and the Doctor returns to his adjustments of the security field generator.  In a moment the security field flickers into place with a buzz and a pop.
"That won't be too difficult to disengage, but no one will be taking you anywhere for a while."  He speaks fondly to the TARDIS as he fumbles the field generator box shut without looking and with little success.  Glancing finally at the task in hand, he discovers a tool lodged within the cover, preventing it from closing.  Removing a sonic screwdriver - an Accuson180x, no less - the Doctor stands and pockets the screwdriver with a satisfied smile.  Away from the TARDIS, lights accompany him as he tours the vast storehouse, blooming around him where ever he moves and fading after he passes.  He is alone with his observations and memories in a wandering pool of light.
"That's Yylloria's!"  The jaunty purple aircar parked on his left is slightly scratched along one side.  "Yylloria the Smug.  Security impounded it after we parked it IN the PanOpticon."  The Doctor chuckles softly, "They never did prove who piloted it, but it's no wonder I got the reception I did, if this is recent."   A quick worried look over his shoulder brings another smile at his own folly.  "I wonder if it's Proliferation to reminisce with insentient non-lifeforms?"  He walks on and the lights keep pace.  Pausing here and there to look more closely at items in storage, the Doctor gives the impression of a museum patron viewing the exhibits.
When an entrance door opens with a furtive groan, the Doctor slips behind a nearby aircar, putting it between himself and the door, and stands very still.  In a moment, the light above him begins to dim while lights by the door flare to brilliance, illuminating SaBortanyl and the Young Master.
The door closes with a resounding clang.
"Why don't you just announce we're here?"  SaBortanyl's words are a muted hiss.
"The place is empty."  The Young Master pulls a data recorder from his pocket and presses a key.  "We're alone."  His voice is absorbed by the vastness of the space around them.
"You forget the Doctor."
"I thought you said he'd been released after Draiser broke up the Select Committee Inquiry."  The key pad has more of the Young Master's attention than the conversation does.
"He still had to get that TT capsule moving again and according to this morning's census, it hasn't left Holding yet."
"Then likely he's fixing it - pity that thing's such a wreck."  The Young Master sighs distractedly.  "We could have used it and left him trying to prove his innocence to the Select Committee."
SaBortanyl chuckles grimly as she leads their way along the walkway toward an aisle with vacancies along it.  The Young Master follows, his focus on the calculations at hand.
Pressed against the aircar in the shadows, the Doctor tries not to breathe while footsteps sound along the walkway toward a distant wall, the Young Master murmuring occasionally.  They are past his position before the Doctor eases his head around the aircar tailfin to note their destination.  His movement is so gradual, so furtive that the motion sensor does not betray his presence with light.
The walkers stop and turn back toward the door, counting rows and branchings in search of the proper space.  In the gloom, the Doctor's face at the edge of a tailfin goes unnoticed and he does not move even his eyes until SaBortanyl turns with the count and faces away from him, the Young Master following suit.
"I set the transmat to park the capsule thirty-one rows down and seven spaces in."  SaBortanyl finds the row she seeks ahead of them.  "Although I don't understand why there are no labels on the rows."
"Perhaps the designers operated on the theory that space is relative."  The Young Master comments,  "That was the premise used when the PanOpticon was designed."
"They were philosophers, not accountants."  SaBo observes with dry superiority.  "So not inclined to accuracy.  I've found the only thing relative in real life is value."

A transmat beam erupts several sections away.  Apparent motion is detected and lights respond, revealing a recent model TransTemporal capsule in a previously empty space.  The sleek metallic cylinder seems to bulge at the centre, tapering slightly at the ends, and the oily flowing of its reflective surface distorts all images there, deflecting the eye.  To stare with fascination at the patterns sliding across the TT capsule is to invite nausea.
"On time."  SaBortanyl exults.  "And exactly as ordered.  Do you have the programme ready?"
The Young Master hurries to the capsule impatiently.
"Do you have the key?"  He snaps his fingers, holds out his hand.
"Do you have any idea what you're doing?"  The Doctor steps from behind the aircar and into the main aisle, causing lights around him to flare into brilliance.  "Don't you realize that the Paradox can kill you?"
"The key."  The Young Master demands again, ignoring the Doctor.
SaBortanyl turns from the open hand, confronting the Doctor as he approaches, instead.
"The Paradox hasn't killed you."
"I'm not hijacking a TARDIS in a misguided attempt at immortality, either."  His voice is harsh.  After a short pause, he resumes, speaking with more patience as he walks quickly toward the pair.  "I've never deliberately sought to cross my own paths."
"You told Cramol that you'd met yourself in time."  SaBo presses for information while the Young Master rolls his eyes with exaggerated impatience.
"Not face to face in the same form!"  The Doctor becomes adamant.  "What happened was done to me, I didn't choose it.  Plasma shock takes painful years to discharge.  Even minor overloads can force concurrent regenerations, cause madness or amnesia in the survivors."
"Why should we believe what you say?"  The Young Master drawls.  "You look well enough - it could be that you are jealous of your Circularity and don't wish to share it."
"I don't carry the curse of Circularity yet - it isn't something that happens as the result of a single event, or even a series of coincidental ones."
"You never mentioned this to me when I visited you."  The Young Master is accusative.
"There was nothing to tell you, nor any reason.  I had no idea what you had in mind at the time, and no justification for interference."
"I can't say I'm surprised that you subscribe to the Non-interference policy."  Dripping derision as he speaks, the Young Master circles away from the TT capsule, placing the Doctor between himself and SaBortanyl.  "What a waste of Power!  SaBo, my dear - how do you feel about the Non-interference policy?"
She is silent for a moment, watching the Doctor turn to face her reply.
"Not only a waste of Power,"  SaBo catches a shrug and a nod across the Doctor's shoulder, flickering a smile in return.  "But also a threat to security.  Who knows,"  She continues as she delivers a stiff hand to his solar plexus,  "What could slip in under your guard."  A second jab underscores her point.
The Doctor folds and drops to his knees.
Producing a key, SaBortanyl reaches across the gasping Doctor, and calmly unlocks the time capsule door.  She turns and bows to the Young Master as she holds the door open.
"After you, my Lord."
"No, don't"  The Doctor's ragged whisper is lost in a groan as his hand is ground beneath the Young Master's boot.  SaBortanyl's foot connects with the Doctor's side as she, in turn, steps over him and into the TT capsule belonging to Trisilium Praecox.
The door closes with a snick.
"Lock it!"  The Young Master crosses to the far side of the control console while SaBortanyl flips a switch on the side nearest the door.
The control room around them is tinted the palest aqua with ornate gilt trim at every corner, intersection and juncture available.  The colour theme of aqua and gold is continued in the formal drawing room furniture arranged throughout the control room, and the walls are bright with gilt framed mirrors that reflect every movement from a variety of angles.  A modest buffet is laid out on a table at one side; complete service for six and three crystal bethiren bowls with long handled silver spoons.

Outside, the Doctor sits massaging his hand tenderly as he addresses the sleek time capsule.
"With any luck at all, you can hear me in there."  He stands carefully, holding his side.  "If you'd slow down and study the fractals and other data, you'd see that the hazards inherent in the procedure you're about to attempt require careful planning. Haste is dangerous and could result in a permanent regeneration fugue.  Imagine never being quite sure who you are - or worse, not knowing if it's the past or the future you remember.  That's what happened to the others who tried to become Circular in a hurry.  Or at least the ones who lived through the process..."
"Oh Doctor, do shut up."  The Young Master looks up from his calculations, scanning the console, moving from station to station and throwing switches with increasing frustration while the Doctor's voice continues to fill the room.
"Just slip the programme into the console and let's get on with it."  The bethiren bowls have SaBortanyl's interest and she moves toward the table to open covered containers, searching for juice to fill them.
"It's not on a rod."  All the way around the console turning and flipping while the Doctor's voice drones on.  "And if I have to listen to him ranting out there, I'm not going to be able to concentrate enough to enter the data into the memory banks."  Another switch, a knob adjusted, resulting in an increase of volume that does not decrease when the knob is turned the other direction.  The Young Master balls his fist and hits the console, enraged.
"...insane, but what we learned from them is that once your body stops regenerating, you go on as a self sustaining memory, unable to change or stop.  Like ghosts.  Eternally limited by your experiences and memories, bound within the chain of events that brought you there, trapped by decisions you cannot change and emotions you no longer feel - continually cycling through your own life like a shadow.  Worse, when Time as we know it ends, you will still be there waiting for an exit.  I've seen them..."
SaBo raises her voice to be heard over the Doctor's monologue.
"Not on a rod?  I thought you had everything ready."
"It's not that simple."  Impatient condescension flavors his voice.  "After I enter the initial formula, I need to compensate for the Resonance Interval, or a drift sets in separating the loops spatially as well as offsetting them temporally and reducing the Paradoxical charges."
"NO!!"  The internal sound system rattles with the Doctor's panic.  "The Resonance Interval is an inherent part of the Space  Time architecture - delete it and you open the door to chaos!  I know Cramol has told you that even the smallest fracture can rupture the Interval under pressure of a massive Paradoxical plasm release - which you will certainly cause.  Once a rupture starts, all of Time could shatter!  Everything would happen at once!  Endanger yourself if you must, but there are Galaxies of beings filling the Universe who have no part in your game, and shouldn't be required to pay the price of it."
At the console, the Young Master is still poking and twisting in an attempt silence the frantic Doctor.  Seeing this, SaBortanyl leaves the buffet table, steps up to the console and studies it for a moment.  The Doctor lectures on, but briefly as she reaches out and presses a button labeled: Speakers.  It is right in front of the Young Master's face.
His relieved thanks are not as loud in the resulting silence as his glare at the gloat of superiority SaBo displays before she returns to her search for bethiren juice intended to fill the crystal bowls.
 

Outside the TT capsule there is a click and the Doctor pauses, head cocked to one side, considering.
"You turned the speakers off, didn't you?  You can't hear me - not that you were listening before.  Listening to reason hasn't been one of your strong points."  He looks at the time capsule and then at the spaces around it.  "This has gone past words - I need an anchor...  ah!  Security field generator."  With a nod, he turns on his heel and starts back along the main aisle toward his own TARDIS, gaining speed.
He races ahead of the lights, which flash then dim behind him like the tail of a blue comet, following his course.  Skidding to a halt beside the security field generator that binds his own TARDIS to the Holding facility, he works in the dark for a moment before the lights catch up with him.
Fumbling the sonic screwdriver from his pocket, he rattles at the box cover and finally pops it open.  A few adjustments, looking over his shoulder to make sure the hijacked time capsule hasn't dematerialised, some blasts from the Accuson180x and the field generator buzzes, crackles, gives off a puff of smoke.
"Fratz!"  The Doctor makes an entry on the keypad and gives it another treatment with the sonic screwdriver.
 

The bags of bethiren juice are located in an elaborate jeweled coffer on a shelf also occupied with small fragile sculptures, and SaBortanyl fills one of the crystal bowls with great satisfaction.
"I thought you didn't want anyone to know we borrowed this TARDIS."  The Young Master compares sets of figures on his data recorder against what he has just entered into the destination locator.
"Who is the old girl going to complain to about this?"  She stirs the thin fresh juice,  "So long as we leave no other evidence of our journey."  And raises the spoon, twirling it to prevent the still liquid load from dripping back into the bowl before it reaches her waiting mouth.
"Since you insisted on being here, you might as well be useful."  Moving to another station on the console he checks a series of readouts against his data recorder.
"I have been useful."  SaBo sucks the spoon clean and returns it to the bowl.  "This TT capsule and its key, the files, the key cards..."  Her cool arrogance irritates the Young Master and his scowl deepens.
"Put the bowl down!"  He snaps at her,  "And come watch these readouts while I reset the phase shift sequence."
She strolls over to the console and looks over his shoulder.
"I promise I won't spill a drop."  She responds to his glare at the bowl and spoon still in her hands.  He returns to the other work station and continues entering his programme.
 

A security field generator has handles bolted to each side and is considered portable, but the Doctor is discovering that it was not designed to be carried by one person.  It is with great effort that he wrenches, drags and nearly rolls the generator to and along the main aisle toward the Young Master's hijacked TARDIS.  The lights wait for him while he struggles.
 

"You wanted these readouts to be static?"  The spoon circulates in the bowl of juice, "They're fluctuating."
"Then hit reset and see what you get."  The Young Master moves to another station, checks dials and gauges, turns a knob while SaBo reaches out casually and presses a key on the control panel.
There are three different beeps and some ticking sounds as all the readouts on the console reset to zero.
"What was that?"   The Young Master races from station to station.  "You've lost my programme!  WHAT did you DO?"  He turns on SaBortanyl, all fists and red faced fury.
"I pressed 'reset' as you suggested."  Unruffled, she saunters over to the programmers station and reaches around him to tap at the keyboard there.  "The programme's intact, but your coordinates don't fall within the preset operating parameters."  Smiling, she adds, "I can change those, if you like."
"Presets are sealed - you can't..."
"Watch me."  Still holding the bowl, SaBortanyl single handedly presses keys, turns knobs, adjusts levers and taps again at another set of keys.  Stirring the slowly congealing juice occasionally, she works her way around the hexagonal console back to the original work station.  The Young Master follows in angry silence.
"You'll see I've broken the seal and reset the parameters to include our programme."   At this, the Young Master seethes.  "But the system needs an Imprimature to reseal it before it will work again.  Would you care to do the honors my Lord?"  The spoon turns in the bowl as she dispassionately observes her companion's dilemma.
"Put my print on record?  That would hardly be discrete, would it?"
"Well, we can pack up and go home - just as the Doctor ordered."  She twirls a spoonful of juice up to her mouth, "There may be another TARDIS available for use when you've got the nerve."  And licks the spoon clean while the Young Master looks at his right hand, considering.
"Can we set it to wipe itself when we're done?  Remove all programming, or distort it?"
"I'm afraid I didn't bring an uncoded rod with me."  Her blue smile spreads maliciously for a moment.  "But you know as well as I do that Imprimature works through MATRIX connexions.  It comes down to taking responsibility as well as taking the risk."
Engaging a small switch on the console opens a panel below and a glowing green, hand sized plate slides out.  Circling its outer edge, a red line pulses brightly, indicating readiness.
"It doesn't hurt as much the second time."  SaBo offers in cold consolation as she spoons more thickening juice, spiraling it toward her mouth.
"Which is good."  The Young Master comments, flexing his right hand as he holds the wrist.  "Since the first reading gave me convulsions and left me unconscious for three days."
"I've seen deeper readings do that, but it's been done already and all you need do now is to seal the operating parameters."
The Young Master is pale with remembered pain as he opens his hand, palm down, above the plate - pausing a moment before pressing it against the glowing surface within the red outline.  A crackling sound and the red line fades.  As soon as he lifts his hand, the plate retracts and lights all around the drive console blink.  There is a satisfied hum from the TARDIS.
"That does it.  Given the circumstances,"  SaBortanyl steps aside with elaborate courtesy, "I think we might not want to return to this location when we're done.  Would you care to correct the coordinates and start the journey?"
It is with triumph and relief that the Young Master makes final adjustments and activates the machinery of their doom.
 

The sound of a muted siren distracts the Doctor as he wrestles the security field generator into aisle thirty-one.  He looks up to see the hijacked TARDIS dematerialise, and returns to his task with renewed effort.  A lurching, panic driven heave drops it near enough to space seven to work effectively.  On his knees beside it, he pulls off the cover and starts to program the reluctant device.
Beside him, the TT capsule materialises briefly - the siren sound is less muted and instead it seems like a scream.  Noting the location, the Doctor starts muttering.
"Wider field setting...  maximum power - don't tell me that!"  He thumps an upper corner of the box and grunts with satisfaction as the readings change, slightly.
 

Inside the time capsule there is a flicker, a jar like a rough landing.  The Young Master exchanges stares for a moment with a slightly altered version of himself then turns back to the console.  His second self shoves him aside in an attempt to take control of the programming.  Neither seems aware of SaBortanyl, although the mirrors watch her, wrapped in a blue haze, pointing at a ghostly second aging before her eyes.  The crystal bowl slips from her hand forgotten, and bethiren juice flows out to stain the pale handwoven carpet before hardening around the silver spoon.
"You fool!  You've wasted your life and mine - get away from that console before you throw away any more of our lives!"
"No!  This is mine!  You'll have your time, we're just passing..."
"This is not tangential!   We're concurrent.  Now, move away, I tell you!"
Another bump, and the Time Rotor pauses briefly, flickering before continuing its rise and fall.  SaBortanyl screams as another aging ghost appears with the first and both ghosts sway in shrieking agony.  The Young Master's knees buckle and he catches himself on the console work station.  A second, different and subtly changed version stands beside him looking at his surroundings.  Bringing his focus on the Young Master sagging against the console, and his predecessor frantically attempting to change the coordinates, the newest Master begins to laugh.
There is another jolt and a flicker as a third modified version of the Master appears.  The laugh of the second becomes cries of anguish and the first reproduction collapses beside the moaning original.
SaBortanyl is no longer looking at her howling ghosts, but at her old and wrinkled hands.  Her wails continue unchanged as she falls writhing to the floor.
Around them, gilt edged mirrors flash reflections at each other, silent observations of disaster.
 

Outside, frustration gives way to partial triumph as the Doctor finally succeeds in getting the security field generator to hum and produce a field - but a moment too late to hold the hijacked TARDIS flickering into and out of view with a distressed squeal.  He shuts it off with a grunt of disgust.  Circling quickly to the other side to reset it for standby, he holds his breath, hand hovering, poised to engage the field bubble.
At once, there is a faint ruffling breeze around the Doctor's hair, then from an uncertain direction, a high whistling wail that increases to a wheezing groan.  For a moment there is a shimmering followed by the impression of something solid.
The Doctor hits the switch and the security field engages with a snap, just as the TARDIS solidifies within it.
The field wall sparks when he turns to walk away and the Doctor realises that he is also trapped inside the impenetrable bubble.  Beside him, the time capsule sobs and vibrates as it attempts to continue with its programmed course.
He pounds on the door and shouts, but there is no response.
Turning away, the Doctor finds a transmat beam delivering Lord Cramol and a squad of Security officers.  Draiser is among the company, holding a TARDIS key shaped like the one SaBortanyl used to unlock the door earlier.
"How did this happen?"  Cramol indicates the security field generator and the field bubble enclosing the Doctor with the struggling time capsule.
"I set the field limits wide - to compensate for Resonance drift - and then stood on the wrong side of the box when I engaged it."  The Doctor shrugs sheepishly.  "There was some urgency and I was less concerned with accuracy than immediate action."
"How many cycles?"  Demands Draiser.
"Three, I think.  I was a bit busy at the time - the last one was so close to the one before it's a wonder there wasn't a collision."  The Doctor glances at the time capsule behind him, quivering in it's effort to break free of the containment field and continue as instructed.  "Would have been a bit messy.  Can you shut down their programme remotely before we create an Event in here?"
Lord Cramol and Draiser consult briefly, heads together over a hand held communicator unit.  They cannot be heard over the combined hum of the security field generator and the increasingly distressed wails of the trapped TARDIS.
"We don't have that option.  Someone broke the seal and reprogrammed the presets,"  Cramol tells the Doctor.  "Bypassing the MATRIX failsafe circuits."
"You'll have to show me how that's done sometime."  The Doctor comments wryly.  "I could use some autonomy and a little less interference."
"I don't think Antarn would like that."  Draiser speaks softly so that only the Doctor and Cramol hear.  "He's got plans."
The TARDIS ripples with colors and seems to shift, now slightly out of phase with the security field.
"They won't come to much if we can't stop what's happening in here."  The Doctor looks nervously over his shoulder at the frantic time capsule.
Cramol moves to inspect the security field generator.  Making small adjustments with his sonic screwdriver, he checks the readings, taps at the controls and shakes his head.
"Doctor, do you have a sonic screwdriver on you, and your own TARDIS key?"
"Yes, but the key won't fit..."
"We've got a flutter happening here, and it's possible that you can use that discontinuity to modify the lock to fit your key."
"Show me the key you've got."  Approaching the containment field wall carefully, the Doctor peers through the slight distortion at the key Draiser holds out.  "Well, it's trionic at least, but it's nothing like mine..."
"The surface will be mutable, with the pre-sets altered."  Cramol raises his voice to be heard over the increasingly painful screech of interrupted dematerialisation.  "And I imagine the TT capsule will help, given the circumstances."
The Doctor turns to the door, sonic screwdriver in one hand and his TARDIS key in the other.
"Come on, girl.  I'm trying to help you, so make this easy."  Adjusting the sonic screwdriver, he aims a blast at the keyhole, which seems to melt and flow slightly around the key he slips into it.  With a bit of wiggling and judicious use of the sonic screwdriver, he manages turn the key slightly.  "Let me in so I can stop the programme."  The sonic screwdriver is focused on the key in the lock and pulsing in synch with the time capsule.  "Please let me in!"  The Doctor pleads as he jiggles the key.  "I promise I'll stop this for you."
The door swings open abruptly, not an invitation, but an insistence.  The Doctor complies.
The graceful elegance of aqua and gold is fragmented in silver mirror light, while the eight entities between the mirrors live out their agonies in reflection.  Around him, wizened, writhing SaBortanyls and convulsing Young Masters scream and beg for help.  Ignoring this, the Doctor steps around a twitching regeneration of the Young Master to approach the console, locate an emergency brake and engage it.
The Time Rotor stops with a groan and a sigh, but the anguished shrieking continues.
At the door, the Doctor waves to Draiser and Cramol beside the security field generator, and they shut off the device.  There are curls of smoke rising from the projection side of the box. Cramol makes another adjustment and pats the box on top, speaking over his shoulder while Draiser limps into the TARDIS to join the Doctor.
"Get this thing into a stasis field in my lab before it burns, and send a team from the infirmary, immediately."  Ignoring the response, he enters the TARDIS where reprogramming is in process.  He pauses at the sight of the Young Master and SaBortanyl, gives a snort of contempt and moves to the console.
"You might want to leave."  Draiser says to Cramol.  "Before we close the door and return these,"  His gnarled hand indicates the moaning triplicates of the Young Master and SaBortanyl.  "To somewhen else.  The process will compromise your standing with the High Council and its Select Committees."
"If it's all the same."  Professor Lord Cramol takes a position at the console,  "I'll stay with you.  Now, what are we doing here?"
"It's a reversal - except that, unlike the original programme, we don't compensate for Resonance drift."  The Doctor locks the door from the console as he speaks.  "And we let the TARDIS determine intermediate landing coordinates."  He seems oblivious to Draiser's glare at this acceptance of Cramol's decision and brings up specifics on the nearest monitor.
"Since you're with us then,"  Draiser looks back to his programming,  "You can do the honors resealing the presets."  A flick of his gnarled finger brings the glowing green plate sliding from under the console again.
Lord Cramol flexes his right hand, turning the palm up and looking at it.
"I've never liked the sensation."  He comments, placing his palm within the pulsing red line with a grimace and withdrawing it quickly.
"Nobody does."  The Doctor agrees with a shudder.  "It feels like someone is scraping at the insides of your cells."
"To me, it feels like my cells are being turned inside out."  Draiser comments, moving left to the next work station, refining the programme.  With the Doctor and Lord Cramol assisting, the process is mercifully brief.
Around them, the Young Masters and SaBortanyls continue to howl and writhe.
"You've done this before."  Cramol studies the programme as Draiser and the Doctor set the final coordinates and engage the Time Rotor.
"Not like this."  Draiser watches the replications and their originals calm slightly as the time capsule begins to operate.  "We rarely deal with ephemerals under these conditions and it is interesting to see how they respond.  SaBortanyl seems to be holding up quite well - likely the result of bethiren saturation."
"Will she survive this reversal?"
"She should stabilise enough for your High Council to reprimand, if that's what you mean, Cramol, but I doubt that she'll ever fully recover."
The last version of the Young Master to appear manages to sit and pull himself upright with the edge of the console.
"No!"  He gasps.  "Don't erase me!  I am here now and alive.  I deserve to live."  His hands grope at the controls in front of him, attempting to make changes.  "Send the others away, but let me continue..."
He staggers back as Draiser elbows him aside and resets the console.
"So you want to hold the grablich he caught, and pay the price for his mistakes?  Confinement?  Forfeiture?"  Draiser snaps.
"I didn't make his mistakes and it's my life that's forfeit."
One of his other selves claws upward on his legs and he shoves himself off with an elegantly booted foot.  Grabbing the foot, the other self pulls, bringing them both to the floor where they flail at each other weakly.
The TARDIS arrives somewhere and with a flickering wail the most recent version fades like an apparition, leaving the other to grapple with air.  Beside SaBortanyl, one of the ghostly blue crones blinks out and the other two become more solid.
The Time Rotor starts up again and stops moments later to eliminate two more specters from the control room.  Opening his eyes for a moment as the time capsule he stole moves again, the Young Master sees his remaining self wimpering beside him on the floor, and that one vanishes like the others before.
With five individuals in the control room, the TARDIS makes one brief final journey and materialises in Holding where the medical team and Security wait.
Behind them, the Select Committee has assembled.
"Well, we solved that problem."  The Doctor comments as the time capsule door opens to the awaiting officials.  "Just in time for Trouble to arrive."
"An odious lot."  Draiser agrees cheerfully.  "But easily handled.  Watch."  He pulls himself into a posture of rigid formality, his expression one of grim determination as he limps out to address the formally robed and yoked Committee before they can crowd through the door.  At the sight of the fierce C.I.A. agent, the medical team stands aside to let him exit before entering the time capsule.
The head of the medical team pauses to ask Lord Cramol what has happened to the Young Master and SaBortanyl, moaning and unconscious on the floor.
"Caught a grablich by the tail."  Cramol grunts wearily.  "By experimenting with Time.  He'll be up for some regenerations and she'll need time in immersion gel to function again."
"Looks like she's had her share of bethiren, already."  The technician examining her comments.
"The gel's dilute and will help with withdrawal, but it's likely the last bethiren she'll see."  Cramol turns back to the console where he and the Doctor are removing the last traces of the disastrous programme.
Beyond the open doors, Draiser can be heard overriding the select Committee Members.
"...has no cause to reassemble again in this affair!"
"Your authority does not come through the High Council."  The response is sanctimonious. "Or the Lord President, and therefore carries no weight with this Committee, which was convened to pass Judgement in this case."
"This is a new case and, given the delicacy of the situation, is outside the bumbling authority of your High Council or its Lord President."  Draiser's reply cuts across their objections.  "You have been warned and reprimanded for interference once."  Various Council Members are attempting to express their views, but Draiser continues undaunted.  "Your presence here indicates a deliberate conspiracy to acquire the Forbidden Formula."
"Quite the contrary!  We are here to insure that no one else..."
"You were told, given full formal notice."  Draiser raises his voice.  "To disband and cease all inquiry on the subject.  Shall I request Security to attend to the matter?"  The Committee Members sputter indignantly at this suggestion.
Deprogramming complete, the Doctor and Lord Cramol leave the medical team in the mirrored control room tending the fallen, and join Draiser in Holding.  Cramol's appearance aggravates Committee Members even further, but Draiser motions for Security and the uniformed squad steps forward.
For a moment all conversation stops and the moans of the Young Master and SaBortanyl are heard from within the time capsule.
In combination with the Security detachment, the sound has a sobering effect on the chief speaker and his cohorts.
"What about them?"  His chin jerks toward the open door.
"He wasted three regenerations doing this and is currently in coma."  Draiser shrugs.  "I doubt they'll be able to save his present body, since those wasted regenerations were concurrent."
There are murmurs of disbelief among the Committee members.  The med team bringing out the Young Master and SaBortanyl on stretchers is greeted with gasps of horror.  Aged and grey, the two seem to be withering further as the transmat beam plays over them and their attendants.  They vanish in a buzz and crackle that releases the Committee Members from their shock.
"Lord Cramol."  The chief speaker reclaims his position of authority.  "What brings you here?"
"I am here as a technical advisor.  We have managed to prevent a fracture in the Space Time Continuum that would have destroyed your arrogant, obstructive, narrow minded greed along with Gallifrey and the rest of the Universe."
"We will require a full report of these events."
"You will receive nothing of the kind!"  Cramol snaps back. "Your Committee has been disbanded and I am no longer responsible to you."
Draiser nods and offers a device to Cramol.  "Get them out of here."  He indicates the Committee with a jerk of his head.  "I'll be in touch with you."
"Right."  Cramol inspects the mechanism with interest.  "This is a transmat remote?  I haven't seen this design before - what's the range?"
"It's pre-programmed.  Use the green button."  Draiser turns away, sagging slightly with the effort his patience is costing him.  "Security, wait here for Trisilium Praecox to take possession of her TransTemporal capsule.  If she has any questions, refer her to me."  Taking the Doctor by an arm he heads for the main aisle, leaving Professor Lord Cramol to receive the continued protestations of the Select Committee Members.  The crackle and hum of the transmat beam behind him brings a sigh of relief.
"Now, my boy, let's get you out of here before you start any more trouble."
"Trouble?  What trouble?"  The Doctor is grinning broadly as they make their way back to the blue police box.  "I can't imagine what you mean."
"I know who piloted Yylloria's aircar."
"But that was no trouble at all."
Draiser chuckles at this and they stroll through the flowing light to the TARDIS door.  Dipping into a pocket of his work smock, Draiser pulls out a rod and flips it, sparkling, into the air, catching it to place in the Doctor's hand.
"Antarn wanted you to have another copy.  Since you have the mnemonics already, it will make sense to you in this form."
"You're in contact with Antarn?"  The Doctor studies the rod in his hand, moves it slightly in the light, bringing a rainbow from its depths to play upon his face.
"He recruited me - and the others.  Told me once that being alone at the End of the Universe didn't have much appeal, so he decided to make some changes in the way things turned out."
"Through the Celestial Intervention Agency?"  The rainbow winks in and out and in again.
"Someone needs to - unless you think the High Council is better qualified to see that things work."
"I don't think anyone is qualified."  The Doctor closes his hand around the rainbow.  "To make life decisions for anyone else.  That's what Non-interference is about."  He shoves the rod in his trouser pocket.  "It's been good to see you again, my friend - care for a cup of tea before I go?"
"I'm supposed to see you gone before you start any more trouble, remember?"
With a sigh the Doctor fumbles for his key and unlocks the blue door.
"Take care of yourself, Doctor, until we meet again.  And steer clear of Grabliches, eh?"  Draiser steps away from the TARDIS as the Doctor slips in and closes the door.
 

In the familiar comfort of his own control room, the Doctor seeks a storage place for the unwanted rod.  The search is interrupted when Antarn's face appears unannounced on the communication monitor.
"I thought that's what you'd be doing - hiding it again."
The Doctor jumps at the sound of Antarn's voice, turns a guilty face to the monitor.
"Why not just slip it in and take the ride?"
"I don't want to be Circular - dreadful concept, trapped in a redundancy for eternity.  I like things fine just the way they are."  He drops the rod into a worn blue velvet bag and loses the bag in the back of a deep drawer, which he closes firmly.  "Except the part about running errands for you and your friends."
"Listen boy, I've got some new data to add to this debate: Life is not a circle, but a web - or a tangle of vines.  Having broken the barrier that hides this, I go where I will - if I'm already there, I remember meeting myself and I laugh and I laugh."
The Doctor waves away the argument, dismissing it.  "I've seen another face of it."
"There is more."  Antarn won't let this go.  "Every choice we make, every action, is a seed planted in Time to thrive or die..."
"Mere metalogical speculation for First Year Enrollees."
"From this position, it is reality.  I admit that getting here wasn't always pleasant, but now I've arrived, I must say the view is wonderful.  Changes everything and it's worth the journey."  Antarn's face is crinkled with amusement.  "Do drop by."  His face fades from the screen as the Time Rotor begins to rise and fall, moving the TARDIS through Time and Space.
"Wait!"  The Doctor rushes to the console, attempting to stop this involuntary journey.  There is a spot of light, still at the center of the communication monitor and the sound of Antarn's laughter fading.
"Wait!  Where are you taking me?"
Nothing he does seems to make a difference and the Time Rotor continues its function.  He slaps the console in frustration and then shrugs and shakes his head.

These circumstances are not unfamiliar nor unexpected.

Antarn's laughter echoes.