* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

 None of what the Doctor had mentioned to Grace about the Matrix had prepared her for the reality she now faced.

 Not that she'd ever expected to go there herself. As she recalled from some of her friend's stories, it was not a place to be lightly entered, or easily departed from.

 She sighed heavily, then rose to her feet. Above her stretched a cloudless sky of orange, under which rolled a green grassland scattered with small, white flowers.

 She stood, considering. The Doctor had told her that nothing was quite as it seemed, here in the Matrix, and that its outward form was wont to mirror the state of mind of any who beheld it.

 Well, *that* was unfortunate. Her present state of mind, craving as she did her customary contact with the TARDIS, was not particularly steady. She glanced around, wondering where to go, and what to do first.

 A dark smudge on the horizon suddenly caught her attention. She squinted, trying to better see.

 A few moments later, she slumped. There could be no doubt -- a dark, sinister bank of storm-clouds, seething with lightning, was rolling across the plain towards her with frightening speed.

 ***

 The Time Lord known as The Abbot was normally slow to anger. But now, as he knelt, held down by two Roman Centurions while a third raised a sword above him, Abacusundrevalojorephar felt extreme perturbation.

 He instinctively tried to raise his head. "Hold him still!" barked Septimus. Porcellus roughly pushed at the monk's head, forcing it down so that his neck was exposed.

 And something in the Abbot snapped.

 In times of extreme stress, Time Lords can be unexpectedly strong, a trait they share with humans and several other humanoid species. Now, the Abbot gathered himself and surged to his feet, throwing off his tormentors as Septimus stumbled backwards in surprise.

 Standing tall, the Time Lord stood, glaring around at the stumbling Romans. He whirled around as Flavius and Porcellus recovered and charged at him. Two well-placed blows to their necks sent them tumbling to the floor, where they lay, unconscious or dead. He neither knew nor cared at the moment.

 Eyes flashing, he turned to Septimus. The Roman, astonished at their captive's sudden fury, took an involuntary step backwards, then raised his sword and rushed at him.

 A moment later, he joined his comrades as a stunning blow to his temple left him sprawled on the floor.

 The Abbot stood, slightly dazed, staring around at his handiwork. "You primitives *dared* lay a hand upon me?" he rasped, shaking his head slightly. Realizing that the immediate danger was over, he looked down and blinked.

 Yes, he'd done that -- there was no one else in the room. Now he stepped back, a hand going to his head.

 "What have I done?" the Abbot whispered. "Mustn't interfere..." What if he'd killed them, what if they'd been meant to be important threads in the timeline? They hadn't meant to come here, to a foreign shore and another time; their primitive intellects had left them little other response than violence, he *knew* that.

 He'd always been so careful, so calm and collected, but now, with chaos visited on him by the antics of the Doctor and his friend Grace--

 No. *This* was not the their fault. This present fiasco was *his* own doing, his own responsibility. He closed his eyes in consternation. There was nothing he could do now; what was done was done.

 A groan from one of the Romans caused the Abbot's eyes to snap open. Looking down hopefully, he saw that one of his victims was stirring. Moments later, he thought he saw signs of returning awareness in the other two.

 So great was his relief that his knees almost buckled. But rather than stumble, he turned, and reaching down, snatched up his TARDIS. Rolling it quickly up, he slid it into an interior pocket of his habit, and, turning, strode briskly from the room, and the Romans' lives.

 They would remember him only as the berserk barbarian monk who had felled them with unnatural strength before escaping. A tale to tell before the fire of an evening, perhaps. Whether they ever made it back to their homeland and hometime, or not.

 ***

 "Isn't there anything we can bar the door with?! They're mad; they'll kill us the moment they find us!" Stuart said frantically, staring around at the large meeting chamber in which he and his companions had taken refuge. It was ornamented with the traditional trappings of centuries of Time Lord pomp -- shiny, gilded, and devoid of anything useful.

 "Don't panic!" Andred exclaimed. "I can have the Guard here within a few moments!" He raised his wrist comlink and spoke urgently into it.

 There was a pause as he listened to the reply. "What?" the others heard him mutter in disbelief. "A large pile of burning debris has just appeared, blocking the way?! Well, just get here as quickly as you can -- the safety of the President is at stake!"

 "I'm afraid the Council Chambers weren't designed as the type of place in which to wait out a siege," Romana informed them ruefully. "Still, we shall just have to make do." Hands on hips, she stood and surveyed the room with an expert eye.

 "My Lady?" Andred approached. "Come away from the doors, where it's safer."

 "Yes, Andred; don't fuss so. You know, it's times like these when I wish Leela were still with us," she said with a sad smile.

 He looked aside for a moment. "Yes."

 She laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. "Come on. Lets--"

 They all jumped as something heavy *thudded* against the large pair of ornamental doors through which they'd entered. Anna, closest, rapidly back-pedaled, stumbling into Stuart, who caught her and put his arms around her protectively.

 There was another *thud*. The Chattermalians didn't appear to have grasped the concept of the door's simple twist-and-pull knob. Anna felt a surge of hope. Perhaps they were too stupid to get in--

 There was a sudden sheepish "Oh," from outside. As the four fugitives stood frozen in suspense, the inner handle slowly rotated, and one of the doors slowly *creaaaaked* open.

 A shaggy, unkempt head -- Turncwart's -- peered carefully around the doorway, then turned to shout to someone outside.

 "Right; they're in here -- we've got them now."

 ***

 The Doctor stared down at the glob of spittle Ysabelle Givenchy had just flung at his feet.

 "It never works," he echoed sadly. He looked back up at the decrepit make-up magnate's twisted face. "But it was worth a try, Ysabelle. I wanted you to *see*; to understand..." In his earnestness, he went as if to take hold of her withered, age-spotted hands, and she jerked them angrily out of his reach.

 He twitched slightly as if he'd been stung, then continued, as if he might reach her by pure persistence. "Ysabelle, why do you reject this so utterly? Is your own vision of the world all you can imagine, your ambition all you can embrace? Your will all that matters?"

 As Crispin stood, holding Blastok, he felt the Doctor's words beginning to weave their spell, though he knew they weren't directed toward him. He wanted to see, to do, to *learn* more, to move beyond his little world. He felt as he sometimes did during an unexpectedly-inspiring lecture, or when lost in a fascinating book, enthralled by all the possibilities...

 But Ysabelle Givenchy merely sneered.

 "All my life, Doctor, I have set out to achieve my goals: at school, at home, and in my businesses. I saw a chance I could not pass up, and I've worked hard ever since to make proper use of it! I will apologise for *none* of it!" She leaned forward angrily. "And you continue to torment me, to snatch away the results of my years of toil!"

 The Doctor shook his head sadly. Nearby, Dessia and Drax watched intently.

 "You stole from him -- you had no right!" Crispin suddenly blurted out, struck by what he was hearing.

 The Doctor glanced sharply at him as Ysabelle turned to vent her spleen on the student. "Who asked you, boy? Mind your betters and keep your opinions to yourself!"

 Crispin glared back at her as Blastok wailed in protest at the discordant noise. "If you hadn't gone and created that machine, then I wouldn't have been able to smash it! Now, *nothing's* working correctly!"

 Givenchy looked from Crispin to the Doctor to the others, dull hatred the only emotion in her eyes.

 "Don't you realize what's happened?! My God, all you care is that you're old!"

 The Doctor looked at Crispin somewhat sympathetically, watching the boy come to the same conclusion he'd already reached.

 "I'm no expert on the human aging process, but I expect she's too senile to understand the magnitude of what has happened to the Vortex," Dessia informed the student crisply. Ysabelle shot her a malignant stare.

 "Well, Doctor," Dessia said next, "I do believe I've heard all I need to regarding this situation. All three of you must share the blame for the destruction of the Time/Space Vortex: the boy the least, for he knew not what he did, Givenchy the next share, for her machine which allowed the vortex to leak into the dimensions in which we exist, and *you*, the majority."

 The Doctor looked at her indignantly.

 "Post-regenerative trauma or no, you put yourself within her reach, and it was that single act which made all this possible." She shook her head. "Why you always had to hang around that benighted little planet I'll never know. Really, you have no one but yourself to blame..."

 "Hey!" Crispin exclaimed. "That's *my* home you're talking about!"

 The CIA agent gave him an annoyed look. "And you keep letting humans travel around with you -- I'll never understand why."

 "Probably not."

 Drax was standing to the side, almost uncharacteristically quiet. Both the Doctor and Dessia slanted glances his way.

 "Hey; don't look at *me*," Drax exclaimed. "*I'm* not taking sides here."

 "I'm not asking you to," Dessia informed him crisply. "There *is* no 'side' to take. The Doctor is guilty. These other two were just children fumbling around in the dark. *He*--" And here the CIA agent tilted her head in the Doctor's direction, "--knows better. Or rather, he *used* to. The Vortex has been ripped apart, Doctor. You've really done it this time, you know that?

 "Now, Dessia," Drax began, "aren't you being a little unfair, here?"

 She ignored him. "You couldn't just be content with running around wreaking havoc on various time lines; no, you had to scatter them all. What do you think the penalty for that will be? Rassilon's sash, I don't think a crime this large has been conceived of in Gallifreyan Law, though I'm sure the present Valeyard of the High Court will be happy to set a precedent."

 The Doctor grimaced in frustration. "Dessia, we don't have time for this! We've got a Vortex to fix -- we can apportion out blame later! My friend Grace is missing, there are Chattermalians running amuck, as well as friends of Crispin, here--"

 "I--I think Blastok needs changing," Crispin suddenly said faintly, a bizarre expression on his face.

 The Doctor turned to look at Blastok momentarily, before swinging back to stare at Dessia. "--and Blastok needs a proper diaper, yes. First things first."

 He stopped, staring at the weapon that had suddenly appeared in her hand. A Time Lord staser. He looked warily up at her.

 "Dessia--" he began, quietly.

 "No, Doctor," she said, a little shakily. "You're coming with me, now. I was sent to fetch you, and that is exactly what I am going to do. The SIDRAT I came here in will allow us to travel along what's left of the Vortex and get back to Gallifrey."

 "Ah. I was wondering how you two had managed it," the Doctor said neutrally.

 "I came here on my own, Thete," Drax told him. "Pure coincidence."

 The Doctor glanced askance at him. Meaning...?

 Drax raised an eyebrow at him.

 Ah. Meaning Drax was probably going to do something. Unexpected. Maybe.

 Dessia moved a step back to warily cover both her Time Lord companions. "Don't even think it, Drax," she snapped.

 "Dessia, please," the Doctor pleaded. "The longer we wait to find a solution to the problem with the Vortex, the--"

 She looked at him, her eyes merciless. "Don't. And don't presume to take advantage of our past... association.

 "Now move, or I'll shoot you and drag you back home while you regenerate."

 To Be Continued...