The Agent settled a little deeper into her chair and tried valiantly to look more inconspicuous, but no matter how she tried, she couldn't shake off that nagging feeling that she was standing out like a sore thumb. Even though it had been some time since she'd last done a job like this, she thought it would be easy, that one never forgot how to do it; like riding a Perigosto Stick. But it wasn't. No, she had to face facts. She wasn't used to being a spy.

Not that her target was any less inconspicuous. He stood out more than she did, but then, she supposed, he hadn't had her travel experience and wasn't as used to blending in. Mind you, the alfresco café in the middle of the market square basking beneath the warm sun glowing in the blue sky above, teeming busily with tourists and locals alike, alive with sound and colour and smell, was probably as alien to him as it was to her. Her occasional trips - officially sanctioned, naturally - away from the dusty halls and portals of the Capitol were too infrequent to make her used to such visits. But then, she supposed that was the point. She'd heard all sorts of stories and rumours about Agents going native through prolonged exposure to the outside.

She quickly and surreptitiously shot a glance around her environment and wrinkled her nose in distaste at the thought. How anyone could possibly live under such primitive, under-advanced-

Her target glanced at his watch and suddenly stood up from his table, situated at the other end of the area to her. The Agent tensed behind her newspaper, focussing her attention fully upon him once more. They'd sat here for nearly three quarters of an hour. The Agent had managed to draw out consuming her - what was it called on the menu? Oh yes - continental breakfast, to say nothing of three cups of a black coffee that hadn't tasted any better than it smelt, but realised she probably couldn't risk remaining in this position long without him noticing her. Not that she believed her target would recognise her; they'd never met, not socially, and certainly not professionally.

One of them would probably be dead if they had.

Now, finally, it looked as though he was making his move. At last.

He fumbled into one of the pockets of the white linen jacket he was wearing and tossed some coins haphazardly onto the table beside the remains of his breakfast, though in fact most of the food on the plate remained untouched. He'd obviously thought as much of the standard of the cuisine as she had, though she'd actually managed to finish most of hers, except for the pieces of fried animal anyway. There were lengths to which even she wouldn't go to maintain her cover.

His lack of appetite though was something of a surprise to her, and possibly told her something of his state of mind; he was a big man, almost obese, the kind who looked like he enjoyed his food, and not just the processed chemicals of the Capitol food machines. Of course, it could simply have been down to the fact that he'd regenerated into that form, but she doubted it, going by what she'd been allowed to read from his bio-extract. The man had tastes; most of which disgusted her, and some of which had caused him to fall under her department's keenest scrutiny.

But obviously, something had killed one of his appetites today; and now was finally the time to find out what.

She waited until he moved off into the crowd before rising herself to follow, at a discrete distance naturally. He wasn't hard to miss in the throng of people; his crisp white linen suit, clearly fresh from a clothing replicater, positively glowed beneath the sunlight, and the multicoloured hatband on the broad-brimmed straw fedora that guarded his face (and tonsure) from the hot sun was similarly not difficult to spot. She herself was dressed a little more conservatively and practically; dark cream slacks and an open necked peach coloured blouse, the sleeves rolled to her elbows; not too dissimilar to many of the lady tourists wandering the city, which was the general idea.

She was hatless, but had used a pigment synthesizer to alter her normal flowing dark chestnut tresses to a more ordinary ash blonde colour, and tied it up at the back of her skull in a rather severe bun. She wore a broad pair of sunglasses, not too dissimilar to the style preferred by some of the other denizens around, but they were no more ordinary than she looked. The lenses were miniature head-up displays linked to a tiny but incredibly powerful processor built into the frame linked to a fully comprehensive database about the area, her target and anything else she may need to know about. The lenses also contained infrared and x-ray elements, which provided her with some harmless amusement along the way. Underwear was clearly not in fashion among the men of this planet, and the colour of the set worn by her target would have blinded a tafel-shrew at 40 paces.

All the same, she was glad he was wearing them. Seasoned though she was, there were just some sights you could never be prepared for.

***

She'd hoped he'd lead her straight to his source, but she should have known better. Instead, he took the afternoon leading her around the city in a rather rambling, random fashion, ducking into and out of shops and other touristy attractions, occasionally conversing with the traders, but never buying anything. A few times she'd seen him shoot a shifty glance around, trying to spot any likely followers. She surmised, by the absence of any great change in his demeanour, that he hadn't spotted her.

He was effecting a standard - and therefore easily negated - evasion pattern, really, but she took great care to remain just out of his sight, and she had the correct hardware on her to effectively block the scanning devices he was using. She suspected that he knew he was being followed, but she also suspected that this feeling was more down to the man's undoubted sense of paranoia. People in his position always felt that.

Such was the life of the traitor.

His crime was not technically a great one. He was a junior Cardinal from the office of the Temporal Archives, slowly rising up the career ladder towards one of the more vaunted positions in the department, and from there, if all went well, the High Council. But he was rising too slowly, though; a factor which was probably what was driving his treachery. The man was certainly ambitious; his file contained details of numerous attempts to complete training and lessons in various mental and physical disciplines to further his somewhat limited natural abilities. But very little of that training had been completed; it was obvious that his ambition was matched only by his laziness. Hence the perilous short-cut to success.

He certainly wasn't lazy at what he was currently doing, which was selling information from the archives to whatever interested party (or parties) was willing to meet his price. Up until recently, he'd been scrupulously careful about this activity and evaded notice, but doing what he was doing would have given him away eventually, and he'd grown careless of late, which was how he'd finally attracted the attention of the Temporal Crimes Division, or TCD; the organisation with which the Agent was currently employed.

The information he was selling was not especially important, which was why her branch of the security forces had been assigned rather than one of bigger organisations. The TCD was still a relatively new outfit; it had only just passed its centenary, in fact. As such, all the others looked down their noses at it and regarded it with a good deal of suspicion, as the usurper of resources that had previously been theirs.

She supposed that she was one of those resources usurped; certainly the TCD was not her first security assignment, and hopefully - she was ambitious too - not her last. But she was still graded sufficiently lowly to be assigned to it. She didn't mind too much; being so relatively new, it was still slightly ramshackle in its organisation, and rather more prone to mistakes and errors as such. But it lacked the necessity of upholding departmental tradition like the others, purely because it was too young yet to have a tradition, and so didn't have the usual tedious arrangement of official functions and ceremonies. It was just work, and there seemed to be plenty of that.

Though quite what qualified as a temporal crime was still the subject of debate, particularly in the loftier chambers of the Council. Obviously the more important and hazardous dangers to the time-lines were handled by the Council's own watch-dogs and, of course, the all-seeing, all-powerful, all- invisible Celestial Intervention Agency. In effect, the TCD came somewhere between them, and domestic authorities like the Chancellery Guard.

Which usually meant they got all the jobs that no-one else wanted to do - like investigating, tailing and subsequently arresting people like her target; fat, self-important little nobodies struggling vainly to be somebody by criminal means that posed some kind of threat (albeit minor - that was the CIA's domain of course) to the time-lines.

Of course, she had no idea what this threat was - nor what sort of information it was he was attempting to sell on. She didn't even think her Co-ordinator knew, for, while her boss was still a bit of a martinet and given to frosty lectures about the importance of paperwork and looking after department property in the field, she was a shrewd old pro who seemed to appreciate the fact that you got the trust of the people working under you by giving your trust to them; something that undoubtedly raised howls of amused derision from the other departments.

The thing was, it worked. For its little procedural hiccups and stumbles, the TCD had an enviable success rate of 87.75% - not bad for an outfit barely into its hundreds. And a measure of that success had to be owed to the stewardship of Co-ordinator Maydred.

And its staff, of course.

But perhaps it was envy that had denied them the full facts behind this mission.

"Just tag him, trail him, catch him in the act, and bring him in," Maydred said at the briefing. "Don't ask why. The Archives haven't said anything about it other than the fact that he's been nicking stuff-" she actually used that expression, nicking stuff, a peculiar lingual corruption but a regular habit of hers - "but we don't know what, except that it's important-ish, and they want it stopped. Understood?"

The Agent understood. Like she was going to say otherwise anyway. Not that she thought Maydred would have objected too severely if she had raised any objection. She was that sort of person, never seeming to mind questions being asked or issues being raised. Just so long as you did what you were supposed to do, which was generally what she asked for in the first place, but...

But it was a welcome change of attitude all the same. She just hoped that Maydred's superiors viewed her with the same attitude. She had a vague impression that they probably didn't, and that was probably how she'd ended up as the TCD Co-ordinator; a bit too out of the ordinary for any other position.

Oh, she was capable, that was for sure. You didn't get to Co-ordinator rank in any office, let alone one with the kind of responsibilities the TCD office came with, without some ability. So far as she knew about Maydred's previous career - which wasn't much - she'd been the executive assistant to some High Councillor who'd fallen from grace during some scandal that had been hushed up around about the same time the name of that particular High Councillor stopped being mentioned (by anybody, in fact, which was why the Agent didn't even know it). But curiously - and this was a measure of how capable Maydred was deemed to be - she hadn't, as one might have expected, gone down in disgrace with her superior; but instead, she'd come out of it quite unscathed, because she did what any good deputy was supposed to do in that situation; she remained true to the spirit of her oath of office and carried on its work even while her boss was crashing and burning. She'd obviously done a good job, too, which played an instrumental part in the scandal being covered up - whatever it had been. But it had been big, anyway. High Council members never got involved in minor crimes; definitely not the sort the TCD would investigate, anyway.

No, Co-ordinator Maydred was a winner, for all her quirks. Not because of luck, or fate, or even personal or political connections, which were the usual key to high office in the Capitol, but because she was simply good at her job. Even when dusted with the ashes of scandal, the Powers That Be still recognised the need for people like Maydred, who simply got on with things, no matter how onerous, no matter whether or not the disaster they had been associated with was threatening to destroy them too. That was the Gallifreyan way; the Time Lord way.

After all, they always needed someone to do their dirty work, didn't they? And who better than someone already stained?

***

The Agent had been monitoring her target's activities for over a week now, ever since Maydred had given her the mission. It hadn't proved difficult, so far, and she hadn't yet felt the need to call upon any assistance, even though there was always some standing by, especially for an agent in the field. She preferred it that way, anyway. Always had, really. Not that she objected being part of a team, but you always had a bit more excitement when you were solo. She recalled an expression she'd heard Maydred once make in describing such an operation; the thrill of the chase.

The Agent thought that was rather apt, though she'd never dare admit that she enjoyed her work. That really wasn't the done thing.

So far, so good. A week in, and her target hadn't suspected a thing. Though his behaviour continually suggested that he suspected he was being trailed, he wasn't as yet displaying any sign that he knew he was really being tracked. It was simply now a matter of catching him in the act; which was what she was about to do. She had no doubts about her ability to do so, either. Just so long as the target did what he was intending, he was as good as arrested. The legal system would do the rest, and she'd have another merit on her record. Another step up the career ladder.

Mind you, of course, trailing someone in the Capitol was a lot different to trailing them to another planet, in a different time zone. That wasn't difficult for her, as a security agent, but she considered that it should have been more difficult for him, as a mere archivist, even though his TT travel capsule permission documents were all scrupulously above board and correct. Too above board and correct, in fact, which implied that he had contacts within the TT travel department - and that really was a serious issue. Too serious for the likes of the TCD, anyway, which was why the Chancellery Guard was due to be clumping around that section any time after she'd apprehended her target; though the Agent got the impression, through Maydred, that the Castellan wanted to move in immediately, which might very well have spooked their target. Fortunately, it seemed Maydred was able to argue - or most likely wheedle - a deferment on that investigation. At least until they'd got their man, anyway.

So here they were, on an insignificant, though not unpleasant, little planet in the Cureton system; so insignificant, she couldn't even remember it's name. It was a minor tourist backwater favoured by interplanetary tourists less inclined towards bright lights, loud music, and unsavoury natives; all at the dubious cost, however, to technological sophistication. But the Agent was sufficiently well experienced to understand that some people preferred it like that, even if she didn't appreciate why.

She did appreciate why the target had chosen this location for meeting his contact, though. It was so far off the beaten track - spatially and temporally - that it almost didn't figure at all on the TCD database. Almost didn't - but they found it eventually.

The TCD always got their man.

***

The tedious journey around the settlement ended among a quiet cluster of tourist chalets on the fringe of the city boundaries, where the ramshackle sprawl of civilisation gave way to a picturesque spread of gently rising green hills, speckled here and there by the odd cluster of trees or grazing animal. A bit barren for the Agent's taste, like the wilderness beyond the Capitol. Only greener.

The man went up to one of the buildings, a simple, but sturdy, single storey affair built from the local redwood, paused briefly on the threshold for one last suspicious glance around, and then opened the door and disappeared swiftly inside. The door closed behind him with a quiet thump.

The Agent paused in the shadows of one of the neighbouring chalets and allowed herself a quiet smile. "At last," she murmured. She wouldn't be sorry to go home. She was hot, tired, and footsore. And these clothes, however practically they may have felt and looked when she put them on, seemed to be soaking up every drop of sweat she was perspiring, and she was beginning to feel as if she were wearing a sponge. Goodness only knew how all those tourists coped!

She hunkered down, trying not to grimace at the sticky feeling in her knee joints, and produced a scanning device from a pocket. She studied the display and frowned disapprovingly. The signal being read from the house was badly corrupted, suggesting the presence of some kind of jamming device. She couldn't get a reading on her target, much less who or what else was in there or how many there were. Neither could she eavesdrop nor use her x-ray. She sighed. She knew that's probably what they'd do, but all the same, she hoped it was going to be easier than this. All she wanted was to get this over with and return home for a long, slow soak beneath an ultra-shower, clean robes and a long, tall glass of something cool and mildly narcotic. Anything that delayed that was quite intolerable.

She sighed again, and straightened up. The motion released a bead of sweat which trailed down from the small of her back, to somehow slip beneath the hem of her trousers and her underwear to trickle greasily, and with uncanny precision, between her buttocks. She shuddered, and very quietly, but with considerable feeling, vented her feelings with the coarsest terms in her vocabulary.

Feeling only slightly better - if slightly damper - for her low volume outburst, she started towards the chalet. Keeping low, the Agent crept quickly up to the side of the building, keeping a careful eye out for anything or anyone untoward. But the area was still and quiet; most of the residents must have been out enjoying the sunshine - ha ha. Her scanner didn't reveal any lifesigns, nor any detector beams or other scanning devices being emitted from any of the other buildings. So - nobody or nothing was on watch. Careless on their part? Perhaps. Or perhaps it was that they were counting on a little carelessness on her part. She smiled grimly.

Oh, were they in for a surprise!

That in mind, she slipped her staser pistol from her inside pocket and slipped the safety catch off, then positioned it inside better so that she could draw it more easily. The cool plastic handgrip felt a little sticky in her grasp, so she wiped her hands on her trouser leg in an attempt to dry them. This time, though, she knew the sweat wasn't just a result of the heat. Although she'd drawn her staser a good few times in the line of duty - even used it, twice - she could still never quite dispel that uncomfortable feeling she got whenever she handled a weapon. Shooting people - even on stun - simply wasn't to her taste. She hoped she wouldn't have to do so today, but she suddenly had a strange, slightly queasy feeling that she was going to have to.

And if she had to, she would. No doubt at all.

"Just think about that shower, and that drink," she muttered to herself as she crouched down against the wall, keeping out of sight in the shadows at the side of the building once more. "Do the job, go home. End of story." She checked her scanner again, and made a quick alteration. The result gave her spirits a lift; by boosting the power all the way up, she was finally able to break through the jamming interference and determine the presence of two heat signatures; her target, and one other. Even though the scanner couldn't tell who or what the other was, she was heartened anyway. Two was going to be a lot easier than a roomful. Maybe this was going to be a simple matter after all.

Her glasses still couldn't penetrate the shield within, but she was able to pinpoint a frequency on which to eavesdrop; but the signal was still quite corrupted and fuzzed by static. It would have to suffice. All she needed was enough evidence for the records, and this would hopefully do admirably. After that, it was simply a matter of making the arrest.

She hoped.

She pressed the tiny eavesdropping bead to her ear and listened carefully, squinting slightly with concentration. First, she heard her target's voice, with its snooty drone of a man who thought he was more important that he actually was. A lot more important.

"- Getting very risky, you know. Ever since that dolt Malavus tried to tap into the penal archives the Castellan has ordered a thorough tightening up of the security procedures. Everything that is accessed, let alone downloaded, is under the tightest of scrutiny."

There was a dry laugh in reply, followed by the voice of the other person in the room; a man she didn't recognise - at first. The voice was deep, low, almost velvety smooth, but rough around the edges, as if the throat had been exposed to a lifetime of alcohol or narcotic abuse - nicotine, possibly. The accent and intonation that it effected sounded slightly false, almost mockingly so, but it was a commanding voice, made all the more arresting by the low volume at which the speaker was preferring to speak. In the Agent's experience, the ones' with the quieter voices generally had more to say and listen to than those who shouted.

And this was a voice worth listening to.

"My dear Clodius, I sympathise entirely! The amount of trouble I myself have had over the years with all manner of pesky security procedures - I don't mind admitting, it's getting to the stage now where I recruit more for their technical abilities than their physical ones!"

"Well, as you were responsible for the setting up of those security procedures in the first place..."

The Agent sat bolt upright at that. Responsible for setting up security procedures? In the Capitol?!? Who the hell was in there?!?

"Oh dear me, no! That was a long, long time ago, and I dare say even the current regime have updated security standards since my time. But, um... can I, perhaps, offer any assistance? As you well know, I'm not without my means!" he laughed. "I'm quite prepared to put my, ah, people at your disposal, should you require them."

"Hmph. For a price, I suppose."

"Well, naturally. Everything has its price, dear chap." The voice hardened slightly. "Sometimes too much of a price."

Clodius sighed heavily. "Oh, are you going to dispute my price again? I've told you a million times, my fees are non-negotiable. The risks involved-"

"The risks involved," interrupted the other man sharply, "are, I believe, inflated out of all proportion by your petty paranoia. Why, even the dullest of my associates with even the most rudimentary technical knowledge could break into the Capitol archives!"

"Then perhaps," snapped Clodius tersely, "you might like to transmat them in and get the information you require for yourself then!"

The noise in the room that followed suggested that Clodius was about to make a sudden and dramatic exit, but his client was quick to prevent his passage.

"Pax, my dear Clodius, pax!" soothed the man. "You know if I could transport any of my people into the Capitol again I would. But, at present, that is simply not possible."

Really? The Agent's mind was really racing now. She was dealing with someone who had some previous access to the Capitol security network - who allegedly had some part in setting up that network - and who now, it seemed, had, or at least had had, the ability to put people into the Capitol itself. Who - what - the hell was he?

"So you have to make do with me, don't you?" The Agent could almost hear Clodius puffing himself out with self-importance.

"Precisely."

"And pay my prices!"

"Indeed." And now she could almost see the menace implied in the man's answers. But Clodius obviously couldn't - or more stupidly, was ignoring it.

This man Clodius is dealing with is very dangerous. Very, very dangerous. I've got to be very careful.

"So..."

"So."

"Where is it?" Clodius was beginning to sound exasperated, but the other man remained calm - dangerously calm.

"What?"

"My payment!"

The man chuckled. "Right here." The Agent heard something clunk against a hard surface. "Exactly as you asked for. See?"

"It'll work?" Clodius asked eagerly.

"But of course! I put my very best operative in this line onto its manufacture. I guarantee, my dear Clodius, that upon its application, you need not worry about your superior standing in your path any longer. Nor anyone else you care to use it on."

A weapon? To assassinate his superior? Oh, this got worse!

"And without a trace? No evidence?"

"Absolutely guaranteed. My operative tested it herself on some rather," and he chuckled again, "unwilling subjects, and it worked admirably - admirably indeed!"

"Excellent!" Clodius hissed. She could picture the homicidal glee that was undoubtedly burning in the man's eyes, and felt a chill run through her. Being a thief and a traitor was one thing, but a murderer!

"But - ah ah - payment on receipt, dear fellow. Payment on receipt."

"Oh - here!" Clodius snapped petulantly, and something else rattled on to the surface - Clodius's part of the bargain, probably. It didn't sound very large - a data extract of some description, probably.

"Ah ha!" The Agent heard the faint whine of a data scanner powering up. The man checking up on his purchase. "You managed to get all the information I required?"

"Yes." A slight hesitation. "With a couple of exceptions."

"Oh?" That flash of cold steel again. This was definitely not a man who sounded like he should be trifled with. Perhaps I ought not to be considering doing this by myself...

"Yes. The woman Forrester-"

"Yes, I know all about her." Now he sounded impatient. "I told you, I wasn't concerned with the ones who already died. What about anyone else?"

"Well - there was a girl named Smith, who-"

"Which one?"

"What?"

"Which Smith?!?"

"Um, Jane. Jane Smith." Was that fear in Clodius's voice?

"Oh yes?"

"There was an unusually high anomaly rating regarding the-"

"Where? Where? Show me."

"Ah - there. And, um, there. See?"

"Hmmm." There was a quiet pause, presumably while the man weighed up the data Clodius was portraying. "Hmmm, well - I don't think that'll matter. I can easily compensate for that."

"If you say so."

"Oh, I do indeed, my dear Clodius. Now, the rest of it..."

"You're not going to check it here, are you?" Clodius sounded agitated.

"Why not?"

"I've been away too long as it is! If I'm noticed-"

"Relax, Clodius!" the man laughed. "I wouldn't dream of compromising you, of all people. My best source in the Capitol? No, no!" There was another pregnant pause. "But..."

"But?"

Steel again. "But, I warn you, Clodius, if any of this information is wrong - or if you have sold me short on its details in any way - you know what will happen. You know what I am capable of. My wrath should never - ever - be incurred. Do you understand me, Clodius?"

Fear tremored Clodius's voice. "I - I do! I swear, by all that's temporal, I've given you all that you've asked for, Lavarre!"

Lavarre? LAVARRE!

At the mention of that name, the Agent didn't just feel a chill, she felt as if she'd just been encased in sheer ice. The eavesdropping bead slipped unnoticed from her fingers to fall to the ground. Everything around just seemed to fade into the distance, including her own senses. All she was aware of was the name Clodius had spoken. She began to whisper to herself, urgently, almost unconsciously, but definitely horrified:

"Lavarre... no... after all this time... Lavarre... surely not... surely not!"

"Can I help you?"

A quiet voice cut suddenly through the panic that had gripped her mind. The Agent lurched to her feet and spun round, hearts hammering in her chest. Someone was standing just in front of her; a tall, very good looking young woman with long, thick, honey blonde hair, wearing a snug-fitting red jumpsuit that accentuated her lithe form in all the right places. She was smiling, but the smile didn't touch her eyes, which were an Arctic blue. Both her hands were behind her back, unseen. She definitely didn't look like a tourist.

The Agent managed to find her voice.

"I, um - I'm lost." Hellfire, what an explanation! Get back on track, got to get back on track!

The girl arched a perfect eyebrow. "Of course you are. But now - you've been found."

She brought her hands out from behind her back, the sun flashing on the weapon grasped between them. Too late the Agent realised what it was, and too late she reached for her own weapon.

An unbearable brightness filled the Agent's vision - and then darkness crashed over her.

Her last coherent thought was: no, I'm really not used to being a spy anymore.

***

Her hearing returned first.

"She's coming to." A man's voice. No; the man's voice. Him. Lavarre. Great powers!

"Yes. Must be stronger than she looks." The girl, replying.

"What did you use?"

"Neuroparalysator."

"Good choice."

"I knew you'd want to talk to her."

A low, evil chuckle. "Yes. Yes indeed!"

The Agent opened her eyes, but everything was blurred, indistinct. A bit like the feeling in her body; she found she couldn't budge an inch. She was lying on her side on something hard, probably the floor of the chalet. Dimly she was aware of people standing around her (Two? Three? Four?) but she couldn't distinguish them. Neuroparalysator - yes, that would explain the lack of movement and sensation - but on what setting was it used? Would it be permanent?

She tried to concentrate, keep her mind clear of the panic that strained to overwhelm her brain. Don't give up... they haven't killed you yet. As the old saying goes - where there's life, there's hope.

But in the face of who she was facing here!

"Who is she?" a third voice hissed. Clodius, this time.

"She's not familiar to me. Lucylla?" The girl's name?

"No, Lavarre."

"Clodius?"

Half exasperated, half scared. "I don't know, do I?" Well, at least that was something.

"Take a closer look, do. She won't bite."

One of the figures dipped closer. She still couldn't make out its features, but it was probably Clodius. "No. Never seen her in my life."

"Hmmm. ID, Lucylla?"

"None, Lavarre. The wallet she was carrying contained only local currency, nothing more." Hardly likely to wear dog-tags was I?

"Hmmm, but she was carrying some quite sophisticated equipment - too sophisticated for a local, certainly. This scanner, for instance - Clodius, do my eyes deceive me, or this is an improved version of the old XP-9 model they used to equip CIA agents as part of their standard kit?"

Uh-oh.

"Um -"

"Lucylla, be a love and switch it on, would you? Let's determine the exact origin of this young woman."

"Yes, Lavarre." The Agent's hearts sank. Being captured by this man was bad enough, but when he found who and what she was -

I'm dead.

There was no way at all she could prevent any of this. She just had to lay there and let it happen. She'd never felt so helpless.

Should have gone for my recall switch, not my gun - but then I should have called in the moment I heard his name. Oh, what have I done to myself?!?

The scanner bleeped and chirped as it did its work. "Interesting," the girl murmured.

"Do share, my dear."

"She's Gallifreyan."

"Really? Hmmm. Isn't that remarkable, Clodius?"

"Um -"

"Even more remarkable given the fact that you assured me you hadn't been followed. How reliable did he say his contact in temporal traffic control was, my dear?"

"Very reliable, Lavarre," replied the girl.

"Very reliable," Lavarre echoed mockingly. "Which isn't quite as good as totally reliable, is it, hmmm?"

"Lavarre-" began Clodius. The Agent could almost smell his panic now.

"Tsk, tsk, Clodius. Stiffed someone else on a price again, did we?"

"Look-"

"I despise that sort of cheapness, don't you, my dear?"

"Absolutely, Lavarre."

"Never, ever, short change ones' contacts. Especially those in important positions. I never do. Do I, my dear?"

"Never, Lavarre."

"Lavarre, listen-"

"Have I ever short changed you, Clodius? I mean, have I?" He sounded so reasonable!

"Lavarre-"

"No. Never. Not even someone as odious as you." He chuckled. "Clodius the odious, eh my dear?"

"A suitable epithet, Lavarre."

"Hmmm. I can think of a better one, though."

"Lavarre, please-"

"How about - Clodius - the late."

There was sudden strangled gurgle, and a horribly familiar smell, heavy and metallic, filled the air: blood. Something fell heavily to the floor on the other side of the room; she could feel the floor vibrate beneath the impact. The Agent couldn't make out what it was that had fallen, but she didn't need to see it to know what it was.

A body. Clodius. The traitor, betrayed. The Agent felt no pity. That she reserved for herself.

Lavarre murmured distantly. "Both hearts?"

"Yes, Lavarre." The Agent heard the whisper of cloth on steel; the girl wiping the blood from the blade. She would have shuddered, had she been able. "He won't be coming back."

"Excellent work. Normally, I would have been tempted to protract his demise, but frankly - well, little rats like him don't deserve that kind of effort. There would be little pleasure to be gained from it."

"No, Lavarre." A pause. "What about the girl? If she is who we think she is -"

"Yes, yes indeed - what are we do about you, hmmm?"

The Agent tensed, trying to see if she could get any of her muscles working, but none were. The fingers of her right hand felt as though they twitched slightly, but no more. She was helpless - and worse, they knew it.

"Of course, the other reason why I was loathe to waste time on our fat friend, was because it would deplete that which we would have to spend on our young friend here."

"I did remove her Time Ring - just in case."

"Good, good... is the shield still working?"

"At maximum efficiency."

"Then we won't be receiving any other surprise guests in the immediate vicinity - at least for now." Portable transduction barrier? They were never wholly reliable, especially if you tried breaking through with any great force. Maybe, just maybe, if could delay them, distract them some how -

"They probably do have her monitored, Lavarre."

"Oh, I don't doubt it. That's why we have little time to lose." His voice hardened. "Pick her up and put her on that bed."

The Agent barely felt the girl picking her up and dropping her onto the bed. Inside she was struggling, but her body just refused to co-operate. It was no use. No use!

"Is she CIA, do you think?" the girl asked quietly.

"Hmmm, more probably she belongs to one of its satellites - TCD, most probably. No, even by today's standards, I doubt whether an Agency agent would be captured so easily - even by you, by dear," he chuckled. "But - I do think we should find out, don't you?" The Agent suddenly felt his hand against her cheek, a gesture of mock tenderness belied by the cold, clammy, reptilian feel of his skin. "Along with anything else she might care to impart."

"Yes, Lavarre."

"Excellent." He removed his hand and appeared to step aside. "Warm her local chords up."

The Agent felt something press at her neck. There was a soft hiss, and a feeling of warmth passed through her throat. She coughed, making her first sound since she'd been overpowered, but she still couldn't speak yet. Not that she wanted to say anything anyway.

Like I have much of a choice now!

"Even if she isn't CIA," the girl observed quietly as she worked, "she's undoubtedly been trained. It might take time to break her down sufficiently."

"That did occur to me, my dear. That is why we must act quickly - and with utmost proficiency."

The way he said that provoked an instinctive choke of terror from the Agent.

"Would it not be more prudent to take her home with us, then?"

"Absolutely not!" Lavarre sounded aghast. "I'm afraid I cannot allow the risk of her being traced back to our little home. Better to get as much as we can now, and have done with it - sorry, my dear, her," he chuckled darkly, patting the Agent's shoulder mockingly.

But the girl still sounded dubious. "She - might be more useful than that. After all, if she knows anything of their operations-"

Lavarre sighed heavily - and dangerously. "My dear, all I am interested in today is taking possession of the information our fat dead friend provided. This," indicating to the Agent as if she were a piece of meat on a butcher's slab, "this is, at best, a bonus, and at worst, an unnecessary distraction. In all honesty I am not in the least bit concerned by the activities of our friends in the Capitol, and never have been. Understood?"

"Yes, Lavarre." The girl's reply was studiously neutral. Perhaps too neutral. Was that tension between them? Could she use it?

"Good. Now -" He paused. "Ever interrogated one of them before, my dear?"

"I haven't yet had the opportunity, Lavarre."

Lavarre chuckled darkly. "Well, there's a first time for everything, as they say. Did you bring some tools?"

"Yes, Lavarre."

"Ever the pro, my dear! Well -" She heard him move away from her. "I'll, ah, leave you to get on with it then. I'm quite anxious to get started on my new acquisition. But don't dally, my dear! Efficient though our little shield is, once this young woman's friends in the Capitol realise she's missing, it won't hold long, and I'd rather avoid any further," and he chuckled darkly, "unpleasantness today!"

"I understand, Lavarre. Don't worry - I won't take long."

"But of course. Report to me in my study when you return."

"Yes, Lavarre." A pause. "What shall I do with the girl afterwards?"

He sighed; a weary, ask-a-stupid-question sort of sound. "Your discretion, my dear. Your discretion."

"Yes, Lavarre. My discretion."

They could have been discussing a business transaction for all the feeling they're showing! Oh, by all the Powers!

"Then I shall leave you to it." He raised his voice slightly for the Agent's benefit, affecting a mockingly cheerful tone. "Adieu, my dear! I am sorry that I couldn't have chatted longer, but time and tide, and all that. Goodbye - goodbye!"

His mocking laughter faded away into the thin whine of some sort of transference beam activating, and then the two women were alone. The Agent increased her attempts to struggle, but it was still futile. All she could do was pant and gasp raggedly.

A shadow fell across the Agent's sight. The girl, moving in for the kill.

I won't scream I won't scream I won't scream I won't

The girl's face dipped into her view. The Agent could almost see it clearly now. There was a curiously wistful expression to that beautiful face, and just a faint hint of reluctance in those large eyes, as if -

As if she didn't really want to do this. Was that it? Was that why she was so reluctant? Yes! A chance - a slim chance - if she could only -

The Agent licked her lips, managed to croak feebly:

"Please - please don't."

The girl's mouth twitched minutely, but that wistful expression faded, as did that hint of reluctance in her eyes. Now it was just a steely, terrifying blankness.

"It's nothing personal," the girl murmured, whispered almost, as if she didn't want anyone to hear. The Agent felt something cold and hard press against her temple. "I just do his dirty work, that's all. You understand."

"Please - plea-"

The coldness turned to fire. The pain began.

So did the Agent's screams.

***