The Wanderer Fantasy | Part III: Kalthan
Oct. 12th, 2007 06:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eponymous_roseStory: The Wanderer Fantasy
Chapter: Kalthan (3/?)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eponymous_rose
Beta: The superlativeimsanehonest, whose powers of beta are made of undiluted awesome.
Word Count: 4,916
Genre: Adventure, humour
Characters: Rose, Ten
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence
Spoilers: Pre-Doomsday. This fic was manufactured in a facility that deals with season three of the new series; those with spoiler allergies should nevertheless be safe.
Disclaimer: “Doctor Who” and all related whatsits are the property of the BBC.
In which: Tensions rise, the TARDIS is – believe it or not – bigger on the inside, and Earth is forced to relinquish its monopoly on awkward First Contact stories.
(Previous Chapters)
Link:
Just when the Doctor was certain that Matthew Timms couldn’t possibly get more annoying, the boy exceeded expectations.
He’d started off well enough, following close, head down and walking silently as they’d made their way back to the theatre and the TARDIS. The Doctor liked it when people followed him quietly; it was far less annoying than their proclivity for rushing off into certain danger.
And then, once they’d arrived at the theatre, Matt had broken his spotless record and rushed off into certain danger. Well, he’d run up a flight of stairs towards an Employees Only door, which was very nearly the same thing.
The Doctor didn’t trust the Cultelli, not really. In his experience with the morally ambiguous – and he’d had rather more of it than he’d care to admit – any bargain struck under duress wasn’t particularly likely to be upheld. If the Cultelli were so determined to have Matt killed, a slap on the wrist and an admonition to cease-and-desist-if-it-wouldn’t-be-too-much-bother were hardly an effective deterrent. They’d return, in greater numbers and with more experienced killers, to finish what they’d started.
He didn’t know the whole situation, the story behind the assassination attempts, and that bothered him more than he expected. He felt unprepared, unarmed, and while he typically thrived on bluffing his way through difficult situations, he wasn’t willing to cut corners where sword-wielding maniacs were involved. Not where Rose was involved-
In any case, once they were in the TARDIS, they’d be safe enough for the time being. In the meantime, they were all in danger so long as Matt kept dashing off towards closed doors.
Fortunately, as the kid wasn’t in particularly good shape, it had been simple enough to catch up with him and ask why he was rushing off into certain danger. Matt had blithered about his rucksack, the Doctor had grumbled about a sense of priorities, Rose had glared at him for being insensitive again, and they’d all marched up the stairs to get the silly little tattered green bag. Humans and their attachment to objects; the Doctor would never understand it.
And then they’d had to sneak back into the theatre to get to the TARDIS, and of course Matt’s manager, a burly, harried-looking man with a tattoo of what looked very much like a pigeon on his wrist, ran into them in the lobby. Naturally, he wanted to know why Matt was pissing around with his friends instead of doing whatever it was ushers did. Ush, presumably.
It was simple enough to flash the psychic paper at the manager with his most winning smile.
By the way the manager’s brows knitted, by the way his eyes narrowed, and by the way he asked why the hell the Doctor was waving a blank piece of paper in his face, it was equally easy to tell that the psychic paper hadn’t worked. Which was, of course, extremely worrying – unless psychic training had suddenly become a job requirement for a theatre director (which it wouldn’t do, the Doctor was fairly sure, until the mid-twenty-fifth century and the second reign of Spielberg the Reborn), something was terribly amiss.
Things weren’t going his way today, and there was only one new factor in the mix. The Doctor blamed Matt.
Of course, the boy had been quick enough with a cover story that involved the Doctor being a “bit of a nutter”, Rose being his “caretaker”, and the two of them trying to retrieve a purse she’d left in the theatre so they could dash home before the Doctor had another of “his episodes”. The manager had grudgingly accepted the tale – which the Doctor found mildly insulting – and let them sneak back into the theatre, where the movie had resumed playing. They’d snuck up to the TARDIS as best they could under cover of the occasional burst of gunfire, but couldn’t avoid the odd murmur or conspiratorial wink from the audience.
And then they’d stepped through the door of his magnificent space-time vessel, and Matt had stopped, dropped his bag, and burst into tears.
Now the Doctor was trying to focus on setting the coordinates while Rose made vague sympathetic noises to Matt. The TARDIS’s newest occupant had subsided into an embarrassed sniffling and was surreptitiously wiping his nose on his sleeve – not, of course, that the Doctor was particularly concerned about the emotional stability of the kid who’d got them into this mess in the first place. In fact, the vehemence of his disinterest in Matt’s well-being caught him a little off-guard. But then, it wasn’t an easy task, the Doctor reflected, all this intense concentration on the knobs and doohickeys, especially when Rose’s comforting words to Matt were so low and gentle that he found himself straining to hear what she was saying.
At his continued urging, the TARDIS trundled uncomfortably into the Vortex – the quantum slingshot hadn’t agreed with her at all, the Doctor noted with some concern – but soon the rotor was bobbing contentedly enough. “Voilà!” he exclaimed with a flourish.
Rose blinked up at him from where she was standing at the doorway, her arm around Matt’s shoulders. “What d’you mean, voilà?”
The Doctor beckoned, and she extricated herself from Matt, much to the latter’s disappointment, to come and stand beside him at the console. Absurdly pleased with himself, the Doctor pointed to the time rotor. “By ‘voilà’, I mean that the little bobbly bit’s going up and down – and the knobby light over there’s flashing.”
At his teasing tone, she punched him lightly in the arm. It was gentle enough, but he stumbled back, surprised at the pain that rocketed through his wrist and straight down to his fingertips. “Sorry!” she exclaimed, horrified; he waved off her concern.
“No, this should’ve started to heal by now, at least,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeve to inspect the handkerchief on his forearm. There was fresh blood dotted among the older stains and the grape pop. He peeked under the binding – as he’d expected, the cut had already started to scab over at the edges, but the process seemed to be taking longer than usual, and blood was still seeping from the wound.
He tightened the handkerchief and looked up to meet Rose’s worried gaze. He tried to think of something to say without revealing his own anxiety, and eventually settled on a noncommittal “Hm.”
Matt had been watching the exchange, wide-eyed. At the lull in conversation, he cleared his throat, balking slightly at the Doctor’s glare. “Y-You said their swords were special?” He swallowed. “Part of ‘em, or something?”
The Doctor blinked, wondering at the sudden surge of annoyance he felt at the idea that Matt had considered that fact before he had. Something was distracting him, keeping him from thinking clearly – and then he noticed that the TARDIS had taken on a warning hum. He patted the console reassuringly; things were starting to come together.
“Yeah,” the Doctor admitted. “Yes, you might just be right. Mucking about with my Time Lord physiology and all that.” He couldn’t resist a manic grin, and was rewarded when Matt stumbled back a step, against the door.
“Doctor,” Rose warned, and he glanced over to see that her concern over his injury had been replaced by aggravation. Good – he’d never been entirely sure how to deal with her when she was worried. “I hit you in the first place because you were being a right git. Matt’s terrified!”
You weren’t, he didn’t say, and gave an elaborate sigh. “All right, all right. Matt, calm down. This is my ship, and yes, it’s bigger on the inside, and you really can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning about the alien bit. I’m not about to eat you for lunch, either, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he added, and stopped himself from tacking on a “maybe for dinner” to the end of that sentence.
Matt flushed. “No, it’s – it’s not that,” he stuttered. “I… it’s just…” He swallowed hard. “Is this thing alive?”
He looked away, embarrassed, and the Doctor shrugged to conceal his surprise at the question. Either the boy was more astute than he’d expected, or the TARDIS was being less subtle than usual. “Well,” he said at last, “what makes you think that?”
Matt shuffled his feet, staring down at his precious rucksack. “When we came in here, I got this feeling. I… I don’t think she likes me.”
The Doctor blinked. “What?”
Rose laughed. “Don’t be daft, Matt. The TARDIS doesn’t hate people on sight!” She paused. “Or on… sense, I guess.”
Matt looked up, finally meeting the Doctor’s gaze. His puffy eyes were narrowed, determined. “No, I really don’t think she likes me,” he said. “And so maybe I’d better just get going. Take my chances with the alien sword ninjas.”
He hefted the bag back over his shoulder and turned as though to open the doors. The Doctor cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t do that. The Time Vortex doesn’t agree with humans.” Matt jumped back as though he’d been burned, and the Doctor shrugged. “Doesn’t much agree with anyone, really.”
“Did we just smash a hole through the roof of the theatre?” Matt marvelled dazedly.
“It’s complicated,” the Doctor scoffed.
“Not really,” Rose corrected with a smirk. “We don’t actually take off – just sort of appear and disappear wherever or whenever. No property damage!” She met his eyes for a second, and he knew she was remembering his Christmas crash-landing. “Almost none,” she amended.
“That’s nice,” Matt said faintly, leaning back against the wall and scrubbing a sleeve across his forehead. “Where are we going?”
“There are people,” the Doctor began, striding around the console, checking lights as he went, “who keep track of these things. Boring little lives, don’t have much else to do, so they sit around and fill volumes and volumes with history.” And for a terrible, wonderful instant, he was back at the Academy, sitting with his friends, laughing with the arrogance of youth at the redundancy of those little people and their libraries. All of eternity had been their history book.
Rose’s hand was on his shoulder, and he touched it absently. “You all right?” she whispered. “Really, now.”
“Fine,” he said cheerily. She wasn’t convinced, so he touched the tip of her nose and broadened his grin. “I’ve got you watching out for me, don’t I?” She smiled uncertainly, and he turned away.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’ve got a few acquaintances I’d like to look up, just a little ways into the future to let ‘em get caught up. Universal Historians – they might have some insight into your current situation.”
“D’you really think Matt will be in the history books?” Rose wondered.
“I think he must be,” the Doctor confirmed. “Something’s gone horribly wrong, and I doubt the Cultelli have decided to execute Matt for their own entertainment.” The boy shivered. “He’s got to be important somehow – weren’t you paying attention when Fred’s dad told us they didn’t have a client? He timed it for maximum dramatic effect, too!”
Rose frowned – she was starting to follow his train of thought, the Doctor noted proudly. “So you think if they weren’t doing it for money or technology or something, they were doing it-“ She paused, shook her head. “Nah.”
“What?” the Doctor coaxed.
“Stupid thought,” Rose said, adding a dismissive wave of her hand. “Forget about it.”
“Rose,” the Doctor wheedled. She met his gaze and grinned.
“They’re trying to change history somehow, aren’t they? Someone’s mucked things up sometime in the future, so they’ve tried to set things back on track.” She paused. “Or maybe just muck them up in a different way. Right?” She pointed. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
He nodded. “Got it in-“ He paused, considering. “Well, didn’t quite get it in one.” Rose glared, and he hastily added: “But a good try all around.”
“Couldn’t they just be covering for their client?” Matt blurted, then flushed when the Doctor glanced back at him. “I mean, if he’s really important or something.”
“Do you have any really important enemies?” the Doctor queried.
“Not yet,” Matt answered, gaining momentum. “But I could have, right? In the future? And maybe whoever it is just wants me dead for, well, whatever reason.”
The Doctor chewed on this for a moment. “What do you do, Matt, when you’re not ushering? Still in school?”
“Just finished,” he said, a trifle defensively. “I’m eighteen.” He paused, as though waiting for a challenge to this statement – though the Doctor supposed he did look considerably younger – and then continued when none was forthcoming. “Got my A-levels. I was hoping to save up enough to go to university somewhere nice.”
“And what would you study?” the Doctor pressed.
Matt shrugged. “I dunno. Literature, or something.”
The Doctor ran a hand back through his hair, thinking. “What do you hope to do?”
Matt flushed and mumbled. The Doctor put a hand to his ear, and the boy reddened further and spoke up. “I want to be a freelance journalist,” he stated, crossing his arms. “And I don’t care what Trudy says about a steady job, it’s what I want to do.”
Rose grinned. “Well, if you go through with that, you’ll probably make a few enemies along the way, and chances are good they’ll be important ones.”
“Mm,” the Doctor said, unconvinced. “We’ll see. It can’t hurt to take a peek in the history books.”
“But-“ Matt winced. “Wait, I saw all those time-travel movies and stuff. If I see what’s written in my future, isn’t that going to change it? And then, won’t I disappear or something?”
The Doctor rolled his eyes. Amateurs. “You lot travel in three dimensions: I travel in four. Ants generally travel in two – well, barring any sort of particularly strong wind gusts. D’you think the world ends every time an ant climbs up someone’s trouser leg and winds up on the top of a mountain?”
Rose was staring at him; he crossed his arms. He was a Time Lord of principle, after all – he stood by his analogies. She shook her head with a rueful grin and glanced back to Matt. “All that aside, we saved your life. That’s probably mucked things up properly, and you’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” Matt said weakly. “That’s good.”
“No,” said the Doctor with an air of finality. “I think I’m right.” He pressed a finger to Rose’s lips to quell the sarcastic reply she’d started to form. “I think the Cultelli are after you because of some effect you’ve had on your personal timeline, or the web of time, or whatever you want to call it. Because of the lack of client, because the psychic paper wasn’t working when it had to protect you. But, more importantly, because the TARDIS doesn’t like you, and I don’t either.”
“Doctor!” Rose protested, and he withdrew his finger. “That’s not-“
“No, but it’s true! On an instinctual level, I really don’t like you, Matt, and it got worse the moment I stepped inside the TARDIS. There’s something not quite right, there.”
“Glad it’s not just me,” Matt muttered.
“Oh, but it is just you, and that’s the point!” The Doctor noticed Rose’s little smile and became vaguely aware that he’d started gesticulating dramatically as he spoke. “The TARDIS and I, we’re very sensitive to time, you know. It’s in my blood, and sometimes, just sometimes, I can feel when something’s a bit off. And you’re more than a bit off, Matthew Timms. You’re way off.”
As though to punctuate his words, the TARDIS console sparked and fizzed. He dashed over to check the coordinates, but they still appeared to be on track. “We’re headed to Kalthan, about two hundred years after your time,” he explained at last, twiddling a few switches experimentally. “Nice planet, fairly temperate, Earth-normal gravity and atmosphere. It’s a quiet place, well off the intergalactic freeways.”
“Suburbia,” Rose hazarded.
“Something like that, yeah. Nobody really knows much about the place, since nobody ever visits.”
“You must’ve done,” Matt pointed out.
“Yes, but that probably hasn’t happened yet,” the Doctor said, annoyed at the interruption. “It’s actually one of the few planets in the universe where two entirely different races have coexisted peacefully for millennia.”
“What, you mean they’ve never been at war?” Rose looked sceptical – the Doctor wasn’t quite sure what to make of her apparent cynicism.
“Never ever,” he confirmed. “No interracial wars, anyways. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that the Maldurians don’t know the Historians exist.”
“That probably helps, yeah.”
“The Historians colonised the planet a long, long time ago. They’ve got an absolutely brilliant way with a perception filter, make you ignore your own Gran.” The Doctor disregarded Matt’s baffled look; Rose was nodding her comprehension. “So they hide out in the mountains and observe the universe as best they can, through an extensive network of hyperspatial satellite transmissions.”
“And what about the-“ Matt hesitated. “The Malthurians?”
“Maldurians,” the Doctor corrected. “Oh, they’re entirely oblivious. Industrialised species, just started to mess around with space travel but a bit too concerned with blowing each other up in the odd war to look to the stars. Very self-absorbed.”
“Like us, you mean,” Rose pointed out.
“Basically, yeah,” the Doctor agreed with a grin. She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who said it!” he protested, then pulled a lever and listened critically to the dematerialisation. The frequency was slightly elevated, but that was only to be expected; the old girl seemed to have pulled through all right after being buffeted about. “And here we are!”
Matt moved away from the TARDIS doors, suddenly looking very pale and frightened. “We’re going to visit the Historians?”
“Real live aliens on a real live alien planet!” Rose confirmed cheerily.
There was an awkward silence. The Doctor cleared his throat and avoided Rose’s questioning glance. “Well,” he said, “we’re not going to visit the Historians. I am.”
She was furious. “Doctor, I’m not going to let you-“
He replaced the finger on her lips, and she mimed biting it. He pulled away with a glare. “No call for that! Someone has to watch Matt, Rose. I’m not taking him outside the TARDIS; the Cultelli aren’t gonna give up that easily. They’ll find him and kill him, and probably do the same to us for getting in their way earlier.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Matt protested hotly.
“The TARDIS doesn’t like you, remember?” the Doctor snapped, not taking his eyes off Rose. “If we leave you here alone, she might get into all sorts of mischief, shoot you out into space.” That wasn’t at all true, and he could tell by Rose’s hurt expression that she knew it.
“I’m not a child, Doctor,” she said, voice carefully neutral.
“You’re the only one I can trust with something like this, Rose,” he murmured, injecting exactly the right amount of desperation into his voice. Just believe me for once. She crossed her arms, and he sighed. “The Historians get a little tetchy when aliens come calling,” he admitted. “It could be dangerous. They know me, but they wouldn’t know you.”
“You could introduce me! If it’s dangerous, I want to be with you,” she stated firmly.
He grimaced and rubbed at his neck. “Dangerous for you. Not for me, Rose. I’ll be fine. Please, just watch Matt and stay here. Trust me.”
She looked oddly stricken, and it took him a moment to remember Pete’s advertisements, back in the London with zeppelins and Cybermen and Mickey the Idiot. Trust me on this.
“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll watch him.” She shook a finger in his face, and suddenly her resemblance to Jackie was terrifying. “But if you go galloping off into some ridiculously dangerous situation without me-“
He grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it! When the giant, bug-eyed monsters start waving their pointy spears, I’ll knock at the door and give you a yell, okay?”
She smiled back and hugged him, careful not to jostle his arm. “Deal.”
“Good!” He extricated himself and bounded down from the console towards the door; Matt shrank back as he passed. When he reached the exit, he turned to the boy. “Listen, Matt, I really am sorry about all this. Just stick with Rose; you’ll be all right.”
“Yeah,” Matt said shakily. “Right. Good luck with the, uh, Historians.”
The Doctor gave a half-hearted wave in reply and was nearly out the door before he turned around. “If you have to leave the TARDIS for whatever reason, Rose, be careful not to let any of the Maldurians see you. No use causing a panic.”
“Right,” she said. “Since we’re the bug-eyed aliens here. And what about the Historians?”
The Doctor pursed his lips, considering. “Avoid them if at all possible – like I said, they don’t take kindly to strangers – but if it’s not possible, try name-dropping. They’re so fascinated by history that if you pretend to be somebody famous, chances are they’ll want to ask questions.”
“Asking questions is fine,” Rose added. “As long as shooting doesn’t follow.”
“Right.” He hid his wince – she really didn’t need to know about the Historians’ fetish for duelling pistols – and took a step outside into the snow. Enjoying the crunch his trainers made, he spun back around and called through the open door. “One more thing. If I’m not back in, say, two hours-“
“There’s no way I’m leaving you!” Rose shouted.
The Doctor feigned shock. “I should hope not! Then I’d be stuck, wouldn’t I?” He grinned. “If I’m not back in two hours, you’ve got my permission to mount a rescue operation.”
“Aye-aye.” He could just see Rose, back at the console, saluting him, and then the doors swung shut, and he was standing in front of a police box nestled inconspicuously in a copse of purple trees, bent low with snow.
He inhaled the cold air deeply – a little thin, so they must be partway up one of the mountains. “Well done,” he murmured to the TARDIS. It would only be a brief walk to one of the Historians’ libraries.
Stamping his feet and rubbing his hands, more for effect than anything else as he really couldn’t feel the cold at all, he closed his eyes. Every one of his senses was screaming at him to move directly away from the TARDIS towards a downward-slanting slab of green rock and, from there, to the rising smog of the Maldurian city at the foot of the mountain.
He turned away from the rock and the city, stared up between the violet trees masking the TARDIS, to the almost sheer face of snow-covered rock beyond. No, his mind informed him unequivocally. There’s absolutely nothing up there. Satisfied, the Doctor started walking in that direction. For an instant, he felt terribly uneasy as his brain tried to convince him that he really was being rather silly for heading further up the mountain.
“Perception filters,” he scoffed, watching the swirl of his breath as it fogged in the air. “Only really useful if you’re not looking for them.”
It took him a full fifteen minutes of fruitless attempts at climbing the rock before he noticed the path winding its way more gradually across the mountain face. He couldn’t quite recall what sorts of animals made their home in this particular region of inhospitable terrain, but he was grateful for the natural pathway, and began his hike.
By the time another half hour had passed, he’d progressed from the rock face to another small stand of trees, and the perceptual screeching in his head had faded to the occasional half-hearted comment on his stupidity for heading in this oh-so-uninteresting direction. He was so engrossed in searching for somewhere the library obviously wasn’t, since it wouldn’t make itself known to him in any other way, that he didn’t notice the shadow that drifted briefly across his own as he turned a bend. The part of him that ordinarily would have sensed the eyes watching him was engrossed with counting his heartbeats, making sure he didn’t lose track of time and cause Rose and Matt undue panic. And he was much too concerned with keeping track of the way back to the TARDIS to observe the flash of spots among the violet bark of the trees beside him.
He was, however, paying enough attention to notice the massive purple-and-orange Lansall beast that came exploding from the trees, bearing down on him, all hideously twisted claws and sharp teeth, at an alarming rate.
The Doctor fumbled in his pocket for the sonic screwdriver, since most beasties of his acquaintance were put off by obnoxious high-frequency buzzing, but the Lansall was moving far too quickly. He barely managed to duck behind a tree before it would’ve been upon him, and blue bark flew through the air as its claw slashed at the wood where he’d been standing. It stopped, breath steaming in the air, and the Doctor grinned nervously.
“Good Lansall. Quiet Lansall. Not-going-to-kill-anyone Lansall,” he cooed. The creature was silent, watching him with its green eyes, flexing its claws. The Doctor pulled the screwdriver slowly from his pocket, wincing in anticipation, and pressed the button.
The screwdriver shrieked, and the Lansall echoed it with a startled roar. It surged forward, and the Doctor only had time to recall that a frightened Lansall was generally an angry Lansall, before its massive paw smashed into his shoulder, claws hooking cruelly through skin and muscle, and sent him careening into the nearest tree. The screwdriver stopped screeching.
The Doctor gasped for breath, trying to get his legs back under him, finding himself oddly transfixed by the blood, his blood, spattering across the snow. The creature was quiet again, watching him, and he was suddenly and vividly reminded of a cat playing with a bird before snapping its neck. It wasn’t a pleasant comparison.
Eventually, though, he managed to stand, leaning against the tree for support. His breath was still coming too quickly after his collision with the tree, and he felt his respiratory bypass system starting to take effect in compensation. His arm hung useless at his side, and a wave of nausea gripped him when he clasped his other hand over his wounded shoulder to staunch the bleeding.
The Lansall was lumbering back and forth in its peculiarly graceful five-legged gait, watching him. The Doctor wanted Rose beside him. No. He wanted Rose back in the TARDIS, safe and sound-
The Lansall pounced again, and he started to move but dizziness struck him a second before the creature did, and he was suddenly sprawled in the snow some ten feet away with no recollection of having arrived there.
And then the pain hit, sharp pinpricks along his side that expanded into a terrible surge of agony. He coughed wetly, and couldn’t quite swallow his cry of pain at the movement. There was far too much blood in the snow around him.
His head hurt; he felt as though it would stop if he could just sleep. Only a few minutes. Surely the Lansall would be considerate enough to let him nap, civilized man-eating beast that it was.
It was growling, getting ready to pounce, and the Doctor felt something shiver inside him, in the vicinity of his link with the TARDIS. I’m so sorry, old girl.
There was a small explosion somewhere altogether too close to his right leg.
Before he’d finished wondering whether it was the Lansalls of Kalthan or the Kansalls of Lalthan that practiced the art of spontaneous combustion in combat, something thudded dully to the ground beside him. He made the supreme effort required to turn his head; the creature was crumpled beside him, eyes bloody and staring, almost comically, at the neat hole between them.
The Doctor coughed again, trying to draw his legs up closer to his body, only to realize that he couldn’t feel his legs, that his whole body was lost somewhere in the pain so that only his mind remained. I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix. So this was appendicitis, he reckoned vaguely.
There was the crunch of footsteps in the snow, somewhere nearby. “You alive there, mate?” The warm, thick, gruff voice told of winter cabins and big game hunts and roughing it in the wilderness. The Doctor gave a moan in the affirmative.
“What were you thinkin’, taking on a Lansall without an energy weapon?” The voice was closer, now, and the Doctor turned his head to face its source. His vision was blurring and his eyelids kept drooping, but he could make out a tall, stocky shape that could almost have been humanoid, were it not for the three heads and the prehensile tail that swatted at the air.
The Maldurian paused a few paces away, and the Doctor heard his startled gasp. “What the-“
The tiny part of the Doctor that wasn’t desperately clawing its way towards unconsciousness was laughing. First Contact, that joyous, momentous, fantastic occasion when a race first looks up to the stars and realizes the stars have always been looking back. There had to be speeches, there had to be treaties, there had to be understandings.
The Doctor swallowed thickly, clearing his throat with some effort. Spots flashed and danced before his eyes.
“Take me to your leader,” he slurred, and fainted.
End Part III
Coming soon - Part IV: Tempus Fugit, in which the TARDIS is revealed to have a prodigal supply of board games; the Historians finally meet someone worth writing about; and the time is, to coin a phrase, rather out of joint.
Chapter: Kalthan (3/?)
Author:
eponymous_roseBeta: The superlative
imsanehonest, whose powers of beta are made of undiluted awesome.Word Count: 4,916
Genre: Adventure, humour
Characters: Rose, Ten
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Violence
Spoilers: Pre-Doomsday. This fic was manufactured in a facility that deals with season three of the new series; those with spoiler allergies should nevertheless be safe.
Disclaimer: “Doctor Who” and all related whatsits are the property of the BBC.
In which: Tensions rise, the TARDIS is – believe it or not – bigger on the inside, and Earth is forced to relinquish its monopoly on awkward First Contact stories.
(Previous Chapters)
Link:
Just when the Doctor was certain that Matthew Timms couldn’t possibly get more annoying, the boy exceeded expectations.
He’d started off well enough, following close, head down and walking silently as they’d made their way back to the theatre and the TARDIS. The Doctor liked it when people followed him quietly; it was far less annoying than their proclivity for rushing off into certain danger.
And then, once they’d arrived at the theatre, Matt had broken his spotless record and rushed off into certain danger. Well, he’d run up a flight of stairs towards an Employees Only door, which was very nearly the same thing.
The Doctor didn’t trust the Cultelli, not really. In his experience with the morally ambiguous – and he’d had rather more of it than he’d care to admit – any bargain struck under duress wasn’t particularly likely to be upheld. If the Cultelli were so determined to have Matt killed, a slap on the wrist and an admonition to cease-and-desist-if-it-wouldn’t-be-too-much-bother were hardly an effective deterrent. They’d return, in greater numbers and with more experienced killers, to finish what they’d started.
He didn’t know the whole situation, the story behind the assassination attempts, and that bothered him more than he expected. He felt unprepared, unarmed, and while he typically thrived on bluffing his way through difficult situations, he wasn’t willing to cut corners where sword-wielding maniacs were involved. Not where Rose was involved-
In any case, once they were in the TARDIS, they’d be safe enough for the time being. In the meantime, they were all in danger so long as Matt kept dashing off towards closed doors.
Fortunately, as the kid wasn’t in particularly good shape, it had been simple enough to catch up with him and ask why he was rushing off into certain danger. Matt had blithered about his rucksack, the Doctor had grumbled about a sense of priorities, Rose had glared at him for being insensitive again, and they’d all marched up the stairs to get the silly little tattered green bag. Humans and their attachment to objects; the Doctor would never understand it.
And then they’d had to sneak back into the theatre to get to the TARDIS, and of course Matt’s manager, a burly, harried-looking man with a tattoo of what looked very much like a pigeon on his wrist, ran into them in the lobby. Naturally, he wanted to know why Matt was pissing around with his friends instead of doing whatever it was ushers did. Ush, presumably.
It was simple enough to flash the psychic paper at the manager with his most winning smile.
By the way the manager’s brows knitted, by the way his eyes narrowed, and by the way he asked why the hell the Doctor was waving a blank piece of paper in his face, it was equally easy to tell that the psychic paper hadn’t worked. Which was, of course, extremely worrying – unless psychic training had suddenly become a job requirement for a theatre director (which it wouldn’t do, the Doctor was fairly sure, until the mid-twenty-fifth century and the second reign of Spielberg the Reborn), something was terribly amiss.
Things weren’t going his way today, and there was only one new factor in the mix. The Doctor blamed Matt.
Of course, the boy had been quick enough with a cover story that involved the Doctor being a “bit of a nutter”, Rose being his “caretaker”, and the two of them trying to retrieve a purse she’d left in the theatre so they could dash home before the Doctor had another of “his episodes”. The manager had grudgingly accepted the tale – which the Doctor found mildly insulting – and let them sneak back into the theatre, where the movie had resumed playing. They’d snuck up to the TARDIS as best they could under cover of the occasional burst of gunfire, but couldn’t avoid the odd murmur or conspiratorial wink from the audience.
And then they’d stepped through the door of his magnificent space-time vessel, and Matt had stopped, dropped his bag, and burst into tears.
Now the Doctor was trying to focus on setting the coordinates while Rose made vague sympathetic noises to Matt. The TARDIS’s newest occupant had subsided into an embarrassed sniffling and was surreptitiously wiping his nose on his sleeve – not, of course, that the Doctor was particularly concerned about the emotional stability of the kid who’d got them into this mess in the first place. In fact, the vehemence of his disinterest in Matt’s well-being caught him a little off-guard. But then, it wasn’t an easy task, the Doctor reflected, all this intense concentration on the knobs and doohickeys, especially when Rose’s comforting words to Matt were so low and gentle that he found himself straining to hear what she was saying.
At his continued urging, the TARDIS trundled uncomfortably into the Vortex – the quantum slingshot hadn’t agreed with her at all, the Doctor noted with some concern – but soon the rotor was bobbing contentedly enough. “Voilà!” he exclaimed with a flourish.
Rose blinked up at him from where she was standing at the doorway, her arm around Matt’s shoulders. “What d’you mean, voilà?”
The Doctor beckoned, and she extricated herself from Matt, much to the latter’s disappointment, to come and stand beside him at the console. Absurdly pleased with himself, the Doctor pointed to the time rotor. “By ‘voilà’, I mean that the little bobbly bit’s going up and down – and the knobby light over there’s flashing.”
At his teasing tone, she punched him lightly in the arm. It was gentle enough, but he stumbled back, surprised at the pain that rocketed through his wrist and straight down to his fingertips. “Sorry!” she exclaimed, horrified; he waved off her concern.
“No, this should’ve started to heal by now, at least,” he muttered, rolling up his sleeve to inspect the handkerchief on his forearm. There was fresh blood dotted among the older stains and the grape pop. He peeked under the binding – as he’d expected, the cut had already started to scab over at the edges, but the process seemed to be taking longer than usual, and blood was still seeping from the wound.
He tightened the handkerchief and looked up to meet Rose’s worried gaze. He tried to think of something to say without revealing his own anxiety, and eventually settled on a noncommittal “Hm.”
Matt had been watching the exchange, wide-eyed. At the lull in conversation, he cleared his throat, balking slightly at the Doctor’s glare. “Y-You said their swords were special?” He swallowed. “Part of ‘em, or something?”
The Doctor blinked, wondering at the sudden surge of annoyance he felt at the idea that Matt had considered that fact before he had. Something was distracting him, keeping him from thinking clearly – and then he noticed that the TARDIS had taken on a warning hum. He patted the console reassuringly; things were starting to come together.
“Yeah,” the Doctor admitted. “Yes, you might just be right. Mucking about with my Time Lord physiology and all that.” He couldn’t resist a manic grin, and was rewarded when Matt stumbled back a step, against the door.
“Doctor,” Rose warned, and he glanced over to see that her concern over his injury had been replaced by aggravation. Good – he’d never been entirely sure how to deal with her when she was worried. “I hit you in the first place because you were being a right git. Matt’s terrified!”
You weren’t, he didn’t say, and gave an elaborate sigh. “All right, all right. Matt, calm down. This is my ship, and yes, it’s bigger on the inside, and you really can’t say I didn’t give you fair warning about the alien bit. I’m not about to eat you for lunch, either, if that’s what’s worrying you,” he added, and stopped himself from tacking on a “maybe for dinner” to the end of that sentence.
Matt flushed. “No, it’s – it’s not that,” he stuttered. “I… it’s just…” He swallowed hard. “Is this thing alive?”
He looked away, embarrassed, and the Doctor shrugged to conceal his surprise at the question. Either the boy was more astute than he’d expected, or the TARDIS was being less subtle than usual. “Well,” he said at last, “what makes you think that?”
Matt shuffled his feet, staring down at his precious rucksack. “When we came in here, I got this feeling. I… I don’t think she likes me.”
The Doctor blinked. “What?”
Rose laughed. “Don’t be daft, Matt. The TARDIS doesn’t hate people on sight!” She paused. “Or on… sense, I guess.”
Matt looked up, finally meeting the Doctor’s gaze. His puffy eyes were narrowed, determined. “No, I really don’t think she likes me,” he said. “And so maybe I’d better just get going. Take my chances with the alien sword ninjas.”
He hefted the bag back over his shoulder and turned as though to open the doors. The Doctor cleared his throat. “Wouldn’t do that. The Time Vortex doesn’t agree with humans.” Matt jumped back as though he’d been burned, and the Doctor shrugged. “Doesn’t much agree with anyone, really.”
“Did we just smash a hole through the roof of the theatre?” Matt marvelled dazedly.
“It’s complicated,” the Doctor scoffed.
“Not really,” Rose corrected with a smirk. “We don’t actually take off – just sort of appear and disappear wherever or whenever. No property damage!” She met his eyes for a second, and he knew she was remembering his Christmas crash-landing. “Almost none,” she amended.
“That’s nice,” Matt said faintly, leaning back against the wall and scrubbing a sleeve across his forehead. “Where are we going?”
“There are people,” the Doctor began, striding around the console, checking lights as he went, “who keep track of these things. Boring little lives, don’t have much else to do, so they sit around and fill volumes and volumes with history.” And for a terrible, wonderful instant, he was back at the Academy, sitting with his friends, laughing with the arrogance of youth at the redundancy of those little people and their libraries. All of eternity had been their history book.
Rose’s hand was on his shoulder, and he touched it absently. “You all right?” she whispered. “Really, now.”
“Fine,” he said cheerily. She wasn’t convinced, so he touched the tip of her nose and broadened his grin. “I’ve got you watching out for me, don’t I?” She smiled uncertainly, and he turned away.
“Anyway,” he continued, “I’ve got a few acquaintances I’d like to look up, just a little ways into the future to let ‘em get caught up. Universal Historians – they might have some insight into your current situation.”
“D’you really think Matt will be in the history books?” Rose wondered.
“I think he must be,” the Doctor confirmed. “Something’s gone horribly wrong, and I doubt the Cultelli have decided to execute Matt for their own entertainment.” The boy shivered. “He’s got to be important somehow – weren’t you paying attention when Fred’s dad told us they didn’t have a client? He timed it for maximum dramatic effect, too!”
Rose frowned – she was starting to follow his train of thought, the Doctor noted proudly. “So you think if they weren’t doing it for money or technology or something, they were doing it-“ She paused, shook her head. “Nah.”
“What?” the Doctor coaxed.
“Stupid thought,” Rose said, adding a dismissive wave of her hand. “Forget about it.”
“Rose,” the Doctor wheedled. She met his gaze and grinned.
“They’re trying to change history somehow, aren’t they? Someone’s mucked things up sometime in the future, so they’ve tried to set things back on track.” She paused. “Or maybe just muck them up in a different way. Right?” She pointed. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
He nodded. “Got it in-“ He paused, considering. “Well, didn’t quite get it in one.” Rose glared, and he hastily added: “But a good try all around.”
“Couldn’t they just be covering for their client?” Matt blurted, then flushed when the Doctor glanced back at him. “I mean, if he’s really important or something.”
“Do you have any really important enemies?” the Doctor queried.
“Not yet,” Matt answered, gaining momentum. “But I could have, right? In the future? And maybe whoever it is just wants me dead for, well, whatever reason.”
The Doctor chewed on this for a moment. “What do you do, Matt, when you’re not ushering? Still in school?”
“Just finished,” he said, a trifle defensively. “I’m eighteen.” He paused, as though waiting for a challenge to this statement – though the Doctor supposed he did look considerably younger – and then continued when none was forthcoming. “Got my A-levels. I was hoping to save up enough to go to university somewhere nice.”
“And what would you study?” the Doctor pressed.
Matt shrugged. “I dunno. Literature, or something.”
The Doctor ran a hand back through his hair, thinking. “What do you hope to do?”
Matt flushed and mumbled. The Doctor put a hand to his ear, and the boy reddened further and spoke up. “I want to be a freelance journalist,” he stated, crossing his arms. “And I don’t care what Trudy says about a steady job, it’s what I want to do.”
Rose grinned. “Well, if you go through with that, you’ll probably make a few enemies along the way, and chances are good they’ll be important ones.”
“Mm,” the Doctor said, unconvinced. “We’ll see. It can’t hurt to take a peek in the history books.”
“But-“ Matt winced. “Wait, I saw all those time-travel movies and stuff. If I see what’s written in my future, isn’t that going to change it? And then, won’t I disappear or something?”
The Doctor rolled his eyes. Amateurs. “You lot travel in three dimensions: I travel in four. Ants generally travel in two – well, barring any sort of particularly strong wind gusts. D’you think the world ends every time an ant climbs up someone’s trouser leg and winds up on the top of a mountain?”
Rose was staring at him; he crossed his arms. He was a Time Lord of principle, after all – he stood by his analogies. She shook her head with a rueful grin and glanced back to Matt. “All that aside, we saved your life. That’s probably mucked things up properly, and you’re still here, aren’t you?”
“Am I?” Matt said weakly. “That’s good.”
“No,” said the Doctor with an air of finality. “I think I’m right.” He pressed a finger to Rose’s lips to quell the sarcastic reply she’d started to form. “I think the Cultelli are after you because of some effect you’ve had on your personal timeline, or the web of time, or whatever you want to call it. Because of the lack of client, because the psychic paper wasn’t working when it had to protect you. But, more importantly, because the TARDIS doesn’t like you, and I don’t either.”
“Doctor!” Rose protested, and he withdrew his finger. “That’s not-“
“No, but it’s true! On an instinctual level, I really don’t like you, Matt, and it got worse the moment I stepped inside the TARDIS. There’s something not quite right, there.”
“Glad it’s not just me,” Matt muttered.
“Oh, but it is just you, and that’s the point!” The Doctor noticed Rose’s little smile and became vaguely aware that he’d started gesticulating dramatically as he spoke. “The TARDIS and I, we’re very sensitive to time, you know. It’s in my blood, and sometimes, just sometimes, I can feel when something’s a bit off. And you’re more than a bit off, Matthew Timms. You’re way off.”
As though to punctuate his words, the TARDIS console sparked and fizzed. He dashed over to check the coordinates, but they still appeared to be on track. “We’re headed to Kalthan, about two hundred years after your time,” he explained at last, twiddling a few switches experimentally. “Nice planet, fairly temperate, Earth-normal gravity and atmosphere. It’s a quiet place, well off the intergalactic freeways.”
“Suburbia,” Rose hazarded.
“Something like that, yeah. Nobody really knows much about the place, since nobody ever visits.”
“You must’ve done,” Matt pointed out.
“Yes, but that probably hasn’t happened yet,” the Doctor said, annoyed at the interruption. “It’s actually one of the few planets in the universe where two entirely different races have coexisted peacefully for millennia.”
“What, you mean they’ve never been at war?” Rose looked sceptical – the Doctor wasn’t quite sure what to make of her apparent cynicism.
“Never ever,” he confirmed. “No interracial wars, anyways. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that the Maldurians don’t know the Historians exist.”
“That probably helps, yeah.”
“The Historians colonised the planet a long, long time ago. They’ve got an absolutely brilliant way with a perception filter, make you ignore your own Gran.” The Doctor disregarded Matt’s baffled look; Rose was nodding her comprehension. “So they hide out in the mountains and observe the universe as best they can, through an extensive network of hyperspatial satellite transmissions.”
“And what about the-“ Matt hesitated. “The Malthurians?”
“Maldurians,” the Doctor corrected. “Oh, they’re entirely oblivious. Industrialised species, just started to mess around with space travel but a bit too concerned with blowing each other up in the odd war to look to the stars. Very self-absorbed.”
“Like us, you mean,” Rose pointed out.
“Basically, yeah,” the Doctor agreed with a grin. She rolled her eyes. “You’re the one who said it!” he protested, then pulled a lever and listened critically to the dematerialisation. The frequency was slightly elevated, but that was only to be expected; the old girl seemed to have pulled through all right after being buffeted about. “And here we are!”
Matt moved away from the TARDIS doors, suddenly looking very pale and frightened. “We’re going to visit the Historians?”
“Real live aliens on a real live alien planet!” Rose confirmed cheerily.
There was an awkward silence. The Doctor cleared his throat and avoided Rose’s questioning glance. “Well,” he said, “we’re not going to visit the Historians. I am.”
She was furious. “Doctor, I’m not going to let you-“
He replaced the finger on her lips, and she mimed biting it. He pulled away with a glare. “No call for that! Someone has to watch Matt, Rose. I’m not taking him outside the TARDIS; the Cultelli aren’t gonna give up that easily. They’ll find him and kill him, and probably do the same to us for getting in their way earlier.”
“I don’t need a babysitter,” Matt protested hotly.
“The TARDIS doesn’t like you, remember?” the Doctor snapped, not taking his eyes off Rose. “If we leave you here alone, she might get into all sorts of mischief, shoot you out into space.” That wasn’t at all true, and he could tell by Rose’s hurt expression that she knew it.
“I’m not a child, Doctor,” she said, voice carefully neutral.
“You’re the only one I can trust with something like this, Rose,” he murmured, injecting exactly the right amount of desperation into his voice. Just believe me for once. She crossed her arms, and he sighed. “The Historians get a little tetchy when aliens come calling,” he admitted. “It could be dangerous. They know me, but they wouldn’t know you.”
“You could introduce me! If it’s dangerous, I want to be with you,” she stated firmly.
He grimaced and rubbed at his neck. “Dangerous for you. Not for me, Rose. I’ll be fine. Please, just watch Matt and stay here. Trust me.”
She looked oddly stricken, and it took him a moment to remember Pete’s advertisements, back in the London with zeppelins and Cybermen and Mickey the Idiot. Trust me on this.
“All right,” she said finally. “I’ll watch him.” She shook a finger in his face, and suddenly her resemblance to Jackie was terrifying. “But if you go galloping off into some ridiculously dangerous situation without me-“
He grinned. “Wouldn’t dream of it! When the giant, bug-eyed monsters start waving their pointy spears, I’ll knock at the door and give you a yell, okay?”
She smiled back and hugged him, careful not to jostle his arm. “Deal.”
“Good!” He extricated himself and bounded down from the console towards the door; Matt shrank back as he passed. When he reached the exit, he turned to the boy. “Listen, Matt, I really am sorry about all this. Just stick with Rose; you’ll be all right.”
“Yeah,” Matt said shakily. “Right. Good luck with the, uh, Historians.”
The Doctor gave a half-hearted wave in reply and was nearly out the door before he turned around. “If you have to leave the TARDIS for whatever reason, Rose, be careful not to let any of the Maldurians see you. No use causing a panic.”
“Right,” she said. “Since we’re the bug-eyed aliens here. And what about the Historians?”
The Doctor pursed his lips, considering. “Avoid them if at all possible – like I said, they don’t take kindly to strangers – but if it’s not possible, try name-dropping. They’re so fascinated by history that if you pretend to be somebody famous, chances are they’ll want to ask questions.”
“Asking questions is fine,” Rose added. “As long as shooting doesn’t follow.”
“Right.” He hid his wince – she really didn’t need to know about the Historians’ fetish for duelling pistols – and took a step outside into the snow. Enjoying the crunch his trainers made, he spun back around and called through the open door. “One more thing. If I’m not back in, say, two hours-“
“There’s no way I’m leaving you!” Rose shouted.
The Doctor feigned shock. “I should hope not! Then I’d be stuck, wouldn’t I?” He grinned. “If I’m not back in two hours, you’ve got my permission to mount a rescue operation.”
“Aye-aye.” He could just see Rose, back at the console, saluting him, and then the doors swung shut, and he was standing in front of a police box nestled inconspicuously in a copse of purple trees, bent low with snow.
He inhaled the cold air deeply – a little thin, so they must be partway up one of the mountains. “Well done,” he murmured to the TARDIS. It would only be a brief walk to one of the Historians’ libraries.
Stamping his feet and rubbing his hands, more for effect than anything else as he really couldn’t feel the cold at all, he closed his eyes. Every one of his senses was screaming at him to move directly away from the TARDIS towards a downward-slanting slab of green rock and, from there, to the rising smog of the Maldurian city at the foot of the mountain.
He turned away from the rock and the city, stared up between the violet trees masking the TARDIS, to the almost sheer face of snow-covered rock beyond. No, his mind informed him unequivocally. There’s absolutely nothing up there. Satisfied, the Doctor started walking in that direction. For an instant, he felt terribly uneasy as his brain tried to convince him that he really was being rather silly for heading further up the mountain.
“Perception filters,” he scoffed, watching the swirl of his breath as it fogged in the air. “Only really useful if you’re not looking for them.”
It took him a full fifteen minutes of fruitless attempts at climbing the rock before he noticed the path winding its way more gradually across the mountain face. He couldn’t quite recall what sorts of animals made their home in this particular region of inhospitable terrain, but he was grateful for the natural pathway, and began his hike.
By the time another half hour had passed, he’d progressed from the rock face to another small stand of trees, and the perceptual screeching in his head had faded to the occasional half-hearted comment on his stupidity for heading in this oh-so-uninteresting direction. He was so engrossed in searching for somewhere the library obviously wasn’t, since it wouldn’t make itself known to him in any other way, that he didn’t notice the shadow that drifted briefly across his own as he turned a bend. The part of him that ordinarily would have sensed the eyes watching him was engrossed with counting his heartbeats, making sure he didn’t lose track of time and cause Rose and Matt undue panic. And he was much too concerned with keeping track of the way back to the TARDIS to observe the flash of spots among the violet bark of the trees beside him.
He was, however, paying enough attention to notice the massive purple-and-orange Lansall beast that came exploding from the trees, bearing down on him, all hideously twisted claws and sharp teeth, at an alarming rate.
The Doctor fumbled in his pocket for the sonic screwdriver, since most beasties of his acquaintance were put off by obnoxious high-frequency buzzing, but the Lansall was moving far too quickly. He barely managed to duck behind a tree before it would’ve been upon him, and blue bark flew through the air as its claw slashed at the wood where he’d been standing. It stopped, breath steaming in the air, and the Doctor grinned nervously.
“Good Lansall. Quiet Lansall. Not-going-to-kill-anyone Lansall,” he cooed. The creature was silent, watching him with its green eyes, flexing its claws. The Doctor pulled the screwdriver slowly from his pocket, wincing in anticipation, and pressed the button.
The screwdriver shrieked, and the Lansall echoed it with a startled roar. It surged forward, and the Doctor only had time to recall that a frightened Lansall was generally an angry Lansall, before its massive paw smashed into his shoulder, claws hooking cruelly through skin and muscle, and sent him careening into the nearest tree. The screwdriver stopped screeching.
The Doctor gasped for breath, trying to get his legs back under him, finding himself oddly transfixed by the blood, his blood, spattering across the snow. The creature was quiet again, watching him, and he was suddenly and vividly reminded of a cat playing with a bird before snapping its neck. It wasn’t a pleasant comparison.
Eventually, though, he managed to stand, leaning against the tree for support. His breath was still coming too quickly after his collision with the tree, and he felt his respiratory bypass system starting to take effect in compensation. His arm hung useless at his side, and a wave of nausea gripped him when he clasped his other hand over his wounded shoulder to staunch the bleeding.
The Lansall was lumbering back and forth in its peculiarly graceful five-legged gait, watching him. The Doctor wanted Rose beside him. No. He wanted Rose back in the TARDIS, safe and sound-
The Lansall pounced again, and he started to move but dizziness struck him a second before the creature did, and he was suddenly sprawled in the snow some ten feet away with no recollection of having arrived there.
And then the pain hit, sharp pinpricks along his side that expanded into a terrible surge of agony. He coughed wetly, and couldn’t quite swallow his cry of pain at the movement. There was far too much blood in the snow around him.
His head hurt; he felt as though it would stop if he could just sleep. Only a few minutes. Surely the Lansall would be considerate enough to let him nap, civilized man-eating beast that it was.
It was growling, getting ready to pounce, and the Doctor felt something shiver inside him, in the vicinity of his link with the TARDIS. I’m so sorry, old girl.
There was a small explosion somewhere altogether too close to his right leg.
Before he’d finished wondering whether it was the Lansalls of Kalthan or the Kansalls of Lalthan that practiced the art of spontaneous combustion in combat, something thudded dully to the ground beside him. He made the supreme effort required to turn his head; the creature was crumpled beside him, eyes bloody and staring, almost comically, at the neat hole between them.
The Doctor coughed again, trying to draw his legs up closer to his body, only to realize that he couldn’t feel his legs, that his whole body was lost somewhere in the pain so that only his mind remained. I am a brain, Watson. The rest of me is a mere appendix. So this was appendicitis, he reckoned vaguely.
There was the crunch of footsteps in the snow, somewhere nearby. “You alive there, mate?” The warm, thick, gruff voice told of winter cabins and big game hunts and roughing it in the wilderness. The Doctor gave a moan in the affirmative.
“What were you thinkin’, taking on a Lansall without an energy weapon?” The voice was closer, now, and the Doctor turned his head to face its source. His vision was blurring and his eyelids kept drooping, but he could make out a tall, stocky shape that could almost have been humanoid, were it not for the three heads and the prehensile tail that swatted at the air.
The Maldurian paused a few paces away, and the Doctor heard his startled gasp. “What the-“
The tiny part of the Doctor that wasn’t desperately clawing its way towards unconsciousness was laughing. First Contact, that joyous, momentous, fantastic occasion when a race first looks up to the stars and realizes the stars have always been looking back. There had to be speeches, there had to be treaties, there had to be understandings.
The Doctor swallowed thickly, clearing his throat with some effort. Spots flashed and danced before his eyes.
“Take me to your leader,” he slurred, and fainted.
End Part III
Coming soon - Part IV: Tempus Fugit, in which the TARDIS is revealed to have a prodigal supply of board games; the Historians finally meet someone worth writing about; and the time is, to coin a phrase, rather out of joint.
