Fic: Kalendae. (1/4, Doctor/Rose, AU, PG)
Kalendae. Doctor/Rose, Susan, TARDIS, Sarah Jane, everyone, PG-ish, and mildly- okay, fairly- AU. For mylittlepwny, AU muse beyond compare. This is a story in which a great many things change, while certain important things remain the same.
He wonders who would have taken the time to program independent reactions of this sophistication. So he asks her. She looks at him and then looks down at her feet, and says it's a good thing his shoes didn't leave a scuff on hers, because she's not sure it would ever come out. So apparently, his autopilot is a complex hard-light simulacrum with high-security topics that are code-designated as strictly off-limit, or his autopilot simply has things she'd prefer not to discuss.
He wonders at that, too.
I.
He shouldn't be doing this. It's the definition of folly. There is a quantum philosophy examination in three days, and after that, a council meeting at which there is very probably going to be a lengthy argument about the university's current policies on genetic memory enhancements. All of which will require his complete attention. The nonexistent remainder of his attention is supposed to be devoted to the problem of Susan.
"She's not a problem," her mother had insisted. He'd sighed and said something under his breath about human growth rates and cognitive capacities and she'd said, quite firmly, "She's not exactly human, either, is she?" He is forced to admit that is true. She is not entirely human. Which is not the problem. The problem is, she is also not entirely Gallifreyan. There is no future seat on the university boards for a half-human born by traditional means. No matter how quick she is, no matter how fast she learns and how bright her eyes, how swiftly she solves every puzzle put before her, how crystalline her laughter when he used to swing her in his arms. Susan is a problem. His problem, from now on. He was the one who instigated the whole thing, directing her mother's passion for xenomorphology, encouraging her fieldwork, letting her run wild in all manner of centuries. And now he is no better than she is, sneaking through the back hallways of the renewal yards, poking at the shattered doors of old models and wandering down all manner of ill-advised mental pathways. He hasn't been approved for travel- quite the opposite- but perhaps they'll consider it, if he explains. If he explains Susan, Susan's questions, Susan's boundless intelligence and her habit of looking up at the stars. It's a habit he thought he was broken of, long ago, but now he finds they look up together more often than not.
"Are you lost?" says a voice just behind him, breaking his reveries and scattering the constellations away. He turns and finds the renewal yard matron looking at him with a mix of wariness and compassionate concern. Of course, he looks like a lunatic or a thief, poking into broken ships and hm-ing to himself, here alone in the dark. "Or looking for one in particular?"
"Just curious," he manages. He straightens his crooked robes. "I've visited the nurseries already. But I was interested in full machines. These are primarily damaged mid-period models, are they not?" She nods. "I have a certain fascination with the production specifications of the, er, early TARDIS," he adds, trying to sound serious and respectable and not like the madman he's becoming. She smiles at him.
"So do I," she says. "You know, the central archive has a particularly fine historic piece. Retrieved from the Eye, in fact. Decommissioned, a bit banged about, but still in my mind one of the superior designs."
"Do they?" He tries not to sound too interested.
"A type 40," she tells him. "Blue."
"Oh," he says.
It is laughably easy to pass through the security checkpoints. Algorithmic dual-matrix code entry panels? Primed biometric scanners with easily duped delay patterns? There were better deterrents on the door to his father's study when he was a boy. Apparently the archives are actually filled with useless things that nobody's concerned about, or they just can't imagine a world where unhinged quantum probability professors break into museums at night.
He finds it on a plinth in the middle of a hallway, halfway between a propagandistic biographical display on Rassilon and pieces of an early loom. The holo-plaque tells him nothing of interest, except that the chameleon circuit seems to have been permanently disabled. Not as useful as he might have liked, then. Difficult to go through time and space that way. It's an odd thing, this TARDIS, stuck looking like a great big rectangular box. A wooden box, no less. A police box, Earth-origin, mid-twentieth century. Well, at least they'd have little trouble visiting among that particular set of humanoids. He is mulling over the many limitations of a broken chameleon mechanism when, quite unconsciously, he reaches out and rests a hand on the door frame. It feels like wood, remarkably like it. The door is weathered, worn smooth in certain places where a hand might pause as one brushed through. There is a curious sensation in the back of his mind- a calming hum, one placid thread of consciousness pricking his own, a faint waking ripple- like wind through a keyhole. He is aware that the TARDIS, like all such ships, is a sentient being, but he did not expect it to be quite so- alive. He holds onto the door and thinks, suddenly, of the great dark sky above them, whirling above and around at all times. The sky is full of galaxies and the galaxies are full of stars and the stars are courted by planets each in turn, twirling slowly on their axis. Without thinking, he climbs up onto the plinth and reaches over the door frame. His hand skims the top and finds an indentation, and in that indentation, a key. He cups it in his hands and stares down at it. The hum in his mind pauses, then comes back, warmer and more insistent. He blinks.
"Ah," he says. "Hello."
He unlocks the door.
It's dark inside, but for a few indicator lights still clinging to life on the console. A spare, simple design, with recharging bio-cells lining the walls and a glassed-in central column. He primes a few switches and the interior start to glow, dimly. It's a multi-pilot console, but easily managed by one or two. Nothing like the later comfort models with their broad command panels, built for accommodating crews of nine or ten for long off-planet missions, back when they still had an interest in keeping their hand in galactic politics. He reads the dials- barely enough power yet to switch districts, let alone centuries, but rising fast- and he's leaning in to regulate the matter transfer when someone clears their throat. Quite close. He jerks upright and stares over the console at her. It's a girl. Two arms, two legs, blonde, young. Pretty eyes. Inappropriately dressed. Probably the fashion outside the capitol, like the strange haircuts Susan is lately admiring on the holo-screen. This one's older than Susan, but gods, everyone looks too young to him these days. She's smiling now, hands behind her back, rocking a little on her heels. Waiting. "Excuse me, cadet," he snaps. "If you're looking to examine an antique TARDIS, this one's taken." Her grin widens. "I am conducting sensitive research. Begone."
"You'll want to set the cell reflux cycle a nudge higher," she says. "Or you'll still be sitting here in the morning when the archivists come back." He gapes at her. "Well, go on." He looks down at the panel. And flicks the level up several notches. "Much better," she says.
"Explain yourself," he demands.
"I'm not the one stealing a type 40, am I?"
"How dare-"
"I am your Relief Operational Sentient Entity," she interrupts, with a disarming little half-curtsy. "The pleasure's all mine."
"You're-" his brain trails sluggishly for an infuriating moment, then slams abruptly into the only obvious answer. Didn't he study the schematics of the type 40 for three hours last night? He ought to be an expert by now, but it appears not. "Autopilot," he says. "You're the autopilot." Of course. Though she seems nothing like the typical autopilots he's studied. Most autopilots are programmed versions of the operator, or intimidating authoritative types, useful for defensive scenarios. Naturally he's been saddled with somebody else's idea of a- what's the word for it? Some kind of- holiday companion. A pretty sight to look at in the boring stretches of space. A needless thing. He'll figure out how to reprogram it. "I won't be requiring your services," he tells her. "I am fully capable of operating this vessel independently. Deactivate," he says, waving his hand in her general direction. The autopilot stares at him, then folds her arms over her chest. "Deactivate," he repeats. Nothing happens. "Am I to assume," he says, carefully, "that the autopilot shutoff switch is broken as well?"
"No," she says. "You just need to ask politely."
"Insufferable!" he says. He glowers at her. "Please, then. Please would you do me the kindness of deactivating and removing yourself from my sight."
"Suit yourself," she sighs, and blinks away. He most definitely does not concern himself with the look of hurt that flashed across her features. A useless affectation in a programmed intelligence. One that displeases him for its sheer ridiculousness. He wonders if he can find out which particular hormonal idiot owned this model before him, and if they're still available for a sound kicking. He forgets that thought- and every other thought, briefly- when he finally flips the lever and the ship grinds back to life in a joyous symphony of sparks. They took him to the schism when he was a boy. They take everyone. But he remembers that old sound, faintly, as he hears it again now. The sound of the universe opening. He closes his eyes. He's taught probabilities and the mechanics of time for so long, but never understood. Not really. He didn't realize, until this very moment, that everything is a beginning.
He doesn't think of the autopilot once, not once, in the weeks that follow. Not until he walks into the console room and finds Susan and the autopilot sitting cross-legged on the floor, laughing uproariously at some private joke, hands over their mouths and tears in their eyes. Can autopilots generate simulated tears? Again, he's filled with seething irritation for the brainless dolt who designed this one to begin with.
"Deactivate!" he practically roars. It scowls and flashes away without a protest, but Susan turns on him with genuine anger plain in her face. He's baffled before it. Such a good girl, his Susan. Such a sweet, devoted girl.
"Grandfather," she says. Her dark eyes are storms of hurt. "That's no way to talk to Rose."
"To Rose?" His brain puts the acronym into place. "Oh, for goodness' sake. She's not- it's not a person, Susan. It's a program. A particularly silly one."
"Don't be horrible," says Susan. He throws his hands up and parks them in fourth-century Iowa and takes a very, very long walk across a very, very cold field. By the time he comes back, Susan is in her own room, talking in low tones behind a closed door. He can guess with whom. He chooses to ignore it, and takes them to Majorca Minor, in time for their lunar festival. Susan is marginally placated by the purchase of several pies. When it is finally late and Susan is yawning, he kisses her on the forehead and sends her off to her room. "Goodnight," she yawns. "Don't forget what I said," she adds, with a last, stubborn look over her shoulder. In case he was in any doubt as to just whose daughter she really is. He putters around the console and pretends to check the levels and finally just sits in a chair and sighs and thinks about a time when he was a respected educator and a member of several distinguished bodies and not a semi-fugitive beholden to the whims of half-human teenage girls. He glances up and around.
"As you like it, then," he says, irritably. "Rose."
The lights flicker a bit.
Little by little, he begins to forget that the autopilot offends him on principle. The truth is, it knows more about the ship's workings than he does, just yet. He stole the manual as well, naturally, but it's written entirely in highly personal-sounding hypotheticals. One occasionally needs to be told more than which lever to push in case of historical poisonings by the League of Assassins. It's just such an occasion when they have landed firmly into the sinking time-swamp of Pustlunath and they're eager to get out again, that he finds himself bent over the console panel arguing loudly with the autopilot about which gear setting can escape motion-sensitive fourth-dimensional swamp suction.
"This one," Rose says. "Don't be such a stubborn-"
"Perhaps our situation has escaped you," he snaps. "But the only possible course-"
"Escaped?" The autopilot actually laughs at him. "Doctor, nobody's escaping anything if you don't adjust for angle of ascent." He mutters several unprintable things and does exactly as she says, then punches the coordinates in a bit harder than necessary. The TARDIS rocks and shudders and Ian holds onto the girls and the console sparks and the whole thing's a great big spectacular mess until it suddenly isn't, and they're free and orbiting the low atmosphere at a comfortable distance. He mutters some more, and rockets them onward, hopefully to France this time. Rose clears her throat.
"Yes," he says. "Yes, yes." The insolent strand of coding. She smiles and winks at Susan and vanishes, and Ian and Barbara look at each other queasily over the console. Some time later- one thoroughly dispiriting revolution later, actually- he finds himself alone in the room with Barbara, still dressed in a rather fetching period gown. She makes small talk about Robespierre and the inefficient methods of revolutionary policing, while he pretends to listen. And at last she asks a strange question, one that he asks her to repeat.
"Did you program her?"
"I most certainly did not," he says, dismissively. Barbara looks offended by his tone. Well, he's offended by the question. Who could even consider it? To think that he'd program his autopilot to look like a twenty-year-old girl in a denim skirt with dark makeup around her eyes. One that's always biting at her lip and second-guessing his theories about particle acceleration. Great gods of dark space. Spare him the indignities. "I've merely had some difficulties in altering the visual output. The appearance is hardly meaningful, besides. What matters is that the TARDIS auto-functions continue to operate in a standard fashion."
"Of course," Barbara says. Is she smiling at him? Honestly. He ought to dump them all out over the churning Green Sea of Hock'noor, and see who smiles afterwards.
"Grandfather," says Susan, coming in from the hallway. "Barbara. We've rummaged a bit for tea. I don't know about you, but I could stand a strong cup and a long nap." She's still in a gown as well, her hair gone wild and her arms a bit dirty. She's so very beautiful. She looks more like her mother now than she ever has before, and he feels a great sharp pang in his heart at that thought. This one's growing up, he thinks, without wanting to. Grown up entirely, perhaps, when he wasn't looking, like the first shoots of spring. She comes to him and takes him by the sleeve, rests her hand over his arm. "Does that sound all right?"
"Delightful," he says. He lets her lead him away.
This was what he wanted, wasn't it? It was all for this, for her. He meant every word he said, every promise he made. She'll be so much better like this, without him. Better and stronger. Full of love and hope for the future. Free. Susan was meant for this, all her courage and her kindness will have places to land. A whole world to change, without university boards and ancient custom holding her back. And David to stand at her side. He is as sure of the decision to leave her as he was when he pushed the lever that first, exhilarating night of theft and escape. And for all that, he is still standing with his hand pressed against the wooden door, stuck there like a statue, his hearts giving up great heaving shudders in his chest like he's just run a mile. They are in different parts of the galaxy now, different times. Hundreds of years and millions of miles. He ought to know, he set the coordinates, not that it's usually much good. He knows consciously that if he opens the doors, Susan will not be standing on the other side of them any longer. But it doesn't matter. He can't quite bring himself to let go.
He is so painfully aware of his solitude that for a long moment, his mind doesn't register the slight shift in the room, the awareness of presence at the edge of his senses, like the distant drone of bees. Ian and Barbara have gone away, drifted off to their rooms, to give him a bit of privacy, they said. So he knows it isn't them standing behind him. He doesn't want to see her. Not now. Don't autopilots have to be flipped on and off like a switch? Why does his always come knocking loudest when he wants it least? Perhaps if he stands perfectly still, it will cycle off and disappear. What a foolish thought. It's like a children's game, really, him standing against the door with his eyes closed, willing her to be gone before he can turn around. She isn't. She is still there, looking like flesh and blood in her own uncanny way. She looks alive, and hurting. And there they are again, those uncanny tears.
"I'm sorry," says Rose. That makes him want to howl. She can't be sorry, nothing made of autopilot command keys and code sequences can be sorry. He wants to tell her so. But he thinks of Susan laughing with her, and he can't summon up the cruelty to say anything much at all.
"Leave me," he tells her, finally. He means it to sound commanding, but it doesn't. It sounds old, and sad, and frail. It sounds just the way he feels. "Leave me," he says. "Go." He looks away. It's impossible, that he should still feel her eyes upon him- they are not eyes at all, but hard light projections, empty illusions, holographic manipulation- but he does. She stares at him for a long minute before she vanishes.
And then he's alone.
II.
He finds out entirely by accident that she is not quite a hologram. Not precisely. Holograms, strictly speaking, do not have dimensional mass, even for a millisecond. One cannot- for example- accidentally step on a hologram's foot and feel for a brief instant one's own sole landing quite hard on a completely occupied tennis shoe. And then melting through it as through a cloud, because there is nothing really there at all, until your foot looks as if it has been hopelessly mangled up with hers by occupying the same space. This is not one of the scenarios covered in the increasingly abstract pages of the TARDIS manual, but it happens all the same. They are reaching for the single inertial dampening lever, but she gets there first, by virtue of being able to disappear and reappear three feet closer inside of a half-second. The moment after his foot crushes hers virtually into the flooring, he looks up into her face- infuriatingly, this new body is shorter than the last one, and feels shorter than half the people he meets these days- and pure shock must be written on his features, because his autopilot lets out a high-pitched giggle instead of a yelp.
"Did that-" he pauses at the magnitude of it. "Did that hurt?"
"No," she says. Rose discreetly slides her foot away from his, ending their strange dissolution, and switches the inertial compensation matrix up a notch. "I didn't feel a thing."
"Do you ever?"
She appears to think about that.
"Not really."
"May I?" he asks, suddenly curious. He holds out a hand to her, and she trustingly puts her own in it. He marvels at the feel of that hand- at first solid and smooth, soft flesh over bone, a little warm to the touch, but slightly cooler than human or Gallifreyan skin. There are fine hairs on the back of it, and on the top of her arm, and a tiny mole on one knuckle. But after a second, she seems to phase out of contact, and his hand passes through hers as through air. Life almost perfectly imitated. He's never seen such a thing. How was this accomplished? Perhaps her designer was less idiot after all, and more savant. He presses the thickest part of her palm between his forefinger and thumb. "Anything?"
"No."
"Fascinating." She pulls her hand away straight through his arm, and he is further amazed to see her blush a little. He wonders who would have taken the time to program independent reactions of this sophistication. So he asks her. She looks at him and then looks down at her feet, and says it's a good thing his shoes didn't leave a scuff on hers, because she's not sure it would ever come out. So apparently, his autopilot is a complex hard-light simulacrum with high-security topics that are code-designated as strictly off-limit, or his autopilot simply has things she'd prefer not to discuss.
He wonders at that, too.
When they take his ship away- and Jamie, and Zoe, and everything- he is afraid for a moment that they will wipe it clean, scour the memory banks. They can do that. He knows. The great council is already changing his face. He's at their mercy. They could easily scrub away all the years of travel, all the special settings and work-arounds and little tricks he's gathered. He wonders if his ship would remember him. And they could take- the rest, too. He doesn't dare think the name, not even the acronym, in case they're listening in especially closely, the overbearing, exile-happy fools. He tells himself it would be a terrible inconvenience, having to program it all over again. Really much better to keep it. Just as it is. "The secret of the TARDIS will be taken from you," they tell him, and he feels a little thrill of triumph, even here in the widening jaws of defeat.
Because the TARDIS has more than one secret, after all.
III.
"Welcome back," is all she says, after he finally remembers how to reverse their dematerialization dampening field, and unlocks the navigational matrix. She is of course part of the navigational matrix, part of the things he couldn't use and couldn't even recall, and so the minute he flips the switch and reboots the backups, she is suddenly sitting on the edge of the console with her legs crossed and a great big grin on her face. He doesn't remember her at first. They took an awful lot, the arrogant sods. But it comes back in a minute, along with the easiest way to collapse a transdimensional warp pocket, and the last place he parked on Tauros Minor. "And just in time, too. Thought I was going to spend eternity in there, reciting the coordinate codes backwards and forwards to keep from going spare."
"You might have had a little faith," he snaps. "Now make yourself useful, and hold down the acceleration key until I tell you."
He ignores the sarcastic salute.
Stowaways are not featured in any section of the manual.
"You've kidnapped those scientists, and you've got this- this girl captive, too!" Sarah Jane Not Actually Lavinia Smith- he's just remembering her real name, now, after a burst of shouting- backs into the console, then puts her fists up. She's absolutely steely-eyed, and against his own irritation he feels a spark of interest. Clever and brave and curious, aren't they always? Some more so than others. "What have you done with Professor Rubeish?" He rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
"For the last time-"
"Rubbish," says Rose.
"Rubeish," corrects Sarah Jane.
"No, I mean-" Rose looks like she's about to shout more or crack up laughing. "This one couldn't keep jam in a jar with both hands." He gives her a look of withering scorn that comes straight from his bruised ego, but obviously she doesn't catch it. Probably just as well. It might have tipped her firmly into laughter.
"Enough!" the Doctor snaps, but nobody's listening anymore. Sarah Jane and Rose stand toe-to-toe.
"His co-conspirator, then," Sarah Jane suggests. Rose's eyes flash with anger, and he wonders if he is ever going to get a word in edgewise.
"There are no conspiracies aboard this ship!" he cries out, and they both stare at him. "I have not kidnapped any scientists, good heavens. The Professor is not here. And she is not my co-anything," he adds, haughtily. "She's- it's just my autopilot." Rose's glare now narrows back on him. The things he endures for UNIT. For the universe. "I'd like you both to remember that there is a highly dangerous individual on the loose with a matter transmitter and an enormous suit of medieval armor."
"So," says Sarah Jane, a little huffily. Winding down, but still looking for soft places to strike. "You keep a girl in a box to do the driving." And then there is another argument, more rapid than the first, and he keeps out of it entirely. He steers them as best he can. By the time they land, they have all worked out a fairly solid plan in which he and Sarah Jane go out for reconnaissance while Rose traces the matter transmission signal and locks onto the coordinates. It very nearly works, but of course, that's the middle ages for you. Running for it and ending up in a pile of leaves is really not the worst possible ending to a Tuesday. When they return, Rose is waiting, with a look of delighted relief. He leaves for one minute- merely to replace his soiled cravat- and finds both of them now shoulder to shoulder, Rose raptly attentive to the story of their escape.
"You didn't," Rose is saying. "Sleeping potion? You dumped the whole thing in?"
"I had to draw their attention off," Sarah Jane says. Her grin cracks and she starts to giggle. "You'll never believe- I just pointed," Sarah Jane wheezes, laughter coming now in great wrenching bursts, "and yelled, look at that massive spider!" They sit cackling on the edge of the console, slapping the tops of their thighs. "I've seen it in films, but I never thought- never thought it'd actually work!"
"Bonkers," says Rose. "But brilliant." He clears his throat, and they both look up.
"Miss Smith," he says. "I'm obliged to you for your help. A very brave thing you did- several brave things in succession, really," he adds. "And I'm sure you'd like to be on your way home by now. Rose, would you be so kind as to set our coordinates?" She looks at him, and at Sarah Jane, and a slight smile crosses her face. Well, it's no surprise, really. She's done this before. She likes the ones that talk back best. He might admit to the same bias, if he was an admitting sort of man.
"Could do," Rose grins. "Home. Or, if you like-"
IV.
He is really very sorry about Sarah Jane, but it was impossible. There's no way around it, bringing a human home to Gallifrey. Forbidden. Not allowed. He's hardly keen on the rules, but that's why they're rules, aren't they? Nobody forbids you to do the things you've no inclination to do in the first place. That'd be ridiculous. He misses her- the ship is quiet, the hallways empty- but there's been a Call, and a Call is a serious thing. Rose isn't a timelord, and Rose feels that most rules can go hang, and Rose says that so can he for all she cares, and Rose does not materialize again for months and months, during which time he is nearly clubbed to death by an old friend and later forced to shoot a giant rat in the most horrendous sewer.
He can still see an invisible hand moving dials every so often, compensating for his more egregious steering errors, but he doesn't mention that out loud. Romana doesn't like it- Romana feels it's unbecoming to allow one's programmed autopilot to take such liberties with the navigation, except in times of emergency- but then, dear lovely Romana used to begin so many of her sentences with "On Gallifrey-"
At least they are all united in their hatred of the randomiser.
V.
"You're pretty this time," she tells him, looking at him up and down through her lashes. He colors a bit, and she laughs at him. Some things don't change. "You never said you could be pretty."
"Ah," he says. She kisses his cheek. It's soft and cool, and barely felt. A first drop of rain in a summer storm, and gone back into the air as quickly. "Er."
"And so well-spoken," says Tegan.
VI.
"I've fixed the chameleon circuit," he announces, with a theatrical flourish. "As I told you, recalibrating the environmental matrix was a snap." The TARDIS shakes a bit, and Peri holds onto her chair. "Just a leftover from the power redistribution," he says. "It'll pass in a moment." The ship shakes harder, and Rose appears, looking harried. "You're not needed. This is simply an transitional phase in which the-"
There is an enormous boom and several smaller booms, and a whirling sensation like being flushed down an immense intergalactic toilet takes hold. It's difficult to hear over Peri's screams, but he thinks he hears Rose use several words that no responsible Gallifreyan would ever have programmed her to repeat. Several further adjustments- and one distress signal- later, they've landed in a scrapyard. It's a bit nostalgic, really, good old scrapyards, but he doesn't dwell. Instead, he parades Peri out to admire his handiwork. "See?" he says. "Camouflage. It's merely a sophisticated trick of the environmental sensors, rendering the appearance-"
"It's a stove," says Peri. She glances at him sideways. "I suppose if anyone comes knocking for you, you can come out with a cake in your hand." He huffs at her and stomps away. The world needs saving, even if nobody else seems to register the urgency. And it's merely his imagination, a trick of the senses, that he thinks he hears the tinny, distant sound of laughter coming from inside the ship.
VII.
"You have to tell her."
"Tell her what?" he asks, circling the console. He doesn't look up. She will be standing there with her arms crossed and that expression of intense worry on her face. She knows, of course she knows. She saw him arrange the coordinates, sweep the girl up, perform his little pantomimes. Time storm, indeed. There's nothing you can hide from your own navigational operation matrix. She feels for this one, practically bleeds for this little runaway Londoner, if a carefully programmed projection can be said to do so. He doesn't know why exactly. And so she'll pick at him, at his defenses, at his evasions, until he crumbles, thinking she's doing the girl some kind of service. He can't have that. She's simply too good at it, or he's too weak. This is a very old song and dance now, and one he doesn't care to follow along with at the moment. She can't possibly understand what hangs in the balance.
"Ace has a right to know that you're- using her."
"Does she?" he says. Very casually. He clicks the regulators back. "You don't think that would complicate things somewhat?"
"They're a bit complicated now."
"Why haven't we ever had a real game?" he asks, suddenly. "Not one in hundreds of years. Chess, of course. I think you're suited for it. A game of attack and defense. You've got the instincts, every good pilot does." He checks and double-checks their rate of speed, their relative angles. Not long now. Not long at all. The pieces are in place, and he's only got to hold firm, to do what needs doing. He can't turn corners slowly at this juncture, hold hands and look both ways. Too critical. He adjusts the calibration. "Why don't we give it a try, one of these days? A proper game, just you and I."
"No thanks."
"Afraid you'll have a tactical advantage?" he chuckles to himself. "My dear, I can think just as fast as your circuits can connect. We're a match."
"I'd be a rubbish opponent," Rose says. Her voice is toneless, far-off. Her fingers trace the edge of the console without really touching it. "Truth is, I just like to see you win."
He looks up, but she's already gone.
"Doctor!"
He can hear her voice, high and panicked, shouting for him. Old gods, is it that time again? Regeneration is such a bother, all the mess and the fear, the pain and brightness- the feeling of being washed away, scrubbed off like a coat of varnish, wrung out.
"My dear," he says, calmly as he can, from flat on his back in the middle of a very wet street, "my dear, there's no reason to shout." There's entirely too much shouting whenever this happens. Someday, he'd like to regenerate at a spa, in a plush robe with civilized music piping in from all around. He feels a stabbing pain lance him through the midsection, and again. It takes his breath away and crosses his eyes. He's warm- boiling hot- in the center of his chest and freezing everywhere else. Dratted bullets. She's yelling something about him and the box and something about the cloister bell and him again- no, different him this time, sorry, this time she's just calling his name, a warning. He really ought to be paying closer attention, but then, he can't exactly get his ears or his limbs or anything at hand to obey. He hears the TARDIS door swing abruptly shut, with one last furious shriek behind it, and then only a faint muffled sound. A young man with dark hair and a panicked expression suddenly looms close above him.
"I'll get an ambulance!" he says, patting the Doctor's chest. It's painful and unwanted, but awfully considerate. The boy gets up and starts to disappear somewhere into the blur that is the rest of the world.
"She can't-" the Doctor manages, weakly batting at the air around him, hoping to catch hold of an ankle. Somehow, this seems important. "Stuck," he says. "Inside the ship. Hologram, you see."
"Not a ship," says the young man, kindly. "An ambulance. Don't worry, old man." And then he's gone, except for the sound of his feet crashing through puddles.
"Oh, eight hundred imaginary hells," says the Doctor.
Part Two.
...
He wonders who would have taken the time to program independent reactions of this sophistication. So he asks her. She looks at him and then looks down at her feet, and says it's a good thing his shoes didn't leave a scuff on hers, because she's not sure it would ever come out. So apparently, his autopilot is a complex hard-light simulacrum with high-security topics that are code-designated as strictly off-limit, or his autopilot simply has things she'd prefer not to discuss.
He wonders at that, too.
I.
He shouldn't be doing this. It's the definition of folly. There is a quantum philosophy examination in three days, and after that, a council meeting at which there is very probably going to be a lengthy argument about the university's current policies on genetic memory enhancements. All of which will require his complete attention. The nonexistent remainder of his attention is supposed to be devoted to the problem of Susan.
"She's not a problem," her mother had insisted. He'd sighed and said something under his breath about human growth rates and cognitive capacities and she'd said, quite firmly, "She's not exactly human, either, is she?" He is forced to admit that is true. She is not entirely human. Which is not the problem. The problem is, she is also not entirely Gallifreyan. There is no future seat on the university boards for a half-human born by traditional means. No matter how quick she is, no matter how fast she learns and how bright her eyes, how swiftly she solves every puzzle put before her, how crystalline her laughter when he used to swing her in his arms. Susan is a problem. His problem, from now on. He was the one who instigated the whole thing, directing her mother's passion for xenomorphology, encouraging her fieldwork, letting her run wild in all manner of centuries. And now he is no better than she is, sneaking through the back hallways of the renewal yards, poking at the shattered doors of old models and wandering down all manner of ill-advised mental pathways. He hasn't been approved for travel- quite the opposite- but perhaps they'll consider it, if he explains. If he explains Susan, Susan's questions, Susan's boundless intelligence and her habit of looking up at the stars. It's a habit he thought he was broken of, long ago, but now he finds they look up together more often than not.
"Are you lost?" says a voice just behind him, breaking his reveries and scattering the constellations away. He turns and finds the renewal yard matron looking at him with a mix of wariness and compassionate concern. Of course, he looks like a lunatic or a thief, poking into broken ships and hm-ing to himself, here alone in the dark. "Or looking for one in particular?"
"Just curious," he manages. He straightens his crooked robes. "I've visited the nurseries already. But I was interested in full machines. These are primarily damaged mid-period models, are they not?" She nods. "I have a certain fascination with the production specifications of the, er, early TARDIS," he adds, trying to sound serious and respectable and not like the madman he's becoming. She smiles at him.
"So do I," she says. "You know, the central archive has a particularly fine historic piece. Retrieved from the Eye, in fact. Decommissioned, a bit banged about, but still in my mind one of the superior designs."
"Do they?" He tries not to sound too interested.
"A type 40," she tells him. "Blue."
"Oh," he says.
It is laughably easy to pass through the security checkpoints. Algorithmic dual-matrix code entry panels? Primed biometric scanners with easily duped delay patterns? There were better deterrents on the door to his father's study when he was a boy. Apparently the archives are actually filled with useless things that nobody's concerned about, or they just can't imagine a world where unhinged quantum probability professors break into museums at night.
He finds it on a plinth in the middle of a hallway, halfway between a propagandistic biographical display on Rassilon and pieces of an early loom. The holo-plaque tells him nothing of interest, except that the chameleon circuit seems to have been permanently disabled. Not as useful as he might have liked, then. Difficult to go through time and space that way. It's an odd thing, this TARDIS, stuck looking like a great big rectangular box. A wooden box, no less. A police box, Earth-origin, mid-twentieth century. Well, at least they'd have little trouble visiting among that particular set of humanoids. He is mulling over the many limitations of a broken chameleon mechanism when, quite unconsciously, he reaches out and rests a hand on the door frame. It feels like wood, remarkably like it. The door is weathered, worn smooth in certain places where a hand might pause as one brushed through. There is a curious sensation in the back of his mind- a calming hum, one placid thread of consciousness pricking his own, a faint waking ripple- like wind through a keyhole. He is aware that the TARDIS, like all such ships, is a sentient being, but he did not expect it to be quite so- alive. He holds onto the door and thinks, suddenly, of the great dark sky above them, whirling above and around at all times. The sky is full of galaxies and the galaxies are full of stars and the stars are courted by planets each in turn, twirling slowly on their axis. Without thinking, he climbs up onto the plinth and reaches over the door frame. His hand skims the top and finds an indentation, and in that indentation, a key. He cups it in his hands and stares down at it. The hum in his mind pauses, then comes back, warmer and more insistent. He blinks.
"Ah," he says. "Hello."
He unlocks the door.
It's dark inside, but for a few indicator lights still clinging to life on the console. A spare, simple design, with recharging bio-cells lining the walls and a glassed-in central column. He primes a few switches and the interior start to glow, dimly. It's a multi-pilot console, but easily managed by one or two. Nothing like the later comfort models with their broad command panels, built for accommodating crews of nine or ten for long off-planet missions, back when they still had an interest in keeping their hand in galactic politics. He reads the dials- barely enough power yet to switch districts, let alone centuries, but rising fast- and he's leaning in to regulate the matter transfer when someone clears their throat. Quite close. He jerks upright and stares over the console at her. It's a girl. Two arms, two legs, blonde, young. Pretty eyes. Inappropriately dressed. Probably the fashion outside the capitol, like the strange haircuts Susan is lately admiring on the holo-screen. This one's older than Susan, but gods, everyone looks too young to him these days. She's smiling now, hands behind her back, rocking a little on her heels. Waiting. "Excuse me, cadet," he snaps. "If you're looking to examine an antique TARDIS, this one's taken." Her grin widens. "I am conducting sensitive research. Begone."
"You'll want to set the cell reflux cycle a nudge higher," she says. "Or you'll still be sitting here in the morning when the archivists come back." He gapes at her. "Well, go on." He looks down at the panel. And flicks the level up several notches. "Much better," she says.
"Explain yourself," he demands.
"I'm not the one stealing a type 40, am I?"
"How dare-"
"I am your Relief Operational Sentient Entity," she interrupts, with a disarming little half-curtsy. "The pleasure's all mine."
"You're-" his brain trails sluggishly for an infuriating moment, then slams abruptly into the only obvious answer. Didn't he study the schematics of the type 40 for three hours last night? He ought to be an expert by now, but it appears not. "Autopilot," he says. "You're the autopilot." Of course. Though she seems nothing like the typical autopilots he's studied. Most autopilots are programmed versions of the operator, or intimidating authoritative types, useful for defensive scenarios. Naturally he's been saddled with somebody else's idea of a- what's the word for it? Some kind of- holiday companion. A pretty sight to look at in the boring stretches of space. A needless thing. He'll figure out how to reprogram it. "I won't be requiring your services," he tells her. "I am fully capable of operating this vessel independently. Deactivate," he says, waving his hand in her general direction. The autopilot stares at him, then folds her arms over her chest. "Deactivate," he repeats. Nothing happens. "Am I to assume," he says, carefully, "that the autopilot shutoff switch is broken as well?"
"No," she says. "You just need to ask politely."
"Insufferable!" he says. He glowers at her. "Please, then. Please would you do me the kindness of deactivating and removing yourself from my sight."
"Suit yourself," she sighs, and blinks away. He most definitely does not concern himself with the look of hurt that flashed across her features. A useless affectation in a programmed intelligence. One that displeases him for its sheer ridiculousness. He wonders if he can find out which particular hormonal idiot owned this model before him, and if they're still available for a sound kicking. He forgets that thought- and every other thought, briefly- when he finally flips the lever and the ship grinds back to life in a joyous symphony of sparks. They took him to the schism when he was a boy. They take everyone. But he remembers that old sound, faintly, as he hears it again now. The sound of the universe opening. He closes his eyes. He's taught probabilities and the mechanics of time for so long, but never understood. Not really. He didn't realize, until this very moment, that everything is a beginning.
He doesn't think of the autopilot once, not once, in the weeks that follow. Not until he walks into the console room and finds Susan and the autopilot sitting cross-legged on the floor, laughing uproariously at some private joke, hands over their mouths and tears in their eyes. Can autopilots generate simulated tears? Again, he's filled with seething irritation for the brainless dolt who designed this one to begin with.
"Deactivate!" he practically roars. It scowls and flashes away without a protest, but Susan turns on him with genuine anger plain in her face. He's baffled before it. Such a good girl, his Susan. Such a sweet, devoted girl.
"Grandfather," she says. Her dark eyes are storms of hurt. "That's no way to talk to Rose."
"To Rose?" His brain puts the acronym into place. "Oh, for goodness' sake. She's not- it's not a person, Susan. It's a program. A particularly silly one."
"Don't be horrible," says Susan. He throws his hands up and parks them in fourth-century Iowa and takes a very, very long walk across a very, very cold field. By the time he comes back, Susan is in her own room, talking in low tones behind a closed door. He can guess with whom. He chooses to ignore it, and takes them to Majorca Minor, in time for their lunar festival. Susan is marginally placated by the purchase of several pies. When it is finally late and Susan is yawning, he kisses her on the forehead and sends her off to her room. "Goodnight," she yawns. "Don't forget what I said," she adds, with a last, stubborn look over her shoulder. In case he was in any doubt as to just whose daughter she really is. He putters around the console and pretends to check the levels and finally just sits in a chair and sighs and thinks about a time when he was a respected educator and a member of several distinguished bodies and not a semi-fugitive beholden to the whims of half-human teenage girls. He glances up and around.
"As you like it, then," he says, irritably. "Rose."
The lights flicker a bit.
Little by little, he begins to forget that the autopilot offends him on principle. The truth is, it knows more about the ship's workings than he does, just yet. He stole the manual as well, naturally, but it's written entirely in highly personal-sounding hypotheticals. One occasionally needs to be told more than which lever to push in case of historical poisonings by the League of Assassins. It's just such an occasion when they have landed firmly into the sinking time-swamp of Pustlunath and they're eager to get out again, that he finds himself bent over the console panel arguing loudly with the autopilot about which gear setting can escape motion-sensitive fourth-dimensional swamp suction.
"This one," Rose says. "Don't be such a stubborn-"
"Perhaps our situation has escaped you," he snaps. "But the only possible course-"
"Escaped?" The autopilot actually laughs at him. "Doctor, nobody's escaping anything if you don't adjust for angle of ascent." He mutters several unprintable things and does exactly as she says, then punches the coordinates in a bit harder than necessary. The TARDIS rocks and shudders and Ian holds onto the girls and the console sparks and the whole thing's a great big spectacular mess until it suddenly isn't, and they're free and orbiting the low atmosphere at a comfortable distance. He mutters some more, and rockets them onward, hopefully to France this time. Rose clears her throat.
"Yes," he says. "Yes, yes." The insolent strand of coding. She smiles and winks at Susan and vanishes, and Ian and Barbara look at each other queasily over the console. Some time later- one thoroughly dispiriting revolution later, actually- he finds himself alone in the room with Barbara, still dressed in a rather fetching period gown. She makes small talk about Robespierre and the inefficient methods of revolutionary policing, while he pretends to listen. And at last she asks a strange question, one that he asks her to repeat.
"Did you program her?"
"I most certainly did not," he says, dismissively. Barbara looks offended by his tone. Well, he's offended by the question. Who could even consider it? To think that he'd program his autopilot to look like a twenty-year-old girl in a denim skirt with dark makeup around her eyes. One that's always biting at her lip and second-guessing his theories about particle acceleration. Great gods of dark space. Spare him the indignities. "I've merely had some difficulties in altering the visual output. The appearance is hardly meaningful, besides. What matters is that the TARDIS auto-functions continue to operate in a standard fashion."
"Of course," Barbara says. Is she smiling at him? Honestly. He ought to dump them all out over the churning Green Sea of Hock'noor, and see who smiles afterwards.
"Grandfather," says Susan, coming in from the hallway. "Barbara. We've rummaged a bit for tea. I don't know about you, but I could stand a strong cup and a long nap." She's still in a gown as well, her hair gone wild and her arms a bit dirty. She's so very beautiful. She looks more like her mother now than she ever has before, and he feels a great sharp pang in his heart at that thought. This one's growing up, he thinks, without wanting to. Grown up entirely, perhaps, when he wasn't looking, like the first shoots of spring. She comes to him and takes him by the sleeve, rests her hand over his arm. "Does that sound all right?"
"Delightful," he says. He lets her lead him away.
This was what he wanted, wasn't it? It was all for this, for her. He meant every word he said, every promise he made. She'll be so much better like this, without him. Better and stronger. Full of love and hope for the future. Free. Susan was meant for this, all her courage and her kindness will have places to land. A whole world to change, without university boards and ancient custom holding her back. And David to stand at her side. He is as sure of the decision to leave her as he was when he pushed the lever that first, exhilarating night of theft and escape. And for all that, he is still standing with his hand pressed against the wooden door, stuck there like a statue, his hearts giving up great heaving shudders in his chest like he's just run a mile. They are in different parts of the galaxy now, different times. Hundreds of years and millions of miles. He ought to know, he set the coordinates, not that it's usually much good. He knows consciously that if he opens the doors, Susan will not be standing on the other side of them any longer. But it doesn't matter. He can't quite bring himself to let go.
He is so painfully aware of his solitude that for a long moment, his mind doesn't register the slight shift in the room, the awareness of presence at the edge of his senses, like the distant drone of bees. Ian and Barbara have gone away, drifted off to their rooms, to give him a bit of privacy, they said. So he knows it isn't them standing behind him. He doesn't want to see her. Not now. Don't autopilots have to be flipped on and off like a switch? Why does his always come knocking loudest when he wants it least? Perhaps if he stands perfectly still, it will cycle off and disappear. What a foolish thought. It's like a children's game, really, him standing against the door with his eyes closed, willing her to be gone before he can turn around. She isn't. She is still there, looking like flesh and blood in her own uncanny way. She looks alive, and hurting. And there they are again, those uncanny tears.
"I'm sorry," says Rose. That makes him want to howl. She can't be sorry, nothing made of autopilot command keys and code sequences can be sorry. He wants to tell her so. But he thinks of Susan laughing with her, and he can't summon up the cruelty to say anything much at all.
"Leave me," he tells her, finally. He means it to sound commanding, but it doesn't. It sounds old, and sad, and frail. It sounds just the way he feels. "Leave me," he says. "Go." He looks away. It's impossible, that he should still feel her eyes upon him- they are not eyes at all, but hard light projections, empty illusions, holographic manipulation- but he does. She stares at him for a long minute before she vanishes.
And then he's alone.
II.
He finds out entirely by accident that she is not quite a hologram. Not precisely. Holograms, strictly speaking, do not have dimensional mass, even for a millisecond. One cannot- for example- accidentally step on a hologram's foot and feel for a brief instant one's own sole landing quite hard on a completely occupied tennis shoe. And then melting through it as through a cloud, because there is nothing really there at all, until your foot looks as if it has been hopelessly mangled up with hers by occupying the same space. This is not one of the scenarios covered in the increasingly abstract pages of the TARDIS manual, but it happens all the same. They are reaching for the single inertial dampening lever, but she gets there first, by virtue of being able to disappear and reappear three feet closer inside of a half-second. The moment after his foot crushes hers virtually into the flooring, he looks up into her face- infuriatingly, this new body is shorter than the last one, and feels shorter than half the people he meets these days- and pure shock must be written on his features, because his autopilot lets out a high-pitched giggle instead of a yelp.
"Did that-" he pauses at the magnitude of it. "Did that hurt?"
"No," she says. Rose discreetly slides her foot away from his, ending their strange dissolution, and switches the inertial compensation matrix up a notch. "I didn't feel a thing."
"Do you ever?"
She appears to think about that.
"Not really."
"May I?" he asks, suddenly curious. He holds out a hand to her, and she trustingly puts her own in it. He marvels at the feel of that hand- at first solid and smooth, soft flesh over bone, a little warm to the touch, but slightly cooler than human or Gallifreyan skin. There are fine hairs on the back of it, and on the top of her arm, and a tiny mole on one knuckle. But after a second, she seems to phase out of contact, and his hand passes through hers as through air. Life almost perfectly imitated. He's never seen such a thing. How was this accomplished? Perhaps her designer was less idiot after all, and more savant. He presses the thickest part of her palm between his forefinger and thumb. "Anything?"
"No."
"Fascinating." She pulls her hand away straight through his arm, and he is further amazed to see her blush a little. He wonders who would have taken the time to program independent reactions of this sophistication. So he asks her. She looks at him and then looks down at her feet, and says it's a good thing his shoes didn't leave a scuff on hers, because she's not sure it would ever come out. So apparently, his autopilot is a complex hard-light simulacrum with high-security topics that are code-designated as strictly off-limit, or his autopilot simply has things she'd prefer not to discuss.
He wonders at that, too.
When they take his ship away- and Jamie, and Zoe, and everything- he is afraid for a moment that they will wipe it clean, scour the memory banks. They can do that. He knows. The great council is already changing his face. He's at their mercy. They could easily scrub away all the years of travel, all the special settings and work-arounds and little tricks he's gathered. He wonders if his ship would remember him. And they could take- the rest, too. He doesn't dare think the name, not even the acronym, in case they're listening in especially closely, the overbearing, exile-happy fools. He tells himself it would be a terrible inconvenience, having to program it all over again. Really much better to keep it. Just as it is. "The secret of the TARDIS will be taken from you," they tell him, and he feels a little thrill of triumph, even here in the widening jaws of defeat.
Because the TARDIS has more than one secret, after all.
III.
"Welcome back," is all she says, after he finally remembers how to reverse their dematerialization dampening field, and unlocks the navigational matrix. She is of course part of the navigational matrix, part of the things he couldn't use and couldn't even recall, and so the minute he flips the switch and reboots the backups, she is suddenly sitting on the edge of the console with her legs crossed and a great big grin on her face. He doesn't remember her at first. They took an awful lot, the arrogant sods. But it comes back in a minute, along with the easiest way to collapse a transdimensional warp pocket, and the last place he parked on Tauros Minor. "And just in time, too. Thought I was going to spend eternity in there, reciting the coordinate codes backwards and forwards to keep from going spare."
"You might have had a little faith," he snaps. "Now make yourself useful, and hold down the acceleration key until I tell you."
He ignores the sarcastic salute.
Stowaways are not featured in any section of the manual.
"You've kidnapped those scientists, and you've got this- this girl captive, too!" Sarah Jane Not Actually Lavinia Smith- he's just remembering her real name, now, after a burst of shouting- backs into the console, then puts her fists up. She's absolutely steely-eyed, and against his own irritation he feels a spark of interest. Clever and brave and curious, aren't they always? Some more so than others. "What have you done with Professor Rubeish?" He rolls his eyes to the ceiling.
"For the last time-"
"Rubbish," says Rose.
"Rubeish," corrects Sarah Jane.
"No, I mean-" Rose looks like she's about to shout more or crack up laughing. "This one couldn't keep jam in a jar with both hands." He gives her a look of withering scorn that comes straight from his bruised ego, but obviously she doesn't catch it. Probably just as well. It might have tipped her firmly into laughter.
"Enough!" the Doctor snaps, but nobody's listening anymore. Sarah Jane and Rose stand toe-to-toe.
"His co-conspirator, then," Sarah Jane suggests. Rose's eyes flash with anger, and he wonders if he is ever going to get a word in edgewise.
"There are no conspiracies aboard this ship!" he cries out, and they both stare at him. "I have not kidnapped any scientists, good heavens. The Professor is not here. And she is not my co-anything," he adds, haughtily. "She's- it's just my autopilot." Rose's glare now narrows back on him. The things he endures for UNIT. For the universe. "I'd like you both to remember that there is a highly dangerous individual on the loose with a matter transmitter and an enormous suit of medieval armor."
"So," says Sarah Jane, a little huffily. Winding down, but still looking for soft places to strike. "You keep a girl in a box to do the driving." And then there is another argument, more rapid than the first, and he keeps out of it entirely. He steers them as best he can. By the time they land, they have all worked out a fairly solid plan in which he and Sarah Jane go out for reconnaissance while Rose traces the matter transmission signal and locks onto the coordinates. It very nearly works, but of course, that's the middle ages for you. Running for it and ending up in a pile of leaves is really not the worst possible ending to a Tuesday. When they return, Rose is waiting, with a look of delighted relief. He leaves for one minute- merely to replace his soiled cravat- and finds both of them now shoulder to shoulder, Rose raptly attentive to the story of their escape.
"You didn't," Rose is saying. "Sleeping potion? You dumped the whole thing in?"
"I had to draw their attention off," Sarah Jane says. Her grin cracks and she starts to giggle. "You'll never believe- I just pointed," Sarah Jane wheezes, laughter coming now in great wrenching bursts, "and yelled, look at that massive spider!" They sit cackling on the edge of the console, slapping the tops of their thighs. "I've seen it in films, but I never thought- never thought it'd actually work!"
"Bonkers," says Rose. "But brilliant." He clears his throat, and they both look up.
"Miss Smith," he says. "I'm obliged to you for your help. A very brave thing you did- several brave things in succession, really," he adds. "And I'm sure you'd like to be on your way home by now. Rose, would you be so kind as to set our coordinates?" She looks at him, and at Sarah Jane, and a slight smile crosses her face. Well, it's no surprise, really. She's done this before. She likes the ones that talk back best. He might admit to the same bias, if he was an admitting sort of man.
"Could do," Rose grins. "Home. Or, if you like-"
IV.
He is really very sorry about Sarah Jane, but it was impossible. There's no way around it, bringing a human home to Gallifrey. Forbidden. Not allowed. He's hardly keen on the rules, but that's why they're rules, aren't they? Nobody forbids you to do the things you've no inclination to do in the first place. That'd be ridiculous. He misses her- the ship is quiet, the hallways empty- but there's been a Call, and a Call is a serious thing. Rose isn't a timelord, and Rose feels that most rules can go hang, and Rose says that so can he for all she cares, and Rose does not materialize again for months and months, during which time he is nearly clubbed to death by an old friend and later forced to shoot a giant rat in the most horrendous sewer.
He can still see an invisible hand moving dials every so often, compensating for his more egregious steering errors, but he doesn't mention that out loud. Romana doesn't like it- Romana feels it's unbecoming to allow one's programmed autopilot to take such liberties with the navigation, except in times of emergency- but then, dear lovely Romana used to begin so many of her sentences with "On Gallifrey-"
At least they are all united in their hatred of the randomiser.
V.
"You're pretty this time," she tells him, looking at him up and down through her lashes. He colors a bit, and she laughs at him. Some things don't change. "You never said you could be pretty."
"Ah," he says. She kisses his cheek. It's soft and cool, and barely felt. A first drop of rain in a summer storm, and gone back into the air as quickly. "Er."
"And so well-spoken," says Tegan.
VI.
"I've fixed the chameleon circuit," he announces, with a theatrical flourish. "As I told you, recalibrating the environmental matrix was a snap." The TARDIS shakes a bit, and Peri holds onto her chair. "Just a leftover from the power redistribution," he says. "It'll pass in a moment." The ship shakes harder, and Rose appears, looking harried. "You're not needed. This is simply an transitional phase in which the-"
There is an enormous boom and several smaller booms, and a whirling sensation like being flushed down an immense intergalactic toilet takes hold. It's difficult to hear over Peri's screams, but he thinks he hears Rose use several words that no responsible Gallifreyan would ever have programmed her to repeat. Several further adjustments- and one distress signal- later, they've landed in a scrapyard. It's a bit nostalgic, really, good old scrapyards, but he doesn't dwell. Instead, he parades Peri out to admire his handiwork. "See?" he says. "Camouflage. It's merely a sophisticated trick of the environmental sensors, rendering the appearance-"
"It's a stove," says Peri. She glances at him sideways. "I suppose if anyone comes knocking for you, you can come out with a cake in your hand." He huffs at her and stomps away. The world needs saving, even if nobody else seems to register the urgency. And it's merely his imagination, a trick of the senses, that he thinks he hears the tinny, distant sound of laughter coming from inside the ship.
VII.
"You have to tell her."
"Tell her what?" he asks, circling the console. He doesn't look up. She will be standing there with her arms crossed and that expression of intense worry on her face. She knows, of course she knows. She saw him arrange the coordinates, sweep the girl up, perform his little pantomimes. Time storm, indeed. There's nothing you can hide from your own navigational operation matrix. She feels for this one, practically bleeds for this little runaway Londoner, if a carefully programmed projection can be said to do so. He doesn't know why exactly. And so she'll pick at him, at his defenses, at his evasions, until he crumbles, thinking she's doing the girl some kind of service. He can't have that. She's simply too good at it, or he's too weak. This is a very old song and dance now, and one he doesn't care to follow along with at the moment. She can't possibly understand what hangs in the balance.
"Ace has a right to know that you're- using her."
"Does she?" he says. Very casually. He clicks the regulators back. "You don't think that would complicate things somewhat?"
"They're a bit complicated now."
"Why haven't we ever had a real game?" he asks, suddenly. "Not one in hundreds of years. Chess, of course. I think you're suited for it. A game of attack and defense. You've got the instincts, every good pilot does." He checks and double-checks their rate of speed, their relative angles. Not long now. Not long at all. The pieces are in place, and he's only got to hold firm, to do what needs doing. He can't turn corners slowly at this juncture, hold hands and look both ways. Too critical. He adjusts the calibration. "Why don't we give it a try, one of these days? A proper game, just you and I."
"No thanks."
"Afraid you'll have a tactical advantage?" he chuckles to himself. "My dear, I can think just as fast as your circuits can connect. We're a match."
"I'd be a rubbish opponent," Rose says. Her voice is toneless, far-off. Her fingers trace the edge of the console without really touching it. "Truth is, I just like to see you win."
He looks up, but she's already gone.
"Doctor!"
He can hear her voice, high and panicked, shouting for him. Old gods, is it that time again? Regeneration is such a bother, all the mess and the fear, the pain and brightness- the feeling of being washed away, scrubbed off like a coat of varnish, wrung out.
"My dear," he says, calmly as he can, from flat on his back in the middle of a very wet street, "my dear, there's no reason to shout." There's entirely too much shouting whenever this happens. Someday, he'd like to regenerate at a spa, in a plush robe with civilized music piping in from all around. He feels a stabbing pain lance him through the midsection, and again. It takes his breath away and crosses his eyes. He's warm- boiling hot- in the center of his chest and freezing everywhere else. Dratted bullets. She's yelling something about him and the box and something about the cloister bell and him again- no, different him this time, sorry, this time she's just calling his name, a warning. He really ought to be paying closer attention, but then, he can't exactly get his ears or his limbs or anything at hand to obey. He hears the TARDIS door swing abruptly shut, with one last furious shriek behind it, and then only a faint muffled sound. A young man with dark hair and a panicked expression suddenly looms close above him.
"I'll get an ambulance!" he says, patting the Doctor's chest. It's painful and unwanted, but awfully considerate. The boy gets up and starts to disappear somewhere into the blur that is the rest of the world.
"She can't-" the Doctor manages, weakly batting at the air around him, hoping to catch hold of an ankle. Somehow, this seems important. "Stuck," he says. "Inside the ship. Hologram, you see."
"Not a ship," says the young man, kindly. "An ambulance. Don't worry, old man." And then he's gone, except for the sound of his feet crashing through puddles.
"Oh, eight hundred imaginary hells," says the Doctor.
Part Two.
...