Gamble
For rude_not_ginger for the song drabble meme.
We're lying on our backs on the top of the tower of Likelihood for reasons I find I can not precisely recall. Thete has that sort of effect, unknowingly possessing an entirely unconscious magnetism that bends people towards him the way mass bends space, the way events bend time, a little like the way light bends through the dome above us, bent and scattered, its core revealed in rainbow blurs.
"Pretty," he says, "isn't it?"
"It's just optics, Thete," I say.
Thete is not his name, of course. It's a nickname of a nickname, and I have no idea if we are moving away from, or closer to, his essential nature.
"I could write the maths out for you if you want," I add.
He just smiles. "The maths is pretty too."
"Your seduction plan needs work," I say, scornfully, just to make him laugh.
"Oh, I never bother with plans," he says, airily. "Make it up as you go along, I say."
He's smart. Not as smart as me. Not as smart as a lot of our compatriots, at least in their chosen areas of expertise, but then he is a--
"What was that phrase you used?" I ask, reaching out enough that our fingers brush and I can show him the shape of the thought, though not its context.
"A jack of all trades," he supplies, and grins, adding, "master of none. That's me to a T, don't you think?"
He's not as smart as some, but he's smart enough to make himself appear much less smart than he actually is -- in ways that make people question if he isn't far more of a genius than he actually is. Underestimated and overestimated all in one go. Warps within warps.
"I'd be master of all," I say back, because he expects it, and he grins and rolls his eyes, because he knows I know.
The others accept him at face value. Even in our own little club, perception shapes their reality. They know Gallifrey can neither flux, nor wither, nor change its state, and so for them it is true. They don't see it, not the way I do. They don't see it the way he does, either, but I would be fooling myself if I thought our own viewpoints matched.
"If you left," I ask. He looks at me, curious. "If you left Gallifrey--" He makes a scoffing noise I raise my voice over. "--what would you take with you?"
There's something in his eyes, there are gone like lightning, something old and dark and, for hardly longer a moment, I want to ask him the question, the one no-one does: 'What did you see in the vortex?'
Thete asks, "Why am I leaving?"
"Suppose you will and go from there," I say, rolling onto my back so I don't have to see his face.
"If I don't know what I have," he says, slowly, "how do I know what I need?"
Probability theory is the first subject you learn beyond those things that are necessarily axiomatic to any worthwhile formal system of education. As Time Lords, we have to know every intricate possible rearrangement of effect and cause, to be able to sense, at a glance, those things which can be changed and those that can't. There are far more of the former than the latter, though our teachers would insist otherwise.
I keep hearing that phrase in my head. Neither flux, nor wither, not change its state. It has an implacable rhythm to it, a driving beat. Sometimes, I imagine time as a supercooled liquid. Everywhere we go, we Time Lords, every place we land, every footstep, every touch, sets time off crystallising, becoming fixed around us, becoming solid. If you could see it from the outside, it might be beautiful, and terrible too. All those fingerprints.
But crystals, struck well, will shatter. In time.
"Forget it," I say. "It doesn't matter."
"Purely hypothetical?" There's something in his voice, now, warm amusement, affectionate pity, teasing humour, something.
"Purely," I say, putting just the right edge of annoyance into my voice. A bell is chiming somewhere below us in the Panopticon, a deep sound, vibrating slowly through us.
"I'd take you," he says, and I can hear the grin and the leer in it, but his fingers brush mine again and for a moment I can see his thoughts, the universe, wild and dancing and glittering brilliantly.
"We'd be at each other's throats in days," I say.
"That's half the fun," he says back, easily, letting his hand fall away, naturally, as casual as the way he says, "Were you thinking of going, then?"
"Not yet," I say.
"Good," he says, and lapses into quiet. It's warm and quiet and slow and his breathing grows shallow and even and I think about getting up, but there is time, still, and we can always steal supper from the Cloister kitchens. There is time.
Still, I leave first; I always do.
We're lying on our backs on the top of the tower of Likelihood for reasons I find I can not precisely recall. Thete has that sort of effect, unknowingly possessing an entirely unconscious magnetism that bends people towards him the way mass bends space, the way events bend time, a little like the way light bends through the dome above us, bent and scattered, its core revealed in rainbow blurs.
"Pretty," he says, "isn't it?"
"It's just optics, Thete," I say.
Thete is not his name, of course. It's a nickname of a nickname, and I have no idea if we are moving away from, or closer to, his essential nature.
"I could write the maths out for you if you want," I add.
He just smiles. "The maths is pretty too."
"Your seduction plan needs work," I say, scornfully, just to make him laugh.
"Oh, I never bother with plans," he says, airily. "Make it up as you go along, I say."
He's smart. Not as smart as me. Not as smart as a lot of our compatriots, at least in their chosen areas of expertise, but then he is a--
"What was that phrase you used?" I ask, reaching out enough that our fingers brush and I can show him the shape of the thought, though not its context.
"A jack of all trades," he supplies, and grins, adding, "master of none. That's me to a T, don't you think?"
He's not as smart as some, but he's smart enough to make himself appear much less smart than he actually is -- in ways that make people question if he isn't far more of a genius than he actually is. Underestimated and overestimated all in one go. Warps within warps.
"I'd be master of all," I say back, because he expects it, and he grins and rolls his eyes, because he knows I know.
The others accept him at face value. Even in our own little club, perception shapes their reality. They know Gallifrey can neither flux, nor wither, nor change its state, and so for them it is true. They don't see it, not the way I do. They don't see it the way he does, either, but I would be fooling myself if I thought our own viewpoints matched.
"If you left," I ask. He looks at me, curious. "If you left Gallifrey--" He makes a scoffing noise I raise my voice over. "--what would you take with you?"
There's something in his eyes, there are gone like lightning, something old and dark and, for hardly longer a moment, I want to ask him the question, the one no-one does: 'What did you see in the vortex?'
Thete asks, "Why am I leaving?"
"Suppose you will and go from there," I say, rolling onto my back so I don't have to see his face.
"If I don't know what I have," he says, slowly, "how do I know what I need?"
Probability theory is the first subject you learn beyond those things that are necessarily axiomatic to any worthwhile formal system of education. As Time Lords, we have to know every intricate possible rearrangement of effect and cause, to be able to sense, at a glance, those things which can be changed and those that can't. There are far more of the former than the latter, though our teachers would insist otherwise.
I keep hearing that phrase in my head. Neither flux, nor wither, not change its state. It has an implacable rhythm to it, a driving beat. Sometimes, I imagine time as a supercooled liquid. Everywhere we go, we Time Lords, every place we land, every footstep, every touch, sets time off crystallising, becoming fixed around us, becoming solid. If you could see it from the outside, it might be beautiful, and terrible too. All those fingerprints.
But crystals, struck well, will shatter. In time.
"Forget it," I say. "It doesn't matter."
"Purely hypothetical?" There's something in his voice, now, warm amusement, affectionate pity, teasing humour, something.
"Purely," I say, putting just the right edge of annoyance into my voice. A bell is chiming somewhere below us in the Panopticon, a deep sound, vibrating slowly through us.
"I'd take you," he says, and I can hear the grin and the leer in it, but his fingers brush mine again and for a moment I can see his thoughts, the universe, wild and dancing and glittering brilliantly.
"We'd be at each other's throats in days," I say.
"That's half the fun," he says back, easily, letting his hand fall away, naturally, as casual as the way he says, "Were you thinking of going, then?"
"Not yet," I say.
"Good," he says, and lapses into quiet. It's warm and quiet and slow and his breathing grows shallow and even and I think about getting up, but there is time, still, and we can always steal supper from the Cloister kitchens. There is time.
Still, I leave first; I always do.