by Bex
(This story was originally published in issue 2 of _Dreamtime_,
the e-zine of the PMEB. Read Dreamtime at:
http://dreamtime.simplenet.com/ )
Sam Jones stood in her room amidst her belongings,
sorting though them.
They were overdue for a good reorganization. It was
amazing how much *stuff* you could collect, just from a
quick jaunt through the seven galaxies.
Actually, most of this wasn't hers, it was the Doctor's.
On temporary loan. Books, clothing, data and music disks -- the
trick was hunting down the appropriate style of player, no
simple task in an interdimensional time travelling craft
which, she was increasingly convinced, was not above
switching a few corridors and rooms around just to amuse
itself.
At least the TARDIS hadn't ever hidden her room. Yet.
She stacked the thirty-five tomes of Ancient Knowledge
(the complete Family Collection of the most esoteric humor
from the Frang system, each volume age-geared from either
preschool up through second senescence) neatly up against
the wall, where they sat and looked smug.
The sizable collection of music disks, she piled into the Inuit
infant carrier she'd found in a distant storage room. Lifting it
up, she hung it on a wall hook.
Shoving a few parasteel boxes aside with her bare foot, she
waded on into the breach -- the mound of clothing lurking at
the foot of her bed. Putting hands on hips, Sam sighed. The
detritus of a marathon "dress-up" session after she'd discovered
the wardrobe room, the pile truly daunted.
She sighed again. Her mess. Time to clean it up.
Leaning forward, she yanked silk dresses, the red wool army
coat, monks' robes and a toga she'd had no party to wear to off
the floor. The fancies she lay gently on her bed; the simple
homespun garments she tossed on near the pillows.
Another armful went on the counterpane, then ...
Sam's hand froze where it had just snagged a simple patch
of white fabric, then finished pulling the garment free.
Her white Amnesty International T-shirt.
She shook it out, held it up by the shoulders, and stared at it.
This shirt had been through the wars -- literally. The originally
white fabric was strewn with stains: mud, grass, a couple of
faded blood stains, scrubbed but never completely removed.
The blue silk-screened logo was still there, though, the barbed
wire-wrapped candle, the flame that burned on through all the
oppression. Her favorite shirt for a long time, though it had
been a while since she'd last worn it. It was quite tatty. She
could get another one easily, of course, but that wasn't the point.
Tucking it under her chin, she smoothed out the wrinkles and
began to fold it, then froze.
That jagged edged hole, since mended, clumsily sewn up with
thread. Sam ran her fingers over the meandering raised seam,
remembering ...
***
Helus Junction, through which more than a million sentients
passed every day.
Well, it sure beat Heathrow.
Samantha Jones strolled though the myriad throngs of humans,
humanoids and more varied aliens, trusty Time Lord sidekick at
her side. Handy, that -- he came with his own time and
Space-travelling craft, a tropism for the nearest threat to the
universe, and the occasional paternal affectation, which she indulged
more often than not. After all, he *was* more than a thousand years
old -- some allowances had to be made. She grinned.
The Doctor, natty and rather Raphelian in Fancy Victorian Dress
and chestnut locks, turned his head to look at her and raised an eyebrow.
Sam looked back at him with answering tilted brow. Dueling brows
again -- she never should've let him watch those Star Trek tapes.
"Yes?" she inquired.
He merely smiled, and turned his attention back to the paper bag
he was holding in one hand as he rooted around in it with the other.
Sam snorted inwardly. Trying to psych her out again, as if he could
read her mind or something. Sheyeaaah, right ...
The Doctor's smile widened slightly. The next instant, he froze,
fleeting panic washing over his face as he stared into the crinkled
white bag.
"Oh, no," he moaned. "Sam," he said briskly, his head snapping
up as he reverted to competency, "I've an errand to run. I'll be just
a few minutes."
"Sure; take your time. I'll be right over here at the news-stand ..."
She pointed over at the bustling vendor island of hard and soft copies
of periodicals from throughout the system as the Doctor trotted
off into the crowd with a wave of acknowledgment.
Sam spent some time browsing, examining the many different
printed journals and wishing that the TARDIS's "language gift"
extended to the written word, too, not just speech. After a little
fumbling, she pulled the appropriate money card out of a jeans
pocket, logged onto a computer and cruised the local version of
the internet, idly perusing the big news events of the day.
Growing restive, she wandered back out along the spiraling
curve of the stand's outer wall, there to lean, hands in pockets,
looking for the Doctor. He wasn't off getting into some trouble
without her, was he?
She glanced around, a little suspicious, taking note of the beings
around her. A couple of humans, a Jarg in camouflage (which for
them meant bright gold lame), and a humanoid with three-fingered
hands and a much squatter nose than the human norm.
Sam glanced away, then back at the man. Businessman, probably,
in a muted suit. They seldom seemed to change their look, no
matter what planet or time they came from.
This one was a sad-sack if she'd ever seen one. He was picking
up periodical after periodical, glancing at them without really
seeming to look at them, then putting them back. Using up time,
like her.
There was a quality of resigned weariness to his movements,
she noted. Reach, lift, open, flip. Replace. Not paying much
attention to his immediate surroundings, he was drawing close
to her where she leaned. She considered holding her ground,
then decided to move over.
He glanced up, startled, as she shifted her position, re-alighting
several meters further down.
"Oh! Pardon," he said.
Sam smiled just a little. "Don't worry about it."
He smiled back cautiously, his gaze flicking over her in an
attempt to see all of her without being impolite and staring.
Sam looked back, unperturbed. Let him look; didn't bother
her. She'd stared at and been stared at by so many different
beings it had become positively routine.
"Beg pardon," he began, "I don't mean to offend, but your
shirt ..."
Sam glanced down at her shirt and suppressed a grin. Her
T-shirts -- her armor; a bit of home she could take anywhere.
She loved explaining what they stood for to beings from the
farthest reaches of the universe.
So, she tugged at the shirt's hem to straighten out the front,
and proudly explained Amnesty International's principles.
Looking up as she completed her litany, she caught the being's
eyes.
He was staring at her, wide-eyed, and she knew with an
instinctive shiver that he didn't see her at that moment.
"So, err..." she ventured.
His eyes snapped back to focus on her. "They remember the
disappeared, you say? They do not let them be forgotten?"
Sam hesitated at the intensity in his words. "Right ... They
don't let the governments just get away with it. They keep
telling them they know what they did, that those people who
weren't terrorists and just disagreed politically should be set
free."
"And this works?"
"Sometimes ... Yes. People've been set free. Or at least they
treat them better. In the end, they usually care enough about
world opinion to let some political prisoners go."
The blue man closed his eyes, and stood there, swaying.
"Mister?" Sam asked, low voiced, "You all right?"
He opened eyes that glistened. "Never," he said, "have I
heard such a thing ..."
He began to weep unashamedly, large droplets running down
his cheeks. Leaning forward, startled, Sam put a tentative arm
on his shoulder, and he turned blindly towards her.
She felt awkward and uncertain for about one second, then
enfolded him in her arms while he shook in an ague of emotion,
hot tears soaking into her shirt front.
When the worst of his fit had passed, he looked up and told
her about the persecutions and disappearances, about his family,
gone in the night.
"I'm sorry," Sam told him fiercely, hugging him hard again.
"I'm sorry they took them away, and so many others, and that
there was no one there to help ..."
She stopped, her eyes flicking back and forth over the swirling
crowd of passers-by before her. Looking for the Doctor.
No sign of him. She pulled away a bit, and said: "Look; I
know someone who can help. If you tell me your family's
name, and when this happened ..."
He stared at her, bemused. "How can you help what is long
past? But we have shared sorrow. For that I thank you." Touching
his forehead with his three fingers, he then reached out to delicately
touch Sam's.
"I can help you," she whispered to him.
He leaned back. "I must go -- my transport is leaving." He
softened his declaration with a quick smile, turned away.
"No -- I mean I can fix it! Undo it!" Sam started to follow.
The blue man glanced over his shoulder, moved a little more
quickly.
"Listen; I'm not kidding! Come with me, and we'll talk to the
Doctor ..." She laid a hand on his shoulder, and he turned.
She stood frozen then, watching as he backed away a few steps,
turned away, then hurried away across the concourse.
It had been the look on his face. He'd been afraid of her.
Even so, she was about to start after him again, before he was
lost amidst the scudding groups of travelers.
"Jelly baby?"
Sam jumped, then whirled to pin the Doctor with an accusing
glare. He looked back at her, eyebrows raised, frozen in the act
of proffering a sweet.
"He's getting away!" When she swung back again to look, the
blue man was long gone. She took a few frustrated steps forward
before the futility of it ground her to a halt.
"He's 'getting away?'"
The tone was mild, the question reasonable enough. Sam turned
a Look on him and he blinked.
"Sam, what happened?"
"Oh, nothing!" Her tone was bitter. "I just tried to help someone!"
The rejected candy he'd been about to pop in his mouth disappeared
into the crumpled white bag, the sack itself vanishing into one
of his voluminous coat pockets.
"Samanthaaa," he wheedled, trying to coax her out. "What.
Happened?" Usually this tone of voice worked.
She rubbed her hands over her face, stared out into the crowded
concourse. The front of her T-shirt had several small new holes on
it where drops of something had corroded.
"He wouldn't tell me his name -- he must've thought I was out to
get him, or something. Makes sense, I guess, considering where he
came from."
"And that was ...?"
"He never said! He practically ran away. But it was horrible; all
the things he went through. He lost his family."
"Ah," he replied sadly.
She glared at him. "Ah? Is that all you can say?"
The Doctor looked mournfully at her, blue eyes muted.
She might've felt like a heel for snapping, but not today. "I'm
going to try to find him. Maybe I can get him paged. How many
blue men can there be in this station?"
"Sam."
She ignored him, muttering quietly to herself. "Info desk. Info
desk ..." She suddenly slumped. "Oh, it's no good -- he won't come."
"Sam, what exactly happened?"
So she told him. "If I'd only said the right thing..."
"But you did."
Sam looked up at him, eyes narrowed, daring him to be joking.
He was serious. Sympathetic. Oh bloody hell; she didn't want to
hear this.
"You let him express his grief, didn't turn away. Many wouldn't
even do that much for a stranger."
"But we could've gone back. Fixed it. Saved his family."
His eyes went even more remote. "Sam," he said gently, "That's
not how it works."
She *really* didn't want to hear this.
"Then how does it work?" she demanded. "You help people, right?
Well, I just saw someone whom needs helping. He didn't deserve
what happened to him and his family!"
"Sam, the Web of Time ..." Even as he said it, he had a look of
muted despair in his eyes.
"What about it?" she growled, feeling her anger rise, welcoming
it. "Helping one poor guy is going to mess that up?"
He shut his eyes as he motioned placatingly, heedless of the
travelers passing by them who were glancing at the arguing pair.
"Sam, it's all very complicated; I'm not sure I can explain it; it's
something I sense."
"Like an instinct, you mean?" Despite her anger, she was
intrigued.
His eyes opened. "Yes, very much like that." Hopeful again.
"So you can *feel* when it's 'okay' to help someone?" Her tone
was a curious mixture of sarcasm and real interest.
"That's over-simplifying it, but basically, yes. And sometimes
the universe itself seems to encourage certain events, bring certain
parties into contact ..."
"Oh, I see," she said pettishly. "So some things are just 'meant to
be,' eh? How delightfully fatalistic. And I thought you made a
difference."
***
Sam stared down at the shirt, at the little sewn ridges.
She hadn't really wanted to be mad at the Doctor that day, either.
But, short of holding a grudge against the universe itself, what else
could she do?
The Doctor had endured with good grace her black mood as they'd
returned to the TARDIS. At least he hadn't scolded her, or told her
she shouldn't feel that way ...
She'd gotten over the incident with time. Yeah, she understood
better now what he'd meant. They stumbled across enough people
in real danger that needed helping. They didn't need to go looking
for trouble. She should be satisfied with what they were able to
accomplish.
She sighed and finished folding the worn T-shirt, put it away in
her box of keepsakes.
***
"Hullo -- anybody home?"
The Doctor looked up from where he was fiddling with the
console controls. "And what have you been up to all morning?"
Sam drew herself up with a martyred air. "Cleaning."
The Doctor looked perplexed. "But the TARDIS ..."
"I mean sorting. Stuff." Memories, too.
"Ah." He sent an absent smile her way. "Well, we've landed.
Care to see?"
Sam ambled over to peruse the hanging monitor to the outside
world as the Doctor pulled it down by its chain. The TARDIS
appeared to have landed in an alley-way. Quel surprise.
She squinted to see the city street that stood beyond. Very
busy -- streams of people were passing by the alley's entrance.
Like a glimpse of an alien Manhattan.
Sam stared at the distant figures. They were blue. Humanoids.
As she watched, one of the distant pedestrians slipped into
the alley-way, glancing without undue interest at the TARDIS as he
passed.
Sam felt her stomach clench.
He had three-fingered hands and a flat nose.
She took a deep breath.
"Well? Shall we have a look?" the Doctor wondered aloud.
"I've never been here before."
No, but _I_ have. "Yeah. Sure," she said.
Sam thought of the shirt, hidden away in her room, and
surreptitiously crossed her fingers.
Fin.