ARTIFACT
By GallopingGhoul
The device was small, cylindrical and fit easily in the palm of one's hand. At least, it fit easily in the palm of a modestly-sized humanoid's hand. Assuming the humanoid had hands, of course. And opposable thumbs. A lack of opposable thumbs – or, conversely, an abundance of opposable thumbs – would make the device particularly tricky to use in a pinch.
It boasted no protuberances, no extraneous flanges or switches. For all intents and purposes, it was an unassuming metal rod with a light on one end and a small, round button near the middle. One might mistake it for an advanced species of ballpoint. If one were so inclined.
It was unique in its appearance, but then it would be. It had no true sibling in the entire universe. This is not to say there were not others like it, of similar design and action, but by its very nature it was one of a kind.
Operation of the device was subtle and elegant. The button served only for activation – as a way of letting the device know, "It's time to get to work." All of the device's functions, therefore, were accessed through gesture, motion and – most importantly – intention. That is what most people didn't understand about the device: intention was everything.
Megan's intention, as she weighed the sonic screwdriver in her hand, was simply to get the damn thing to turn on. Her long fingers slipped up and down the contours of its frame as if she were searching for a way in, which, in a sense, she was. Sonic screwdrivers were very particular about whom they allowed to use them and, apparently, Megan was not high on this sonic's list. Had it deadlock sealed itself? Against itself? The thought made her head swim.
"I wouldn't bother," said the plump young man sitting opposite her, "I worked at that thing for ten hours the other night. It's busted or something. That's why I'm letting it go so cheap."
In her focus on the sonic screwdriver, Megan had forgotten that she wasn't alone, which wasn't all that surprising. She'd also forgotten she was sitting in a mall food court which also wasn't all that surprising. Of all the things she hadn't learned to adapt to on Earth, malls and people jockeyed for position at the top of the list.
"Like I said in my email, I found it stashed in the attic with a bunch of my grandfather's crap. I was unpacking everything, because old people never know what they're sitting on, you know? I mean, like, as far as valuable stuff. And I found this thing wrapped up in a bunch of old shirts. It had to have been in there for decades – and I mean decades – and there is no way this thing isn't some sort of secret government invention. It's way too advanced to not be some Manhattan Project kind of thing. My grandfather never spoke much about his life to any of us, so I put together that he probably worked for the government, not in the sewage treatment capacity that he always claimed but in research and development, you know, and that this was some prototype for a weapon or something that he stole and made off with and that's how he really lost his job, not because he was a heavy drinker and didn't show up for work but because he knew. Too. Much. And, in any case -"
Megan pulled her gaze away from the Gallifreyan artifact and glared at the young man.
At the age of one hundred and fifty (more or less) Megan was still rather young but her life as the descendent of Shobogans and her escape from the Last Great Time War – aboard a cranky and, at times, homicidally insane, Battle TARDIS – had instilled in her a steeliness and resolve that shone from her eyes with the intensity of a million burning suns. This benefitted her in many ways, the most practical of which was getting people to shut up.
The young man shut up.
"This is not a weapon," she said. The contempt she felt for these people, the rage she felt at being separated from her people – possibly forever – almost made her words contradict themselves. The young man believed, without a second of doubt, that this device could very easily become a weapon in this woman's hands. Still, he said nothing.
"It is a tool," she continued, "It is an extension of its creator. It is a work of art and genius that your mind, that the minds of every human in this . . . place, could never comprehend. It's inventor was a genius; a mad genius, worshipped by Outsiders and outcasts across the galaxy. And you sit here and offer it for sale like a common trinket. Like a bit of detritus. It should be revered as the artifact it is, not pawned off to the highest bidder. Not tossed aside so lightly. Not tossed aside."
Megan stopped. The young man was staring at her with his mouth slightly agape. She had expected a barter; she had not expected tears. At least, not her own. Truth be told, she'd been pretty isolated for the last few months and speaking to someone, anyone, left her feeling a bit vulnerable.
She stood. Heads turned. Her clothing options still reflected her Gallifreyan upbringing and the gold silks (rayon, really) and gold accents (costume jewelry she'd pilfered from a street vendor) drew attention to her lithe frame. She thought she looked regal. In reality, she kind of looked like someone's cool aunt.
In her hand, she held the sonic screwdriver.
"I reclaim this as one of the last survivors of the Time War," she intoned, "I reclaim this for my people, lost in a conflict millennia-old. I reclaim this for the creator, lost in his own wanderings driven by his own beautiful agenda. I claim this as a Shobogan, an outsider of the Outsiders, lost to my people, but not to our cause! I claim this device that I may continue the work of my people, work for which I was trained even if I never completed that training. And I claim it for you!"
She looked around her at the people staring, mid-chew, in her direction.
"I am the Meganapholaxicalopholix and I claim this sonic screwdriver for all of you who have been the unwitting beneficiaries of my people's aid and whose lives have been saved by this device's creator more often than you shall ever realize!"
She stood, resplendent in her beauty. Dazzling in her intensity. Overwhelming in her passion and grief.
The young man stood.
"If this thing is really what you say it is," he said, "If it is really the artifact of a lost civilization. If it really belongs to your people and you intend to use it to carry on some sort of cosmic quest that will bring you closer to those you lost and those you will never see again . . . than I'm going to have to ask WAY more than 25 bucks for it. One thousand dollars, or no deal!"
There is an old saying among Gallifreyan elders. It doesn't translate to English well, but the upshot is that once you've tried bargaining, once you've tried begging and once you've tried threatening, anything is on the table in a negotiation (trust me, it rhymes very nicely in the original).
Megan aimed the sonic screwdriver at the young man. It sparked. Her thumb pressed its button. It glowed. Her fingers traced the outline of the crystal buried deep inside its body. It flared. Her intention, burning with the Heart of her terrible TARDIS, flowed through the sonic and gave it power.
The lights went out. Or rather, the lights exploded.
In the confusion, Megan stole away. She also stole a purse – she was very hungry and the TARDIS had only been making protein paste for the last few days.
In an alley behind the parking ramp, she clutched the sonic to her breast.
"Lucky. Lucky. I'm so lucky," she whispered to herself. It had become a mantra or sorts since the day the TARDIS had opened it door and pulled her inside. Since she had escaped death by the skin of her teeth.
"Lucky," she said again. But, as she had learned before, luck didn't hold out. She needed money. She needed a job. She needed a companion.
The man at the agency said, "All I need is your resume."
She handed him what was, to her eyes, a blank sheet of paper.
He studied it for a few minutes and looked up at her.
"Wow," he said, "you're going to fit right in, here."
That was what she was afraid of.
END