New Orleans! Couple of years before the Civil War, one of those times I can never remember nor care whether it's run by the British or French or Spanish and neither can anybody else going about in the mad, glittering whirl of these main streets, all coffee shops and bars and houses of ill-repute, which I shan't go into, in that I won't speak about them in such esteemed company as yourselves. Who could fail to be impressed? Who would not stand in awe of such resplendent grandeur? Who could complain?
"Why do you always take me to these times where I feel like my skirt's too short?"
"Yeah, and I feel really, really underdressed…"
The Ponds, apparently. The Ponds could complain. In fairness, I could be having the Rolling Stones play for the Ponds atop Ayers Rock with an unlikely light show from the aurora borealis going on the sky just now, and they'd want to know where the merchandise stand was. And I understand their reasons, but I am honestly making an effort for them and I would like that to be acknowledged.
"Don't worry, nobody is looking at you."
"Oh, thank you, Doctor, that does wonders for how I feel just now."
"Anyway, you both could have changed while we were waiting for Jessica."
"Okay, what about this is Jessica's fault?" Rory cuts in. I breathe deep, ready to give him a list. It strikes me then that this might not be such a wonderful idea, and I hesitate. Pond takes the opportunity to pounce.
"For God's sake, Rory, you're obsessed! Seriously, should I be worried? Because she's way too young for you, you know."
"Amy, don't. You're being ridiculous."
"Enough!" I snap, and loud enough for them to have to listen to it. I don't quite know what they want from me, or where to go from here, and I'm about to suggest packing it all in and just taking everybody home when Amy speaks up. She looks at the ground when she does, and could be talking to any of us other three.
"I just hate that this is your idea of an apology."
When she lifts her head again it's to look at me. Oh, I could kick myself. Apology. Of course. Humans are just mad about apology, they apologize for everything. Brush past them in the street and they mumble apologies at you. They have wars and then sit around for years apologizing to each other like schoolchildren. Words, not actions; how could I lose sight of that?
But no sooner have I begun to process the careful wording necessary to maintain my status and not give too much away and appease them all at the same time, when a man approaches from over Jessica's shoulder. Dressed all in black, with the bones of a crude, childish skeleton chalked out on his suit and his black face painted white and skull-like. There is a glimmer, to the trained eye, at the edges of him, where the illusion meets the real world, that screams perception filter.
"Esteemed visitors," he begins, a rich, thick old Creole voice. And he sweeps off his rather magnificent top hat. It is this sweep which alerts Jessica to his presence and she jumps behind Rory. The Bwa'chech, and that's what he is if I'm not very much mistaken, breaks off in his speech and leans over close to her. "What you scared of, petite?" He stops smiling when he sees what's growing out of her arm.
What's she scared of? Tonight? Just about everything.
"My honoured Doctor," he goes on, in the same scraping, toadying voice, "The little cher can't go armed here. The rules of the prefecture don't allow it."
"She can't help it," Rory tells him. The Bwa'chech draws up to full height, not liking the interruption. Amy rolls her eyes and before she can open her mouth and give him something to go with the roll, I step in.
"Perhaps we should clear it at the Embassy?"
"An admirable compromise," the Bwa'chech concedes, and bows. His hat falls off as he leans forward, but he catches it, and twirls it back onto his head as he stands. There is, perhaps, for just a millisecond, the ghost of a smile on Jessica's face. "I shall escort you, my most venerable masters."
He takes off, in long, theatrical steps, leaning right back with his nose pointed up at the sky, guiding himself along with a reaching black cane. Which, were the filter turned off, may well prove to be the desiccated bone of one of the Bwa'chechs many enemies. Bwa'chech, you see, translates as 'dry arms'. One touch and they drain away everything soft and fleshy about a creature. Now, this is New Orleans, so the Bwa'chechs natural nastiness shouldn't be a problem. Nonetheless, I keep myself between him and the Ponds.
"Doctor, what's the embassy he's talking about?" Pond says. Wonderful, I think to myself, good old companion spirit, questioning, forever in search of explanation and knowledge and fun. But she sort of sighed it, which isn't encouraging at all. Like she can't quite be bothered even finding out.
"It's the Multi-Galactic Embassy to Earth. That's why there are so many aliens here, and of all different kinds. This is the one place on Earth where any race might send a peaceable ambassador."
Rory has his thinking face on again. Which means he is about to say something very stupid. I mean, utterly adorable. Yes. That's what I meant. "So… theoretically… if there was a really nice Cyberman…"
"Certain species have already been told never to come back."
"Right."
"Wasn't working out with some of them."
"Doctor?"
One is adorable. Two is stupid. "…Yes?"
"I can hear this really terrible humming and I would like to know please if I'm going mad." He's not, though. Amy's suffering too, and Jessica. She's not so much hearing it as feeling it in her back teeth, like heavy bass or a mosquito very close. The sound is generated by the perception filters that mask the Embassy as a crooked, crumbling old house. A lot of the humans in town are aware of their guests, and some of them are heavily involved with the exchange and diplomacy going on. The rest, however, must be kept away. That's what the noise is for.
As soon as the Bwa'chech reaches out and opens the gate, it stops, and the Embassy reveals itself in ornate wrought iron spires, in red brick and creeping ivy and, hovering over the roof, a thousand beautiful beacons of infinite variations, one for every planet represented here.
How do I know all this? How is it that I am familiar with the Earth Embassy? How do I know it's always good for a party? Because it has to accommodate all the species that might ever want to show up. Has to be bigger on the inside. Its transdimensional engineering was one of the last great gifts of the Time Lords. Some of our best mechanics installed the matrix that gathered all the beauty of New Orleans architecture and designed this outer projection, that paved the grand lobby in bottle green marble and picked out the stairwells in gold.
In stained-glass, at the first landing, Earth, surrounded by the beacons of peace that float outside.
Now, the Bwa'chech wants to find the right bureaucrat to cut the red tape on Jessica's unfortunately biological blades. And we promise not to move. Then he leaves, and the Ponds follow me upstairs. They're not even acting scandalized, though. It's no fun if they don't ask what I think I'm doing. I had a really good explanation too, a funny one, that would have made them laugh and broken through another inch or so of the glacier of ice built up between us all, but that would be too easy, wouldn't it? One of them could pretend for a moment to be scandalized and give me that opportunity, for the benefit of all involved, but that would just be too nice altogether.
Sneaking around, gatecrashing, it just doesn't feel right when nobody's talking.
That's why it's actually quite nice to be interrupted this time. Even if it is by one who will so insist upon addressing me as-
"Gallifrey!"
It's how she does things, you see. Working with so many different species, it's the ultimate compliment she can give, to identify somebody so totally with their place of origin. That's why I've never had the heart to ask her not to.
I turn. The one who called me is on the stairwell above us, all hitched-skirts and hobnail boots and her hair caught up turban style around her dark face, and the Silurian a step behind her smiles softly on as she runs down the stairs and to me. "I heard you'd landed!"
"He's got a girl in every century," Amy snipes. To nobody, apparently, since she's still refusing to directly address Rory. But I will not bear such an implication, so I step out of the way before Marie can hug me.
"Amy, Rory, Jessica, allow me to introduce Marie Laveau."
"I…" Rory begins, and he's doing his pointing-and-thinking thing. For one, that means he's struggling, bless his heart. For another, that means this is going to be excruciating. One is adorable, two is stupid, three in front of a friend of mine is excruciating. "I've heard of you, you're the voodoo woman."
Marie, luckily, throws back her head and laughs. "Where'd you pull these two from?"
"Round about two-thousand… ten, isn't it?"
"Eleven," they tell me. In perfect unison of timing and weary, unimpressed tone. This synchronicity does not go down well between them.
"Yeah, I'm a real legend by then," Marie smiles. "Nah, I'm just an errand girl, mes amis, no more than that."
"Don't say that!" What's wrong with everyone today? Why can't everybody just be happy and accept what's true and what's great about them? I've missed some cataclysmic cosmic radiation event that sopped up all the gun from the universe. Why is it always up to me? "Marie," I say, with an arm around her shoulders, presenting her to the Ponds and Jessica, "and her partner here, Monsieur LiGrand, are the top enforcers that the LOA has."
"Yeah," Amy interrupts. "About that. And I'm really sorry, Mr LiGrand-" Ah. The Silurian. She doesn't know him like I know him. Why do they have to do these things in public? "- I don't mean to cause any offence, but I just need to ask the Doctor a quick question." She turns to me, wide-eyed. What follows is her idea of how to ask something delicately. "On a scale of Vastra to Alaya-" and cutting her eyes at LiGrand.
I sigh and turn to LiGrand. "I'm so sorry. We've had mixed experiences with other Silurians in the past."
"Quite alright," he says. The first time he's spoken. And behind me, even without looking I know that everything about Pond suddenly changes. In that, were her internal framework not supporting her, she might in fact melt into a slimy flesh puddle on the floor. Again. It's that Deep South accent, you know, I've always wanted one. Keep coming up English. English and never bloody ginger… Anyway, LiGrand steps around me, and takes Pond by the limp white hand. "As with any species, we come in good and bad. I can only hope to give you reason to think of me as one of the better sort." And raises the hand to his lips to kiss it. Amy stammers something about being so sorry and so forth and just being sure. She's smiling, though, which is an improvement. Only Rory isn't.
I would like to take him aside and explain to him that this is 186something, that LiGrand is just being a gentleman in the ways of the time, but there are rather too many of us for the hallway.
Delicate game, this, cheering up a pack of humans. It's all or nothing. Much more of a balancing act than I had expected. I share a glance with Marie, and she gets sympathetic to the cause. "Put her down," she smiles, and leads LiGrand away by the arm. "Legba's waiting for us."
"Oh, what for?" Sorry. Can't help myself. I have enough of a mission at hand with the Ponds, I know, but I'm not good with curiosity, you know. Some people it's cigarettes, or gambling, or personal appearance. I'm not good with curiosity. I have a problem, and I have no problem with that.
Marie smiles, sweet and lopsided, and nods at the Ponds and Jessica. "Take them to Chambers. I'll catch up with you."
[A/N – Starting a little early this week, superfriends, due to lots of work and this one being quite long. And I promise it'll be perilous and actionous with lots of derring-do and alligators. Hearts, Sal.]