I have a very clear idea where this story is headed; it's been outlined from the beginning (which is not always the case with my stories). But for some reason, I've never done more re-writes than I've been doing with this one! I know what story I want to tell, but it's taking a tremendous amount of trial-and-error to decide how to tell it. This is one of the reasons I've been so slow! And this chapter was no exception!
This chapter makes a bigger jump forward in time than any previous chapter. We're joining the story now two months after the bridal shower, and the day when the Doctor and Martha met Betsy at Starbucks, and the Doctor suddenly realizes from where the Phlotigo being is doing its dirty work. A lot of this chapter is narrative, explaining what's been going on over the past two months, how the pieces are starting to take shape. I hope you don't find it too tedious; I figured another four chapters of investigation (which at this point would be me, as a writer, spinning my wheels) would be even worse!
I am still trying to keep certain things a secret, so, if by doing so, I have made the pseudo-science too confusing, I apologize. I've been known to do that on occasion. Just ask, if you have questions!
TWO WEEKS BEFORE THE WEDDING
For two months, Martha had been following Tish to any and all wedding-related events: tastings with the caterer, sampling wines with the Sommelier, ordering the cake, renting linens, the second fitting for the wedding gown, interviewing officiants, Dana's bridesmaid dress alteration, meeting with the florist, scouting out locations for the rehearsal dinner…
And Tish had not protested, because day or two after the bridal shower, Martha had explained to her what exactly had happened at the shower: Tish's outline had blipped like a flat piece of data, a scenario that had been corroborated by Betsy Doyle, and she and the Doctor had concluded that girls were being "downloaded" somehow.
But the idea of human beings converted to data was not what bothered Tish the most.
"They're using excitement to target us? How do you mean?" she asked Martha, incredulous, with a wrinkled nose.
"The type of hysteria that comes from a bride leaves a particular type of energy signature," Martha explained as best she could. "Somehow, this things feeds on it, or is attracted to it... or possibly just uses it to locate people."
She and the Doctor had spent a lot of time over the past two months pulling apart the data they had, analyzing Fiona Hart's computer, and taking energy samples with the sonic screwdriver and testing them in the TARDIS' digital power monitors. They had found, among other things in all the debris, that a loosely-concocted combination of what amounted to hope, love, nervousness, nostalgia and narcissism left a fairly specific trail in the atmosphere that could be targeted by the Phlotigo.
"So, I'm at risk anytime I get excited?" Tish asked, with the same wrinkle.
"No, no," Martha said, understanding the subtext of the question. "Just when you're excited about your wedding. And the closer it gets, the bigger the risk."
"But wait, didn't you tell me that you can now detect energy signatures because of your new powers, or whatever?" Tish asked poking Martha lightly in the stomach. "Why wouldn't you have known this before?"
"The Phlotigo signature was so much stronger than the trails the girls were leaving behind, that it's all we focused on for a while," Martha answered. "Plus, the Doctor reckons that I might not have been able to feel them anyway, since I'm basically still human."
Tish sighed. "Blimey, there's a phrase I thought I'd never hear come out of your mouth."
Martha ignored her. "So," she said, clapping her hands. "That means someone, namely me, has to keep you calm."
"All right, that's fair," Tish agreed. "But what if you can't?"
"I've got alien talents now, plus a mobile phone," Martha shrugged. "If I can't haul you out of trouble, I know who to call. Can't say the same for mum or Dana."
But she did not feel as nonchalant as she acted.
The TARDIS had also spent short periods over the two months hovering in the Phlotigo galaxy, scanning planets and pulling data from afar. They had not left the TARDIS to go wandering, gathering info first-hand, as the Doctor did not want to risk capture nor injury with Martha. This had irritated her mightily, but he didn't let her argue very much. They'd got the culprit narrowed down to one sector, but the galaxy, they found, was expanding at a rate faster than normal, and so their job grew in difficulty with every single hour. All they had was a rapidly degrading signal in the TARDIS' machinery and a system of trial-and-error, trying to find a match.
They were able, though, to replenish their samples, as another bride, Heather Gentry, had been "kidnapped" during that time as well, and they'd slipped onto the crime scene after the police had gone.
Unfortunately, the story began to receive considerable media attention as a serial crime spreading through London.
"Damn it," Martha had cursed when she saw the BBC report, while sitting at Tish's kitchen table, learning from a manual how to fold cloth napkins into various types of birds. "This is all we need."
"Isn't this a good thing?" asked Tish.
"No, because national attention means people will be watching. That means the police will start to push harder and tighten up their investigation, which will make it harder for the Doctor and me to get in and do any of the types of probing we need to do. They might start to notice us, since now three out of the four families have seen us. They'll think we're involved with the crimes, which means we won't be able to come within a mile of any of the crime scenes without a perception filter."
"A what?"
Martha thought about what she had said. She had never heard nor spoken the phrase perception filter before, but there they were. She had absorbed the concept somehow, though at this stage, she didn't need to ask how. The thin cloak that allowed things to go unnoticed, like a random police box parked in the middle of a city park with people jogging past, it was now part of her internal lexicon. She chuckled to herself, and told Tish, "Never mind."
In the end, the details, though mysterious, of the disappearing brides did not prove gruesome enough to capture the public imagination. Much to the Doctor and Martha's relief, the story remained on the periphery of mainstream news, before disappearing entirely after four days.
But the biggest revelation was the outside reality phenomenon. Something from this reality was living and operating in a different reality, affecting this tangible reality through intangible means. Where was this being from the Phlotigo hiding? And how was it using Fiona Hart's computer to do its evil?
Once they'd talked through it in that Starbucks after Betsy Doyle had left, and the Doctor had given her his theory, it made perfect sense. Then, it just became a matter, once again, of pinpointing a signature. But it wasn't really energy they were trying to nail down, it was more like a code to crack. Lines and lines and lines and lines of digital code, unique to a being (or possibly a group of beings) from an expanding galaxy, whose planet of origin they had not yet worked out. If they could find that, they could capture it, but it was a needle in a barn full of haystacks.
And so, they began working on a solution. And it was daunting. Very daunting. They couldn't simply use existing technology, and "tweak" it to work for their purposes. This was a bigger job, by far, than any mere software could execute. It wasn't a bigger job than a Time Lord could execute with a TARDIS and a quasi-Time Lord companion at his disposal, but blimey, it was going to take a lot of time.
When Tish's hen night rolled round, two weeks before the wedding date, the job still wasn't finished. The event had been their unofficial deadline for pulling together what they needed to extract the Phlotigo being from its cubby hole outside of reality, since the potential excitement definitely warranted a bit of worry. But one week out, it became amply clear that it was not going to happen in time.
So, all week, they had taken turns being frantic over the hen night. Martha beat herself up over having taken the lead on the shower so that Dana could take the lead in planning the hen party. She could have planned something lower-key, and not so public, and avoid the possibility of over-exciting her sister. She knew intellectually that there was no real way she could have foreseen this situation, even with Time Lord senses, but it didn't help. The Doctor fretted over protocol, and how Martha would get Tish out of harm's way without arousing suspicion or working Tish up even more, in the process.
Their stopgap was to build a second sonic screwdriver. It was a tool that Martha could use now, without having to ask the Doctor to tell her the settings, and made her feel a little less helpless. But she couldn't really imagine a scenario in which Tish's life came into danger, and Martha could use the sonic to get her out of it. A sonic screwdriver couldn't abate Tish's excitement, it couldn't teleport her out of the danger, and without the proper code and frequency (which was the problem in the first place), it might not be very useful in blocking the Phlotigo being from downloading her, if the opportunity arose.
But Martha had it with her in her purse when she emerged from changing into her party clothes for the evening. The Doctor smirked. She looked down at her outfit and scowled. She was wearing a pair of straight, black knee-length shorts and some black sandals with wide high heels. On top, she wore a tight black tee-shirt with the word "Bridesmaid" spelled out in puffy silver glitter across her chest.
"Where did you find one of those in your size?" he asked.
"I didn't," Martha answered bitterly. "I had to go find a black tee-shirt in my size, and then Dana did the lettering. But only after I told her that I would absolutely not wear a maternity shirt that said 'designated driver.'"
Her size, in fact, had grown considerably over the last two months. It was now impossible for her to wear virtually anything, barring large tee-shirts and some pyjama bottoms, not made specifically for women in her condition.
The Doctor laughed, and said, "Well, you look very cute. Very sparkly." He crossed to her and planted a kiss on her forehead.
She sighed. "I just wish I didn't have to be…"
"What?"
"The responsible one," she said. She was, in fact, the designated driver by default. But she was also commenting on the fact that tonight represented, by far, the most dangerous situation to date, as far as Tish's safety went, and she was the only party guest who knew anything about it, or could do anything about it. Maybe.
He nodded sympathetically. "It's our burden. Sometimes when weird stuff happens, we're it. You and me."
"I know."
"I'm just glad it's not only me," he said, hugging her.
"Me too."
He pulled back. "At least you'll be able to let go of some of it in a few months," he reminded her, patting the bump through her bridesmaid tee-shirt. "The inner-turmoil-in-the-guts-of-a-Time-Lord stuff, anyway."
"I know."
"I mean, it'll be replaced by the inner-turmoil-in-the-guts-of-a-mother stuff, but at least that's standard human angst that you don't have to keep secret."
"I was just really hoping we'd have this taken care of by now," she told him. "And that's not an accusation, Doctor, it's just… I'd sort of counted on having this thing extracted and on a one-way space pod to an intangible prison by now. It was one of the things keeping me sane. And Tish too."
Once again, he nodded sympathetically. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be sorry," she said. "I wish I could have been more of a help to you."
"You have been a help to me, trust me, Martha," he said. "What we're doing is huge. We're scouring two enormous planes of energy and code for one intangible being. I mean, between scanning an expanding galaxy and trying to pull encrypted data from the…"
"I know. I guess it was wishful thinking."
"It's just a big, big job."
"Yep," she said curtly, looking at the floor.
He stared at her for a few moments, wishing he could say the right thing. Failing that, he asked, "What time do you have to be to Leo's to pick up the drunk bus?" She was going to borrow her brother's SUV in order to collect the party guests, and then pour them out into their front gardens at the end of the night.
"In about fifteen minutes," she answered, looking at her watch. "I'd better go."
"Want a lift?" he asked, tossing his head toward the TARDIS' instruments.
"No, thanks. I need to… gather my strength or something. A solid, don't-make-eye-contact jaunt on the Tube will do me some good. It's an easy place to be pensive. The walls of the tunnel rushing by can be downright hypnotic."
"Okay. Why don't you ring when you're done and I'll meet you at Leo's so he can have his car for work tomorrow, and you don't have to take the Tube back by yourself in the middle of the night."
She rolled her eyes at the protectiveness, but agreed.
"Actually, Martha, ring if you need anything."
"I will."
"If you see anything…"
"I know, Doctor," she told him, cracking a smile. "I could say the same to you!"
"True," he admitted. "And I'll be here at the workbench, trying to find a loophole."
"Yeah, good luck with that," she said with a kind of sarcastic wisdom. She kissed him on the cheek and walked out of the TARDIS with a little wave.
The Doctor wandered over to the console. He plopped on the stool and scratched the back of his head nervously. For the umpteenth time over the past week, he asked himself how he could speed up the process. Where was that loophole he'd mentioned to Martha? How could he make the needle pop out of the haystack? What weird makeshift mixture of mystic energy and technology could he use to make this problem disappear?
Deciding to think about another angle for a bit, hoping to clear his mind of the immediate problem, he pulled up one of the metal floor panels and went down, digging in the storage area underneath the console room. He emerged with Fiona Hart's CPU, which neither he nor Martha had bothered to touch in a couple of months. Just because other considerations had taken over their lives, it didn't make the question of Fiona's computer any less important.
They understood how the Phlotigo being had been using Fiona's computer to contact the brides via Fiona's sales records and e-mail account. They now understood that the hundreds of e-mails concerning florist rebates and limited edition cake designs were intended to build excitement in the brides, to create the kind of energy that the Phlotigo being needed in order to zero in on the women. They even understood, now that they roughly knew the being's hiding place, how it could continue doing its evil work, even while Fiona's computer was held hostage in the TARDIS. But they did not understand what Fiona's computer had to do with the actual downloading of the women themselves.
He decided that a practical course of action, until something cleverer took hold, would be to connect Fiona's computer to the TARDIS console, and have the TARDIS' machinery monitor it. They could, perhaps, wait for another abduction and then see what kind of activity there was in the CPU at the moment of the disappearance. It was a tactic that did not entirely appeal to him – waiting for something terrible to happen to someone else before taking action, but he told himself that it, like Martha's sonic screwdriver, was simply a stopgap. He wasn't going to hang all his hopes on this, or give up looking at other methods.
He installed the CPU to interface with his own monitor on the console. Once again, he looked through the bills of sale, hacked into her contacts, disturbingly seeing more and more ridiculous numbers of e-mails being sent out to different women, including Tish. Predictably, he saw that the fourth bride's e-mails had stopped on the day she disappeared.
Then, he pulled up the Audacious Attire website. He clicked through some of the pictures of wedding gowns, party dresses and special costumes. He didn't see anything unusual. Until, that is, he clicked on a link which led him to photographs of the brides in their gowns. He recalled Martha mentioning that the girls looked uncomfortable in the photos, and also that Tish had not been asked to pose for a photo, even though the website said that all brides were asked. But it hadn't seemed direly important at the time, so that bit of information had gone by the wayside.
But now he could see what she meant. All the girls that he recognised were there; Amanda Finneran, Linnea Mays, Anne-Marie Doyle and Heather Gentry, as well as others whom he didn't recognise. They all looked pained, as though they were being forced to stand a certain way and smile.
"What's the game, eh?" he muttered to himself.
But the game was beginning to take shape in his mind. The girls, the Phlotigo, the hiding place outside reality, Fiona Hart's computer, the e-mails…
"Oh, I am so thick!" he said, gritting his teeth.
With a newfound determination, he pulled out his own sonic screwdriver, the original, and aimed it at the screen. A silver sheen seemed to flow across the screen and then disappear. Then, miniscule lines of code began to appear on the screen, again in silver, barely visible to the naked eye.
"Ohhhh," he exclaimed, almost with admiration. "Clever, clever, clever. A digital perception filter. You sneaky little bastard."
He and Martha had seen this page because they had special senses, more or less immune to a perception filter. Tish had been able to see it because Martha brought it to her attention. But he doubted whether anyone else who looked at the website had ever noticed that particular link.
Probably including Fiona Hart.
"Thick thick thick!" he shouted, now standing, pounding at his temples with both hands. "The computer is just a... a source of ammunition. Oh, why? Why didn't I see it? Knocking about with Fiona Hart's computer, we haven't been checking into her website!"
How could he make that needle pop out the haystack? By going to the source. Because if he was right, and Fiona really didn't know those pictures were there, then who put them there?
"Oh, Martha," he said to empty space. "I've found our loophole!"
He threw back the handbrake with a purposeful flourish, and moved the TARDIS across town.