A/N: Is Jack a girl? Or a boy? And when
will we know? Hehe… I'm not saying. :-0
Carolyn
Fry is a fairly central character, and I'm glad that someone's
rooting for her. Face it, there are some that are meant to die… and
some that are tragic. And maybe even a few that should live.
This
story has so many 'what if' questions that it is amazing that so
much of the movie plot has survived, really. The obvious ones are
What if Simon and River ended up on another ship from Serenity, and
What if the Doctor's TARDIS plopped him into the same ship. But
there are more. Mutant Plot Bunny that it is, I'm sure you can all
detect those 'What if' things from a mile away.
My
Reflection, ck16, and Robin Moto have my thanks for the lovely
feedback.
It's 2517. Something in the past has prompted humanity to explode out from their home world. Could the events of 2164 be responsible? Was Earth a myth or was it real? In fleeing Earth-that-Was, humanity scattered to the stars across the galactic arm. Initial survey teams targeted likely planets and systems for habitation and not all of them ended up on the same side of the sector. Blue Sun exists on one side, separated by a patch of 'wild space' filled with exotic binary and triple star systems, from the rest of civilized space. Few ships brave the route. But luck has it that one ship is. It's a ghost run, the only contact that the two sides have. Port of Departure: Eavesdown Docks, Persephone. Mixed Sino-Anglo culture. Port of Call: Tangiers-5. Darkside. Mixed Islamic-Anglo culture. Crew complement: Four. Passengers: Forty. Living 'Cargo': Two.
So what happens when a passenger by the name of Dr. Simon Tam and his cargo get on the wrong ship? And just how is this related to the TimeWar?
Doctor Who / Firefly / Riddick X-over.
Features Doctor 9, Pre-"Rose"; Simon and River Tam, Pre-"Serenity" Firefly episode 1 and the cast of Pitch Black…
Doctor Who and the Great Eclipse
Part Twenty-one
Twilight
It's well past noon again when the sandcat rolls to a stop with the third load from the crash site. Simon and River appear and begin unloading. Riddick is up on the roof of the hanger adding a cross-application of siding taken from other buildings. Johns would be concerned about it except for the poles indicating the weight is being born by the stacks of crates that have been welded together. All in all, the entire Hanger is starting to look like a fortress. Large axles have been placed onto re-enforced inner doors, designed to close quickly should they need to move the skiff out after sundown.
As the wind begins to pick up Imam makes the decision to move the 'cat and trailers inside the hanger and park it toward the back. They will have to push it out to get it started if it sits for very long, but at least it won't become unusable like it might if left out in the mounting conditions.
The skiff is looking like it's stripped out, the seats and inner panels scattered out around it. The wings are repaired though, so that's something, at least. Currently there's a leather jacket hanging on the open door, indicative of who is working inside. Johns takes a peek in and sees denim clad legs, "Where's Fry?"
"Resting. There's not enough space for two of us to run the re-wire for life support, marshal," says the Doctor. Okay, fair enough. Carolyn hasn't slept much more than a few hours since the crash anyhow.
"Spotted a sandstorm, looks to be headed this way."
The other man doesn't reply right off the bat, "If so, then Richard shouldn't be on the roof."
"I'll call 'im down. Nice to see that you and Fry are taking shifts on this," he taps the skiff as he walks away. But once he's outside he finds that Riddick somehow beguiles him into climbing up onto the roof and helping out, "How the hell did I end up helping you?"
"Ah, come on, Billy, it's not that bad. Besides it looks like that sandstorm might be blowing over," the bronze skinned man says looking off the direction where a yellowish haze is painting the sky. "And there's only a few more panels to go. Two of us and we'll be done that much faster."
Johns sways, "I can't stay up here long. But I'll secure what I can help with. When I go down, you go down. That Doctor bloke doesn't want you risking being outside with the storm heading this way." To the merc's amazement the con nodded and put his body to work without another comment. The dust in the air picked up as they worked; gathering to the point that Johns is squinting and breathing heavy on his breather. Riddick signals 'One more' and quickly moves it into place. Johns takes one side and begins fastening it down a quickly as possible. He's feeling light-headed and his eyes are filled with grit. He is glad for the help down and the extra arms that steer him inside even if those arms belong to someone who is cold to the touch.
The doors to the hanger close behind them as the three men move inside. The redhead feels the first of the violent shivers quake through his frame. He coughs and pulls free. "Water?" says a male voice. He thinks it is Paris. Johns nods and accepts the glass. He manages to get about half of it down, "Here let's lay him down. Johns? I really think that Dr. Tam should look you over."
The merc shakes his head as his eyes finally clear, "Nah. I'm ok. Just too much grit, too much sun. I'll take a lie-down and maybe start drinking more water. Don't wake the kid up if he's sleeping." That manages to get them off his back. He wanders off to the private toilets, thankful that they existed. He knows Sir-Shiv-a-Lot has been dropping hints about the nature of his 'illness' and that it's only a matter of time before someone catches on.
He just needs to delay it for a little longer, is all.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The Hanger is bathed in spots of cool blue glow from the fiber optics, offset by tawny tinged shadows. But at least there's enough solar energy getting though to keep the lights and the misters going. Several fans cycle off and on as the system tries to cope with the blowing sand outside.
Carolyn is back inside the skiff, running the nav program through its paces as she tries to detect whatever error it was that sent the Hunter-Gratzner off course, leaving the Doctor to work on the cryo-system in pieces. It is intense and mind-numbing work, requiring the application of repeated simulations that change one small variable at a time. While this is going on the bulk of the rewire grinds to a halt.
The life support system has been reworked already and the space cleared for the upgrade that the cryo-system represents. Until they are sure that the nav program is going to steer the skiff the correct course they won't finish installing the new system anyway. Not that this keeps the Doctor from preparing the required parts.
"Come here, Simon. There's something I want to show you," the Doctor says as the survivors move off to various diversions from the dining table. It's true really, there is something he wants to show the Tam boy, but it's not something fully visible. Rather it's something to be experienced. They are stuck inside because of the sandstorm raging outside. It's a perfect time to start working on the lad.
The pair moved over to the scattered parts of the cryo-system. "Actually I suspect you want me here to replace the used needles with sterile ones," the dark-haired young man tossed back at the Time Lord.
The Doctor had the grace to look sheepish, "That too, but aside – What do you understand of the chemical composition of the cryo-drugs?"
Simon settled down to help with the work, "I don't, really. Aside from what I've read for basic use. It's not my area of expertise. I'm a trauma surgeon by trade."
The Doctor looks at the dark haired young man and is reminded again of Susan. He struggles to contain the swell of emotion; "It's a delicate thing, life. These drugs are a soup of chemicals designed to just hold a body on the edge of the brink between life and death. They are tailored for the average human metabolism. Those that have too high a degree of variance have unusual behavior either during or when emerging from the artificial suppression of their minds."
"Really? The medical texts I studied didn't mention that. What type of retrogressions are there?"
The brown-haired man rubbed a pale hand across the back of his equally pale neck, "Oh, it figures that the rare side effects wouldn't be mentioned in standard medical texts, Simon. Authorities want it to seem as though this process is extremely safe." He sits back on his heels for a moment, composing his thoughts. "Retrogressions, eh? Yes, I suppose they could be called that. The behavior depends on how the starting brain chemistry varies from the norm. Some individuals with a strong primitive mind either wake up very easily or don't actually sleep at all. Those individuals who maintain awareness for the extended period of drug induced paralysis, which may or may not occur, often display extreme mental trauma or phobias of enclosed spaces after. Then there's the other end of the spectrum. Some individuals have their lower functions, like respiration or pulse, totally suspended to the point that they forget how those functions work. While the cryo-system can maintain these individuals while they are under, waking them is risky."
"River and I had identical reactions when we woke up of the latter sort. Why?"
"Because your higher brain functions and your lower brain functions don't communicate the same way that most lesser evolved humans do." That earns the pale fellow a strange and puzzled stare. "Unlike someone whose lower brain functions are dominant, you and River while suspended in cryo are closer to real death than other humans. Call it a curse of your genius, if you want," The Doctor continued without meeting those blue eyes that were fixed on him. "There are other species with similar problems who have evolved natural means to work around it. But it takes more than a generation for such things to happen."
"And how exactly did you save my life?"
The blue eyes finally connected with Simon's. And he hears, 'Like this,' but the Doctor's face remains perfectly immobile. The Tam scion hears the Doctor's voice in his head even though the other man's lips are not moving. 'Don't panic. There's nothing to be scared of, Simon. It is your gift and your right. You just need to be open to it.' The lad takes in a deep breath and nods. River's been hinting that this was coming.
There's a wave of gratefulness that passes between Simon and the Doctor, 'Thank you.'
"Oi, don't thank me yet. Wait until you are truly safe, Simon Tam."
"So is it going to be all right for us to go back under? I'm a bit concerned about the not breathing part."
The Time Lord pauses, "What would you do if I told you that you would have the same problem?"
Simon shivers, "River and I would stay here. Maybe help would arrive before we were eaten. That's what we will have to do. There's no way that a commercial flight would ever let either of us go into cryo again now that I have to disclose our allergic reaction."
"There might be another way. If the sandstorm dies down in time I'll take the 'cat out and collect my belongings."
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
That ended up being the main question: would the Sandstorm die down before the eclipse hit?
Paris operated on the assumption that it had to. He was pouring over maps and charts taken off the crash record in an attempt to locate the other cargo bays. Likely though it was a waste of time. Really he had no or little skill to bring to bear otherwise.
Riddick concentrated on making defenses out of extra cot frames, shelving supports, or any other spare bit of metal he could lay his hands on. He was good at the task and was building up quite a range of weapons and trap pieces.
The pilgrims, once the last load from the crash site was dealt with, alternated between playing games and their prayer, unless one of the adults had something for them to do. Between the merc and the art dealer admonishing them to stay out of the way or to be quiet the boys felt as though they were hopelessly underfoot with little to contribute.
Johns either worked with Riddick on making the defensive spikes or hovered around the skiff when he wasn't spending an excessive amount of time in the restroom or asleep. He'd taken to playing with a red shotgun shell as of late and was often spotted sliding one through his fingers while watching others work.
Simon helped with the cryo systems, stopping to pray when the pilgrims did. He took his vow seriously. His work with the Doctor slowly came to rely more on mental cues that verbal ones, and it was only after River corrected him on one of the connections that he became aware that she was part of the ongoing conversation taking place. He could feel the buzz of her mind like a layer of static over the top of every notion he and the Doctor shared. And every now and then he understood the rapid-fire of her hyper-aware introspection as it flitted above his own.
River studied various manuals scattered about and occasionally brought up some brilliant way of making the suggested repairs better. It was hard to believe that she wasn't a trained expert at anything she turned her attention to.
Carolyn and the Doctor continued to work diligently on the skiff, neither slowing much aside from Simon's occasional order to eat or sleep.
The days passed with them caught inside because of the biting, dense, blowing sand raging outside. It led them to wonder: had this been what caused the settlers to miss their takeoff? Or had something else more sinister happened?
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
River watched the swirls of color around her, the bubbling deep blue-black mist, the pure airy sky blue-whites, the sharp red and black shards, and the bronze and gold spikes being the strongest. Then there was the ruddy orange slither and the calm clear bright aqua that were offset by troubled jiggling dark purple-gray. Fainter still were various brown and greens that flowed or spiked depending on the moods of the boys they belonged to.
The art dealer was often overflowing with his undulating colors that varied from rusty brown to near peach. The intense colors were becoming more dominant as time passed. It was clear that he felt trapped as the wind howled and the granular silica pelted with constant faint pings against the metal siding for hour after hour. Thankfully the crates stacked against the outer walls everyplace except near the main doors lessened the noise. His colors were not too troubling, and she could distract him back into the more peachy tones by getting him to talk about what he was working on as long as she acted interested and tried to seem like she didn't already understand everything he was doing.
The pilgrims and Jack created a faint multi-hued web of greens and browns, all mostly unconcerned in their innocence of the situation. It was clear that Jack, who alone was more a darker, earthy brown than the rest, was lightened considerably by his association with the other boys. Imam's own soothing pale green-blue often tipped his charges more green than brown and pulled Jack nearly into the olive range when they prayed.
It was the docking pilot's deep smoky-purple to plum eddies and swirls that often bothered River. The blonde was running herself haggard, not eating, not sleeping, but totally driven like she was chased by phantoms. There was no way to lighten those troubled dark sooty violet currents. She might get her to laugh or smile, but at most the colors the woman put off approached the blue range never totally stepping up out of the murky shadows that shrouded her. River was concerned that Fry was going to reach the end of her rope and just give up.
The stronger colors, each with their own shapes, were set and sure. Of them, only the marshal's red, maroon, and black sharp points truly made her shy away. She couldn't avoid him, but she could retreat behind the shield made of water and air that the Doctor and Simon were making for her. Lately those invasions of maroon and ebony had become both more intense and more frequent. But when she couldn't see them flowing away from his location, she saw rainbows.
Now she was sitting on the floor, bathed in sparks of warm metallic colors, bronze, brass, golden brown, arcing over her as she watched the muscular man with his quicksilver eyes turn a spare bit of support pole into a polearm. He was surrounded by pointed, flat-headed spears. He glanced over at her and noticed her intense curiosity. "Come on over here, River."
She unfolded herself from the position she'd taken on the floor and moved over to Richard, "Will you let me help?"
The sparkles became brighter, tinkling with a wash of silver, as if he were amused by the question. He nodded and handed her a heavy three-sided file. "I might even show you how to make some blades of your own. Why don't you sharpen these to start?"
She had been observing him long enough to know how to do as he asked and set to honing one of the flattened heads into razor sharpness with the file. The mix of rolling deep navy and interwoven misty cool white flowed around them like a blanket.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Johns cloistered himself in the Hanger office. He's propped up against the desk, sitting on a crate. There's only one light here; the faint tawny flickers that permeate through the howling wind outside. He doesn't dare turn on a light or waste any power. Not like he need to see to do this anyhow. Even the dark of space can't act as a deterrent for this mistress.
He takes a deep breath, and selects a new red shotgun shell from his red box. Reverently the redhead pulls the shell apart and slides one of six little clear ampules hidden where led shot and gunpowder should have been. The thin capsule-like tube slides into a thin needled folding syringe. This is better than sex, better than the thrill of the hunt, better than the power of death. He carefully places the needle into the duct of his left eye and lets the morphine slide home.
There's time, between the blinks, before the high kicks in to put the syringe back into the holder it came out of. But he's too far gone to hear the door open past the rush of flight a few moments later, "Who are you? Really?" Not the best of timing. He's stripped to his undershirt, with his belts and guns off. Actually too far away for him to reach as they sit innocently in a chair near the door. He put them there on purpose. Johns lets his eyes drift from the leather sheen in the chair to the woman backlit by a cool blue glow. Fry. In the doorway. Knows. His mind is none too helpful at the moment. "You're not a real cop, are you? Just some guild merc who goes around flaunting the law like --"
Now that's going too far. He's earned his badge. That he's freelance and not tied down to any one authority is another matter, "I never said I was."
"Never said you were a hype, either," the docking pilot spits out. There's a venom in her voice that goes far beyond anything he done or not done. Johns blinks and lets himself slump slightly. Carolyn shakes her head and moves into the room, heading right over to his bag that is sitting on a side desk. The red box is still open. She narrows her eyes at it and plucks a shell at random to investigate. It's full. She slams it back in to the box and picks another. It's full too. Anger begins to fill the little room, overflowing from her tense and overstressed form.
"You have a little caffeine in the morning, I have a little morphine. So what?"
She grits her teeth, pauses a moment to hold back what she really wants to say and instead mumbles out, "And here you got two mornings every day. Wow, were you born lucky?"
He rouses himself slightly and squints at her though the haze of the yellowish dusky light, "Hey, not a problem unless you're gonna make -- "
"No! Johns." She spins around to face him; "You made it a problem when you let Owens die like that. You've got enough opiate here to knock out a fucking mule-team!"
He waves aside the argument, "Owens was already dead. His brain just hadn't caught on to that fact."
She sputters in her rage, "Anything else we should know about you, Johns? Christ, here I am lettin' you role the dice on our lives when --" Carolyn's manic energy moves her within his range of grasp. She's very tempted to claw his glassy blue eyes right out of his head.
Johns catches her by the wrists and then forces her hands around his body. She is struggling but against his strength there's little she can do. The embrace only becomes still once he presses her dainty fingers against the horrific raised line of a jagged scar that sits next to his spine. Her touch becomes careful as she processes what her hands are telling her about the scar. Johns' voice seems to echo Richards' in her head, "My first run-in with Riddick. Went for the sweet-spot," 'the sweet spot -- just to the left of the spine, fourth lumbar down. The abdominal aorta. What a gusher,' "and missed. They had to leave a piece of the shiv in there. I can feel it, sometimes, pressing against the cord." He lets go of her, "So maybe the care and feeding of my nerve-endings is my business."
Her fire is brought down a notch but not doused, "You coulda helped. And you didn't."
"Yeah, well. Look to thine own ass first. Right, captain?"
She flinches away from the words like she's been slapped. Her face barely maintains her mask as she walks out. It was a mistake trusting Johns from the start and now Fry knows she is going to pay for it, one way or another. The door shuts and locks with a click behind her. Carolyn's eyes mist over and she nearly sinks to the floor. Only the cool steady hands seeped in leather, honey, and spice prevent her from doing so. She lets him guide her to her cot and settle her under the blankets. By then she's too numb again to cry.