Solipsism
Ten: Not Lying
I run back up to the console. I'd been trying to figure out where we were. When we were… I hadn't thought about looking for space ships. Much less derelict, dead Time Agency space ships. It had never occurred to me, honest.
Of course Jack is correct. It's the Newhope. There's no doubt. She's positively identified on the bloody display monitor sitting in front of me. But I knew it without the ephemeral symbols on the screen telling me; I knew it as soon as Jack said it. I could feel the trueness of it in the way the pulse raced in his hand as he uttered the fateful words. I want to hit the monitor, smash it to bits, but I suppress the impulse; that kind of behavior is so definitely not this regeneration. Now the last one – yeah – he wouldn't have hesitated, back before he met Rose Tyler, to break it into tiny, satisfying fragments. But not me. Instead I glare at it, as if my icy stare could somehow make what I'm seeing not correct. Make it go away. Make it untrue.
Derelict… Dead… I don't want to think about what that implies. There's no time to think about it now anyway. Instead I need to focus on what we must do next. But that's easier said than done. My eyes involuntarily track up and back to Jack, who is still standing at the entrance, looking out. His posture, his shoulders betray his misery-filled emotions. If you think about it, he's actually Co-Captain of that derelict, dead ship; Co-Captain along with his – what? – friend, colleague, lover, partner-in-crime, maybe even occasionally his rival, John Hart.
When we last saw the Newhope she was a happy ship, filled with optimism and light, warmth and life. We left her, in another galaxy, in another time, in the capable hands of Captain John Hart and my friend and all-too-brief companion, Varna Aden Timmochan. Now, according to my display the Newhope's temperature is barely above the ambient temperature of the space surrounding her – roughly three degrees Kelvin. She appears to be generating no significant EM or any other sort of radiation. Need I add that she is not under power? Nor are there any life signs being detected aboard her.
I look at Jack again. "Jack!" I yell. I suddenly wonder why my thinking is so negative, so dismal. A derelict ship, yes, but it doesn't necessarily mean that John and Varna are not alright. I notice Jack hasn't reacted to the sound of my voice, hasn't moved. The existence of a ship adrift, I tell myself, doesn't necessarily imply that something terrible has happened. I know it sounds like I'm reaching, but it's true.
"Jack!!" I yell again. This time more loudly. Still he doesn't move. It's not like me – or him! – to automatically jump to a wild conclusion like this. We need to investigate, acquire solid data, ascertain firm facts. We need to rationally, methodically, and carefully determine what happened to the T.A.S.S. Newhope and her crew. We have a mystery to solve, not bodies to bury.
"JACK!!!" I bellow.
"WHAT??" He spins round and glares at me with piercing blue eyes. His face is a study in all the most horrific of human emotions: fear, hatred, anger, dread, terror, despair…
"Jack," I repeat softly, "please close and lock the doors and come back down here. We have work to do."
"What work?" he looks at me fiercely and frowns. "What could we possibly do about that?"
"Jack, you're making assumptions," I admonish him; try to rekindle some small spark of hope in his aching heart. "I know better than that… YOU know better than that. There's plenty we can do, but I need you with me, standing next to me, not grieving for something that may or may not be real. Please Jack…"
I'm not lying, I realize. I do need him. I need him standing beside me. I need his strength and I need his intellect. I need his fortitude and courage. I don't want to do this, whatever "this" is, alone. I need him.