A/N: Folks have noticed that this is cranking along, a couple thousand words a day. Well, yes! Okay, thing is, I have a Time Lord stuck in my brain… and he's sharing it with River Tam. Boy, is it ever crowded in here. :-D I want to thank Delphine Pryde for flagging this as a favorite story. And I also thank my reviewers, My Reflection, Arcander, Kateri1, ck16, and Nighthowler. Must've been slow yesterday because it was Sunday.
Summary: The Doctor, reeling from the effects of the TimeWar as the last surviving Timelord, stumbles into a situation he cannot ignore when the TARDIS lands him inside a ship that is clearly in trouble. But his reasons for staying once he's made planetfall might not be so benign.
500 years in the future, something has prompted humanity to explode out from their home world. Some of those leaving Earth behind view the world as nearly a myth. Others know better. In fleeing Earth-that-Was humanity scattered to the stars across the galactic arm. Lets just imagine then that Blue Sun exists on the opposite side of this galactic arm from the rest of civilized space, and that one ship is taking a ghost run through the long route. 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? Why does the Doctor's TARDIS insist on shielding a certain cryo-box? 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 Eight
Hajj
Richard B. Riddick, Convicted Murder, was following his nose. The sun beat down on his bare arms and warmed the remaining coils of metal around his wrists almost to the point that he thought the skin underneath was blistering. He'd fled with no water, and no food. And this world seemed to lack both. He must have lost his mind. That was all he could figure, with the ever so strange route he found himself taking. Following his nose, literally.
Why? He didn't know, but it seemed the thing to do. The direction he found himself pursuing was that of the crash scar. The scent he was on was one of mint and honey, and alien odors that he couldn't properly name but identified as 'spicy-sweet with a hint of musk'. His intent upon gaining his freedom had been to mess with Johns' mind a bit before ending the bastard. But for some reason he'd veered away from that idea almost as soon as he'd gotten free. He'd barely set the last bit of the mind-fuck into place before discarding the entire works to pursue this other path. He kept asking himself why, and then catching that scent again. There was something about it that made him forget all his internal arguments.
He paused and checked the various cryo-lockers in the nearest cluster. They had blown out after the rest of them. Ahead he spotted another cluster loosely linked together. He peered into one to see how bad he could have died if he'd stayed put. The conclusion he was drawing was 'broiled alive,' actually. The locker closest to him held an individual so badly burnt and riddled with holes that he couldn't make out if it was male or female.
The bronzed-complexioned man shivered and backed away. It took a lot to disgust him, with all he'd seen about the darker side of human nature but this was pretty dang close. Power of an impersonal 'Verse on display for all puny humans to witness, that. Which meant, of course, that he had just avoided whatever it was that riddled the hull with holes. He wasn't the sort to be thankful about it either. Damn God and all his little Angels. For years he'd chased death, wanted it, welcomed it, and every damn time it teased him by shaving oh so close, but missing him. Jinxed. That's what he was. Jinxed by death and pain.
Sometimes the ex-ranger thought he was a tool used by fate, quite against his will, dealing death to others that were unlucky enough to cross his path. Most of those folks were corrupt powerful bastards or underhanded lazy ones. Some were like Johns, bounty hunters with no morals, doing as bad as those they chased. A few were innocents, dealt such a raw deal by God, the universe, their so-called loving families, etc, etc… that they needn't suffer anymore. Being as he didn't view death as a bad thing, the reasons for them wanting it never mattered, as long as they deserved it.
He couldn't help but to wonder what happened to the people on the other side of that strange box. He could still feel the sensation of the alien thrum under his fingertips. It was wood, so whatever sliced into the hull should have come out the other side. But… he didn't remember feeling any bumps or holes. Was it possible then that it had blocked the path of those deadly bits of space debris? What was inside the crate if it had? By chance, did anyone survive? It was kind of horrid that no-one thought, hours ago, to check. Well, he was going to. If anyone had lived he'd figure something out, even if it meant going back to the bastards at the crash site and leaving the injured. Or not… Maybe it would be a mercy to just ghost 'em.
Just then he spotted movement. He froze. Now this was shocking. A fellow in dark cargo-pocket pants and a torn white tee stumbled, slipped, slid and scrambled his way slowly up the length of the crash scar. Why hadn't anyone bothered to look for survivors? What would Johns have done if he hadn't noticed his locker empty? Bet there would have been a search party then. With armed insistence.
The ex-ranged ducked back out of the fellow's line of sight then peered around a bit of ship to study the man. Clearly, someone had treated him for his injuries. One hand trailing about a half-meter of cable was wrapped in thick bandages. There was evidence that the job had been quite some time ago, as the wrappings are covered with yellow dust and seeping fluids. That hand must be in very bad shape. And Riddick guessed that the cable is attached to a release handle still caught inside the injured hand.
The broadly-built burnt man's face was covered in a sheen that indicated the use of derma-heal, but the scorching was quite ugly. Through holes in the man's shirt that look like the edges were cut away there's evidence of bandaged spots across his wide torso. Riddick notes that the man has just about the same build as he does, and with his hair burnt off his scalp, from a distance, could pass for his double. If folks ignored the bandaged hand and white tee.
The con has to make a choice, and being how he is he decides to let the charred man pass without alerting him to his position. There's nothing he can do for the bloke anyhow. Other than to put him out of his misery.
He figures Johns or Zeke-man can deal that, without his help.
Once the fellow is out of sight, Riddick proceeded along with caution. If the man had received medical attention, as it seemed likely he had, then at least one other person survived. And possibly the section with the med-locker was intact someplace out here. It was not likely that the man had treated his own injuries with his hand as messed up as it looked to be. So the ex-ranger went into stealth mode as he moved from bit of ship to bit of ship, following his nose to the source of that elusive, spicy, honeyed scent.
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Johns was playing road-dog for four crazy, chanting idiots and one insane petite blonde. From the incense pots to the chatter, it's like a neon sign proclaiming "Easy Kill Here!" They might as well slit their own throats and get it over with, at this rate. He gritted his teeth and forced his attention back to keeping an eye out for the killer that was grating on his nerves.
There are several things about this world that really, really bother him. One is the lack of direction sense. It's impossible to get lost because of the suns in the sky all the time, but there's no pull telling him North here, even slightly. He knows that Imam realized this long before he did, but it is becoming rather a grating irritant, none the less. Another unnerving trait this world seems to have is the absolute resistance to footprints that the soil here displays. It's impossible to track anything here that is man-sized or smaller. This means, of course, that Big Evil could have run down this exact path, just out of sight of them and they would never know. That thought sends chills across his back.
The blue star puts up a mean glare, one that is hard to see past, as it sits suspended in the air at the exact spot to be very annoying. They are walking into the light, and so there's no avoiding it. He's grateful that he remembered his cap. But it is Hot here. With a capital H. It's one of those places that could be compared to hell. What was that line again? Oh right -- 'If I owned this place and hell, I'd live in hell and rent this place out.' It certainly fits.
One thing he is doing is keeping his shotgun out and ready. He can't figure out why Carolyn wanted to leave the ship, nor why she's forcing herself to keep up with the pace that outstrips her natural reach instead of asking for them to slow down. The daffy "rare" war-pick dwarfs her, and looks ridiculous in her hands. It's so large that she has to rest it on her shoulder. There's no way she can actually defend herself with it. If it weren't for needing to keep the shotgun out he'd take the stupid thing off her hands. And burn it.
The landscape slowly shifts from flat to rolling to hills. They are climbing. The blue sun crept up another degree in the sky. Still damn annoying, blaring glare and stifling heat right into his face. Johns can almost feel the freckles popping out on his skin as he burns right through his clothes. He doesn't dare drink, not until he's got Riddick caged someplace.
They are in the spire-topped hills now, and it's an eerie landscape. Makes him wonder what created the odd twisted shapes. Hot wind teases its way through the pillar-like forms. Riddick could be behind any one of them. Johns began to scan more fully at that thought, but the quarry is either messing with his brain or not here. He's loosin' it. Mind is going. 'God, I need a fix,' he thinks. But there's no place he can go and no safety to indulge in so he pushes the desire aside.
Behind him the marshal hears Fry whisper, "So quiet. You get used to the sounds of the ship, then..." Her voice trails off, like she can't get enough air, even with the breather, to finish the thought out loud.
The holy man asked, "You know who Muhammad was?" Abu can see that the docking pilot is struggling with something internally. He wants and needs to help her.
It's fairly clear that Carolyn has only the vaguest of ideas about the subject, "Some prophet guy?"
Her words are echoed in the Imam's rich voice, " 'Some prophet guy.' " He nodded. "And a city man. But he had to travel to the desert -- where there was quiet -- to hear the words of God."
"You were on a pilgrimage? To New Mecca, right?" Fry detected that perhaps the Imam is the person she can trust, someone to help her see not only her path out of her personal darkness but also through this physical crisis. But she's not had much experience with religion or God, in any form. She's not sure that God wants her soul anyhow, with what she has tried to do.
"Yes. Once in every lifetime should there be a great hajj -- a great pilgrimage. To know God, better, yes, but to know yourself, as well," the Imam tells her.
Now that – that is just too much. Carolyn has to force herself to breathe. She has already seen something inside herself that she wishes she hadn't seen. Something horrible. Guilt strangled her voice and made it sound odd even to her ears, "Frightening thought." She doesn't want to know herself any better. The darkness is scary enough from this distance.
Johns moved further up the path, thinking he's heard something. An odd whistling noise. A haunting moan. But it's so faint. There and gone.
Abu takes the War-pick off Carolyn's hands; "We're all on the same hajj now."
The docking pilot stands there as everyone passes her except for Ali. The boy waits for her to start walking again before he releases her hand. Her heart flutters in her chest for no reason. But the feeling just won't pass. She sucks down another hit of air and quickens her pace to catch up.
The pilgrims begin with their chanting again, mindless of their chatter. The marshal grinds his teeth in frustration. He's straining to hear over the Arabic. Then he hears the unearthly warbling and freezes as it fades to crunching of their footsteps. What is that sound? It slowly builds again, wafting on the sizzling breeze. "Hush," he orders, waving them to stop. Some rocks slide down the incline off to the far side of the path and he quickly moves that direction.
The three boys begin a new chant and set about throwing stones. At Fry's glance Abu tells her, "Seven Stones to keep the Devil at bay." She nods and carefully sets about following the marshal who has insisted no-one walk off alone.
Johns hears a noise behind him and brings the shotgun up before he registers that it's a woman's footsteps.
"Ah --" Carolyn freezes with the twin barrels pointed dead on at her forehead. Her heart is trying to force its way out of her throat. If he'd pulled the trigger she have died and not even realized it until she hit the dirt.
The gun lowers, and the man holding it shrugged, "Sorry."
"Well, you said 'no-one alone,' Johns. I assume you included yourself." He nods at her and turns his attention back to the tantalizing scene he has resolved through his scope. After a moment she said, "See anything?"
"No Riddick." That could be good or bad, depending. Carolyn is thinking that it's good at the moment. There's a sigh from him as he stares through the lens. It is clear that he sees something but is fearful that he's very wrong about what it is. "Trees?" He's hopeful. "Trees mean water." He hands over the scope, "Tell me it's not a mirage."
She peers through the scope, and the view surely does look like trees, "No mirage."
0o0o0o0o0o0o0
The blue sun had reached mid-morning and was hanging in the sky, frozen. Blue stars burn hot and bright and fast before dying in a extraordinary fashion. This star has two neighbors that will eventually feed it to make that death even grander. River knows this. It's not really a sad thing. Just the way it is, is all. The Doctor has held her hand, keeping her mind on an even keel. Simon was behind them, but managing to keep up. There's something whispering in the back of her mind, like a hive of bees, waiting.
She is not scared of it, no. It doesn't like the fire and as long as some hangs suspended in the sky they are safe from it. It won't come out until the fire is gone.
The cool hand released her. River turned to look at the Doctor. This is the third time he's let his hand slip from hers, but the first time he's stopped. She's aware of a shadow -- death, icy hot, sharp, fury -- on the fringes of her being. Fear fills her soul, blindingly terrible, consuming fear. She takes in a deep breath of hot air and feels the Doctor's hand back in her own, suppressing the raw need to scream.
She trusts him. Yes she does. But she can't and won't ignore what she is sensing up ahead of them. Something dangerous comes this way, and she wants to protect what she has gained thus far here on this alien world. So when the Doctor takes her hand and she can feel that he senses what she does, River plants her feet into the soil and tugs back at him with both hands, Simon's bag swaying on her arm. For a moment she is sure that he will keep walking, dragging her along. But instead he looks at her with his ageless eyes and she can see her emotions mirrored there, like he's truly hollow. She blinks. He pauses.
"River, are you feeling alright?" asks her brother. Well, no. Not really. There's a bowling ball sized lead weight in her stomach. She doesn't want Simon to put her to sleep again and she doesn't want the sharp edges to cut her. Or any of them. "Maybe we should rest a bit?" Simon tries.
"Please," she manages. Otherwise, the Doctor will pick her up over his shoulder, just because he can.
The Doctor doesn't say 'no' and he doesn't wander away when Simon finds a bit of shade and fetches out two warm bottles of water from the bag River's been carrying. He has tried in the past to offer them to the strange man and has been rebuffed. This time, though, the Doctor pulls his own bottle out of his coat pocket. Oddly, the container should have shown when it was in there and didn't. River can tell that her brother sees this but can't quite fit his brain around it.
There's a mathematical formula that explains the phenomena, and currently the part of her mind that is not overridden with black apprehension is occupied with studying it as it flows between the panes of glass in her mind. It's so very complex. Very beautiful. But layers upon layers of complex. Amazingly, she understands it. Not just theory but the practical use of it. And she knows it would take her days to reproduce the equation on paper.
She looks at the Doctor who is drinking from his bottle as he eyes the landscape. Every line of his form relayed the same deep dread she felt. Maybe she can make him feel better. She touches the equation and shifts a number with her mind. A neon green Yo-yo falls out of the Doctor's pocket. "It's all math, Simon. Numbers. Not Magic," she says to her brother, trying to explain to him what she can see.
The tense lines melt away from the dark clad figure standing apart from them, "Oi! I've been lookin' for that." The doctor scoops the toy up with a grin and brushes the dirt off. "Useful things, Yo-yo's. For that bit of help, I suppose I could cool that water for you, aye?" As both the half-empty bottle and bright green double-disk-and-string disappear back into pockets, River graces the Doctor with a smile and offers the two warm bottles to him that she snatched from her brother's hands. A moment later they are returned, after the Doctor runs his sonic screwdriver over each one. "Not too fast now," he warns. The bottles have a nice thick sheen of frost on the outside and the water is almost slushy.
Simon looks like he is dreaming, "What-?" This has been a very odd day for him, after all. From nearly dying by suffocation, to having his patient run away, to this… Yes, very, very odd.
River pokes him, "Don't be a boob. Experience calculation, science. Advanced from our own, but just the same."
Doctor Simon Tam is beginning to think that there's far more to this 'Verse then he's ever thought of. River's acceptance of the strange, nearly magical nature of what he's witnessed is both scary and reassuring. "Can you explain it then?" he asks her.
"Yes. So can the Storm."
Well, of course. It's his technology after all, isn't it? He takes the bottle that is pressed up against his hot neck and shakes it. The water sloshes inside thickly. It's icy cold. He looks at the Doctor, "Thank you."
The gent winks at him, "Don't thank me yet." They still have a lot of ground to cover and a great deal to overcome. And the Doctor knows his plan might just fracture the young man's mind into shards that he can't put back together. But if it can save River, it can save them all.