A/N: My goal is to try to give you all a chapter a day until it's finished, in the hopes that it keeps the Doctor quiet enough so I can sleep at night. Not that it always works… Thanks to my reviewers, Delphine Pryde, My Reflection, and ck16.
As for your questions… The Doctor's filtering input for River has a price, and as such River is getting inside the Doctor's brain and seeing some of his technology at work; She understands it enough to make some alterations to what he's already built but not enough to construct her own, yet. The bioraptors being sensed is River's ability, kind of like how she senses Reavers. And don't feel too bad for Simon; he's going to be dragged into understanding (and believing) even if he doesn't want it. As for Riddick's background… Let's just say that the Doctor has a job for him, if they survive this.

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 Nine

Found

It's not quite noon, local time. Paris noted this even as he consulted his chrono that tells him universal standard is something like 4am. He should be resting, really. At his age these marathon bursts of wakefulness really wear a body down. However, the situation is such that resting right now might be something he never wakes up from. He prides himself in being a smart fellow that does the intelligent thing. And that. at this point, is to keep his eyes open, watching for signs of danger so he can warn Zeke of them. Personal feelings aside, he does trust the bushwhacker's claim about his shooting ability.

So he's taken on the job of being the lookout. No sense in not being comfortable though. So he'd set up a 'lookout' station atop the hull, with a chair, a misting umbrella, a battery operated fan, some of his smaller, lighter tables with a spread of his snacks and a little cooler to keep his spirits at the perfect temperature. Sherry, he finds, works wonders at cooling the air here. If someone makes too big a fuss he's got other umbrellas that work the same. He can share. Just not his caviar and toast points.

Below him a sled scraped by. It's Zeke. He and the dusty skinned man don't get along. But he did offer a mister in exchange for the breather, fair is fair after all. Zeke had accepted the little gem eagerly enough and then had turned and given it to his mate. Well, it was his choice to give that little comfort away and Paris is not going to feel guilty about the man working in the hard sun.

"Comfy up there?" the bushwhacker asks as he moves into view. It's a fine piece of handy-work, that sled, Paris has to admit. It's loaded down with everything the other man needs to set up a dig site for the graves. There's tarp, cable, rods, digging tools, and a misting umbrella (including a case of sherry, he notes). Well fine, he can use it. Rather not have to drag the other man back to the ship after he's passed out anyhow.

"Are you sure you don't want a hat? I've got a selection here that would shade your face."

Zeke scowled up at him, "Don't need your bloody fairy hats, man. What I do need is you staying alert, 'cuz if you ain't, Shazza can sit there while you nap."

"I'm perfectly awake, thank you. It's amazing how you can do without the essentials of life -- so long as you have the luxuries," he tosses back at the man. "Besides, your woman is over at the cargo bay, scavenging."

The dark man's face becomes even darker. "My 'woman' has more class in her little pinky then you've got in a thousand of those cargo crates. An' I trust her judgment far more than I trust yours. Keep your bloody-fuckin' eyes open. Don't want that ratbag sneakin' up on me bloody-fuckin' arse."

This is the seventh or eighth time they have clashed since the others set out to find water. Paris rolls his eyes at the man's back and comments, "You dig the graves, old boy, and I'll hold down the fort," as Zeke drags the sled toward the spired hills. The spot the bushwhacker has chosen made a gap in the defenses. Paris had argued against going that far away, and against leaving the gap open. Zeke didn't want the bodies buried that close to the ship. As if there are animals here that will dig them up or be attracted to the blood? Not likely. There aren't even insects here.

And actually, Zeke shouldn't be out there alone, either. But Johns isn't here, and Shazza has the boy, Jack, with her. And there is no way he's going to hang out with the bodies. Zeke has the gun, Paris has got a bullhorn, and there'll be plenty of warning if he spots something. And it's far more likely he'll spot something from up here than at the bushwhacker's side.

Keeping one eye on Zeke, Paris eases back into his antique chair, lays the war-pick across his lap, pours himself a spot of sherry. Lighting a cigar, he reaches for his snack and eats. The heat makes everything dry like dust. But he doesn't make a face. Instead he reaches for his glass; drinks to clear his throat and settles back again. He scans the horizon. There's nothing out there. And really, he doesn't expect there to be.

He relaxes with a sigh. The killer is long gone, likely eating bodies up the crash scar or something equally morbid. He raises his glass to his lips again. A bladed edge settled against his throat. To his credit, he freezes and does not drop the glass.

The voice in his ear is one he doesn't know; "He'd probably get you right here, right under the jaw." It's a soft, deadly whisper. "And you'd never hear him coming." Wait, he does know that voice… It is Jack he realizes with an alarmed certainty, "Because, that's how good Riddick is," the boy finishes.

With his heart in climbing out of his chest, Paris eases the hunting boomerang away. Bloody fine little prank. Now where is the child's keeper? He can hear her below, scrounging about in the main part of the hull. "Boy! That was stupid and dangerous." He turned to look at the child; "Then again, you are the reckless one, aren't you? I keep wondering: did you run away from your parents? Or did they run away from you?"

"Bite me, you ol' geezer." Jack sneers, "Hwoon dahn, " the boy spits at his feet, just missing his fine leather shoes, "Riddick's gonna end you, you liou coe shway duh biao-tze huh hoe-tze duh bun ur-tze!"

The art dealer's ears glow red from the insult. His mother, rest her soul, was not a slobbering streetwalker. She might have been lower classed, but at least she lived on a core world. Which is more than he can say for most of the survivors he finds himself among now. Furthermore, his father was rather well-to-do. It's a point aside that they never married. And he's not stupid. He's got a degree in business and antiquities, thank you very much. But the words hit rather close to home, none the less. "I'm going to wash that foul mouth out with soap, you little shit!" However, before Paris can scramble, moving the war-pick off his lap and gaining his feet in an attempt to grab the offending brat, the boy has gone.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

It was near, oh so close. The scent was strong here, flowing on the heated air without direction. That was a major frustration. The closer he got to the source of it, the less sure he was of the direction it was coming from. He knew he hadn't passed the cause though. He's sure he would have known if that were the case. Riddick finds himself forced to use his other senses, then, to find his way.

His sight is washed out with the fierce light even with the goggles. It's not quite painful, but damn uncomfortable all the same. His touch is consumed with the raw heat of the place. Hellish fire burns along his nerve endings, dancing up and down his skin; and for a man whose spent so much time in slam, or in space, or asleep, it's not something he's used to experiencing. The shade brings only slight temporary relief. Taste won't help here. Smell is already taxed to the limit. That leaves him with his hearing.

He shuts his eyes and zones in his ears. Difficult but not impossible. He's been trained to do this, because sometimes it was necessary in his pre-jailbird line of work. There's a very high-pitched whine, almost out of range of his sensitive hearing, up ahead and just off to the left. He guesses that it is either very loud and distant or, more likely, soft and fairly close. Within a few dozen meters.

The sound stops and he can hear a faint voice, speaking in a language he's totally unfamiliar with. It's a male voice, that much he's sure of. But the words are lost to him, a series of three sounds that might be syllables of a single word or an entire sentence. Not a language he'd call human. It's oddly musical, and Riddick's mind immediately connects the scent to it. He felt curiosity bubble to the surface.

It's the most risky thing he could do, following that impulse. But then, the ex-ranger has never lived a quiet life. He sneaks closer, darting from one camouflage point to another. Intent on the shadows cut into the harsh light and the sort of known possible location he isn't fully aware of his surroundings. It's a blunder that might cost him, eventually.

When he looks up finally, seeking another closer bit of shadow he finds himself face to little-metal-cylinder with someone that pings off his instincts as being very, very dangerous. Alien deadly. Inhuman. Unforgiving.

The honey-spice-musk scent rolls over him like a wave. He freezes, eyes seeing only the being in front of him. A being who is cool enough to suck his vision to a dark indigo in contrast to the heat here. And his little light-tipped pen-sized gizmo.

0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The climbing was getting harsh, but the tantalizing branches are just beyond the next rise. It's no surprise that the three children break into grateful shouts of, "Allahu Akbar... Allahu Akbar..." as they break into an excited run, anticipating an oasis. But Fry hangs back, taking a harder look at the trees. They don't move in the wind. Reaching the top the pilgrims become stature-like still. The feeling of dread builds in Carolyn's gut, sinking right to her core. But she pushes it aside and keeps up with the marshal and Imam.

They finally clear the top and look out to see something they hadn't, in their greatest nightmares, ever expected to see. The "trees" were dorsal bones of a titanic skeleton, tinted green by lichen. Beyond, as far as the eye can see are tumbled sun-bleached bones of all shapes and sizes. There's not a speck of flesh on a single one. And now they can all hear that unnatural whistling howl that seems agonized as it wafts on the dense air. It's horrible, and shocking, and all that is missing from the scene is hell-fire and brimstone falling from the sky.

Carolyn swallows, "Is this whole planet dead?"

Beside her Arabic babbles. She blinks and looks at Ali, who has tugged on her sleeve and wears a questing look. Abu provides translation, "He asks what could have killed so many great things -- " She has no clue, no answer to give, and thus just takes the boy's hand and gives him a reassuring squeeze.

Johns makes a grunt and sets off down the hill. They still need to find water. Imam sets off behind him and Carolyn follows along with the boys. Abu says, "Some... communal graveyard, perhaps... like the elephants of Earth..."

Ali lets go of her hand, venturing off with his brothers. Fry trails her fingers over one of the giant bones. She can see and feel cut-marks -- like something took a blade to it. She wonders, 'Graveyard? Or killing field?' Whichever it is the entire thing is spooky.

"Long time ago. Whatever happened," Johns said.

Hassan and his brothers have begun to explore, and in such a place it's easy to forget the admonishment to stay together. He slips inside a colossal skull, his ears following the sounds that float through the bones. There's baleen-like combing across part of the skull's structure. This makes the deep harmonic sound as the wind caresses over it. He waves his hand over the comb, brushing his fingers across the gaps, and changing the pitch and tone. With a laugh he begins to play a dirge-like 'music.' He calls to his brothers, looking around.

Meanwhile Johns has noticed the three boys are split up. He rounds up Ali and thrust him toward Suleiman. Then he spots the missing boy playing inside the skull, "Outta here! This ain't no playground! Get back to the others before you get your throat slit," Riddick could be anywhere. The idea of that forces the marshal to do a complete search.

As Hassan pops out of the skull Fry pauses, keeping pace with Johns so that he's not alone. While she is waiting for him to finish up his sweep she changes out the oxygen tank on her breather.

Abu scolds the three youngsters in Arabic off to the other side of the skeleton Johns is searching before turning them loose to look around again.

The redhead finishes his inspection, coming up with nothing, not even a gut instinct. He frowns and doubles back to Fry shaking his head. Big Evil is not here. Pulling a bottle out of his backpack, he takes a hit of warm scotch, before offering her some. She looks at the bottle, "Makes it worse, you know? Dehydrates you even more."

"Is that right?" He keeps the bottle held out to her and she finally takes it and pulls a swig of the stuff. It burns a path down to her gut and she steps into the shade afforded by one of the bones, slowly leaning back against it as she hands the bottle back. "You know, I woulda played road dog for these guys. You could've stayed back. Pro'bly should've -- because, you know, if we don't find water..."

She cuts him off with a look. He drinks deep. Yeah, she knows. The liquor won't help forever. If they don't get lucky soon they won't make it back to the others. But that's all right, really. She doesn't much feel like she should've survived anyhow, "No, no, I wanted to get away."

This is bad, Johns realizes. Something is eating her up inside and it's going to drag them all down, "So I noticed. Never seen a 'captain' quite so ready to leave her ship."

"Cut the shit, Johns. You know I'm not the captain." She snags the bottle from him and drinks like she can drown herself in it. He takes the bottle from her with a frown. She pulls further away.

"Yeah, but the others, they think so. They need you to be."

She refused to look at him, hating the truth of his words. "Better keep moving…" Carolyn mumbles as she readies herself to step back into the punishing heat.

But Johns is not finished yet, "So, what'd Owens mean? 'Bout not touching the switch?" He can see her crumple, inside. 'Come on, girl. Trust in me, huh?' He begs. Johns knows he has her when she leans back again on the bone and looks off into the distance. "Hey. You can tell me, Carolyn."

God she wants to. But she isn't sure, "Promise me. Swear to me you won't -- "

"You see anybody else here? Just between you and me."

Her resolve was already half gone from her talk with Imam on the way here about his hajj. The liquor battering away alongside her guilt finishes it when he seems so earnest. It comes spilling out like a flood gate let loose, "During the landing -- when things were at their worst -- Owens was at his best. He's the one who wouldn't let the pilot dump the passenger cabin."

Johns blinks, stunned. 'Are you shittin' me?' But he plasters a forgiving expression on his face and put his cap on her head. He'll play chummy with her now, for a bit. "Fuck. Guess I'm more glad to be here than I thought."

She smiles at him, relieved. He tosses the bottle away and swings an arm over her shoulder to guide her out of the boneyard. Once the scouting party reaches a cleft in the hills, he calls a stop, "Hold up." The canyon ahead is not what he's interested in though. The marshal clambers up onto a good vantagepoint and puts the scope to use scanning behind them. "Didn't bite." He can see that the trap has not been sprung. Meaning that his guess was wrong, and he has no clue as to where his bounty has gone. He just hopes that everyone back at the crash site is alive when they get back. If they get back.

Carolyn is just below him, "What?"

Johns slips back down to her and the others, "Big Evil. Thought he might be coolin' it in the boneyard -- could either double-back to the ship or slip in behind us. So I left the bottle out as bait. But nah. Didn't bite."