Chapter 3
As they handed over their clothes after changing into the colonists' short tunics and trousers, the Doctor and Turlough looked nettled at one another, both chagrinned at losing control over their destiny.
"A simple malfunction, Doctor," griped Turlough, "and we get room and board in a one-man isolation chamber, for who knows how long?"
It had only the one bed, too. An extra cot for Turlough had been mentioned, but it had not yet been brought in.
As the door locked on them, the Doctor sat on the edge of the bed and sighed. Putting his chin on his hands, and resting his elbows on his knees, he stared blankly into the air before him. He didn't seem worried enough though for Turlough, who was not only vexed and irritated by this turn of events, but indignant.
"Doctor, these strange people are going to lock us in here forever!"
"They'd have no reason to do that, Turlough. We might even be able to help them."
"What about the Tardis? Won't they get in?"
"You gave me back the key, remember? I locked it after we left."
"And Darvis saw you put the key in your pocket."
"That's true," said the Doctor, "but Gavilan or Marco could have taken it away from me, and they didn't."
"Marco," said Turlough derisively, referring to the young Head of Security, "couldn't take the wings off a fly."
The Doctor smiled. He actually laughed. What's more, he convinced his angry companion to do the same thing, to break into the wrinkles of a smile, and then a chuckle.
"Mind yourself, Turlough, here comes food." He stood up, in preparation to receive trays.
But it was not food. It was an analyzer to type blood, record pulse-rate, retina patterns, and such. Councilor Darvis and Gavilan wanted to uncover who these guests in their single isolation room actually were.
"I won't submit to such barbaric treatment." Turlough pulled his arm out of the young tech's grasp, full of his customary ire at being 'handled.'
"But it doesn't hurt," said the tech, a boy of about eighteen, Turlough's age, though who could tell how old an alien was? Look at the Doctor. Over 800 years old, he didn't look much over thirty Earth-years. The tech smiled. "It even tickles a bit."
"I tell you I won't submit! We're guests, simpleton!"
Even through the mask the other youth wore, the Doctor could see that the boy was hurt, so he pulled Turlough aside and then sat down on the bed again for his own 'examination.'
It was painless, though he indeed felt a tickle here and there. The analyzer had a cold 'nose.' Eyeing the Doctor with scorn, and in some contempt of him, Turlough did at last submit. The Doctor gave him a pleased smile in return. Turlough did not look any the less sullen.
Both sets of tests came up with different results. As suspected, and hinted at by the Doctor, Turlough was closer racially to the travelers than he was. Not only did the Doctor have two hearts, and a pulse rate strong enough to power a diesel engine, but he also such a low body temperature that it was a wonder he didn't melt in the heat of the ship.
(Turlough had more than once complained that the Tardis was a bit cold.)
The Doctor seemed—hearty. A strong fellow, but one who had many secrets to give up, as an 'alien.'
After two days, the two men were released. Turlough and the Doctor separated instantly, casting devious, hurt looks back at one another. Turlough's cot never did show up, and he had slept on the floor in a blanket. It did not help his disposition, not one whit.
Now they could wander about the ship more or less as freely as they pleased. It was their choice where and how to spend their time, under Marco's guidance, of course.
While Turlough visited a children's daycare, Marco took the Doctor on a tour of the vessel. The Doctor was glad for the opportunity to 'pump' him about the ship and its thousand or so passengers. Not the sharpest tack in the box, as the old Earth saying went, Marco had much to say on the lives and woes of the colonists aboard the freighter, proving that, if treated with respect, even the humblest of men could be a rich mine of information.
Even without Marco's in-the-know commentary, the Doctor could sense the insidious discontentment, the hopeless sentiment that there was no existence apart from this ship and its necessarily rigid routine. He was in awe of the colonists' mental resilience. They might not ever step foot on a green world again, but they kept their chins up.
In addition to his awe, he felt great danger for them. Young or old, it did not matter, they could not survive more than a few years more on this ship. It simply did not have enough fuel to continue on after that. Life support was on … life support!
Material goods were few, and most of these had been used up, broken, discarded, their last bit of use squeezed out. Faces had no animation, and no color. There were no beaches on this ship. The sun was artificial.
Food and water were, understandably, recycled. Clothing was as plain and unadorned as the freighter itself. There were no dyes, and just the simple style of long or short tunic, which seemed a matter of age.
Reading was a big pastime on board, and journaling, or chronicling day-to-day life.
From their library, he discovered that the colonists had escaped war-ravaged home worlds, banding together on this refabricated freighter with the unknown before them. However, if they continued on, he pitied their sad fate. No other destiny lay ahead but to die out there in brutal space.
Shaking off Marco for once, he slipped back to the Tardis to check his star maps, searching for other possible worlds to colonize. Four in this galaxy alone could support humanoid life. Of these, one was perfect for the colonists, and easy to reach with a repaired Tardis.
But Gavilan, the freighter's pilot, was as obsessed to find the myth-world of Frelia as anyone. He was not going to be an easy sell. He had to be convinced that Frelia either did not exist, or if it did, that it was not going to be found in time.
Losing time to work on his own ship, the Doctor strode onto the freighter's wide bridge, intending to have a word with him. The pilot stood gazing out of the viewscreen at the endless stars.
A husky man, self-reliant, Gavilan had never trusted the Doctor, something the Doctor felt keenly. Would he accept what the Doctor had to say? He decided to jump right in.
"The ship hasn't enough fuel, Gavilan, to maintain its trim for much longer. A few more years, and it will all be over."
In reply to the Doctor's warning, Gavilan rambled on about the reputed green woods and rushy springs on Frelia. How the tilt of the myth planet created all four seasons like he had known as a boy.
"You're heading into E-space, not a star system, trust me. I've been there."
"Then you must have seen Frelia. Maybe you didn't call it that—?"
The Doctor's head whirled. The path the ship was on would lead them to E-space, not to a green world where they could live in peace. If they did not stop now, and locate an actual planet to colonize, then it would mean only dissolution and the wreck of all their hopes.
"I was too busy fighting for my life, Gavilan, to go planet-hopping. E-space is very dangerous."
Turlough, who had come onto the bridge with the Doctor, had been looking over the control banks with a keen eye. He had seemed to be out of the loop while the Doctor talked with Gavilan about the necessity to settle elsewhere, then he dropped the proverbial 'bombshell.'
"I know the world you're traveling to, Gavilan. Among my people, it has a different name, but some details make it clear which one it is. It's a myth on my world, too."
In his very old brain, the Doctor had no account of it, nor had he heard of the myth before now. He could not recall having seen it in Gallifreyan records. If Turlough knew something—
"Perhaps we had the same ancestors, young Turlough," said Gavilan. "Or we made an early contact, your people and mine." Gavilan seemed to grasp at his last cup of water, fearing to lose that. "What is your name for Frelia?"
"Alen. It has a very old meaning. It's a word meaning 'harmony.'"
"Ah," said Gavilan. "Frelia to us means peaceful. They're one and the same!"
"No one has ever been there, Gavilan," urged the Doctor. "It's only a myth. You will fail if you keep trying to reach it, especially on this ship."
"Then we shall fail," Gavilan answered him, without emotion.
"But you will die. All of you. And it's not necessary. There are other worlds I could take you to."
"We must find this one, Doctor. Frelia. It shall be our home."
Very difficult to reason with such fixed absurdity.
"The colonists look up to you, Gavilan. Though you're the youngest leader of all, I'd bet you're the most able."
"Yes, I am that," said Gavilan, without undue modesty. "It is good that you see it in me, too. I have much to do to keep in check the dissatisfaction on this ship. The people are tired. Most of them have given up already."
"Then take them to a place where they can rest. It is up to you to do it, Gavilan. For them."
"And for you, too, Doctor?"
"No, I can repair my ship," he said, without being one hundred percent sure of it. He then changed his tune, almost. "I've been wandering about this vessel with Marco, listening to him describe the sad state the ship is in. But since you reject my advice, it is time now I return to my own duties. I must fix the Tardis."
"Does it fly through both space and time?"
"Since it can be of no benefit to you that it does, yes."
"And none to you, either, if you don't find 'time' to repair it."
The Doctor thought that that vaguely sounded like a threat. But why would Gavilan want to keep him there, especially with a broken ship? Better to let him fix it and then use it to help his people escape the freighter.
Both men heard a noise and turned suddenly towards the Doctor's companion. Turlough had begun to swoon. He fell towards the deck. Rushing to his side, the Doctor barely caught him. Soon, the young man was unconscious.
"Help me get him to the infirmary, Gavilan."
Gavilan, the pilot, could not leave the bridge, so he signaled a couple of ensigns to help carry Turlough down into the bowels of the ship where the infirmary was. Each ensign was a youth of no more than fifteen, the Doctor noted, even as he disappeared into the elevator with them.
:::::::::::DW::::::::::DW::::::::::
"I guess it's all the rich food I've been eating, Doctor," said Turlough in a small, weak voice, grimacing on pain even as he said it.
Even with the scarcity and want presently aboard ship, the Doctor and Turlough had been sharing the colonists' food. As a gesture of good will and trust, the companions had not gone back into the Tardis to sup or break their fasts.
"Where does it hurt?" asked the Doctor, tenderly and considerately. As well he might, since he had brought Turlough out of the safe environment aboard the Tardis a few days prior.
Turlough swallowed on something. "Everywhere I wish it wouldn't."
"Simple mal de mer," the Doctor said, "as on Earth in the days of sail. Sea sickness. Only here instead of waves, it's caused by the fact the air and every scrap of food is a hundred, a thousand times recycled. Such a thing can prove disastrous."
As indeed it had to many of the colonists. Many had experienced Turlough's illness before, some had even perished with it.
The Doctor extended a hand to Turlough's—blazing—forehead. "Fever," he said. Something about the closeness of the usually aloof Doctor made Turlough laugh, but he got a stitch in his side which forbade further hysteria.
The Doctor knew what he had to do, if he was going to save Turlough's life. On board the Tardis, were certain medicines …
In full view of the colonists, he put his key in the door lock and pushed open the thin, blue door. To outsiders, this was the only door, easily closed by hand. But inside was another. To close and lock it, he had to throw a lever on the control console. Now, as he did so his mind flew back to the needs of his friend.
Turlough was safe for now. His nurse, a spunky girl of almost twelve, dabbed his hot forehead with a wet cloth and regularly took his temperature. He couldn't have been in better hands. But he was very, very ill.
The Doctor fled the console room through an inner door to the left of the viewscreen and made his way to a wall panel. Operating a mechanism by touch alone, he opened the panel and stepped in to a secret passage. He did not even let his companions know that this was where he slept, part of his eccentricity, he guessed.
On either side of the passage was a row of six doors, while at the top was the thirteenth door, the last of all.
These doors belonged to, did belong to, or would belong to the Time Lord who was—himself. They led into rooms where he, the Doctor, had always planned to 'die,' though he never did 'die' in them, but always elsewhere!
The first through fourth doors had belonged to the men who had inhabited the Tardis before him, his former selves. On his immediate right was his own door, leading to his sleeping chamber, but of more profound interest to him was the door on his left, the sixth in the row on this side.
Someday, it would belong to the Sixth Doctor, who had not yet come to be, for the simple reason that he, the Fifth Doctor, had not yet died. It was shadowed, that door, and he always felt a pang of apprehension and uncertainty when he had to pass it to go to his own room.
He could die, and regenerate. But it did not always happen. A time might come when the process did not work. And then a Time Lord ceased to be, a time when he actually did—he must not think about it—die.
But now was not the time to ponder his sixth form, or his own demise; time enough for that, he supposed. It was Turlough who mattered. Such a lad, eager and resolute, must not die—
He turned to the right and his own door opened automatically, soundlessly slipping back into the wall. Ceiling beacons lit the room in a gray hue. One beacon fell across the bed, lighting its gray covers with a muted white bolt. It continued across the floor and the opposite slate-colored wall, like a ghostly dagger.
It was very bare, this room. Just a bed, a cover on the pallet, a simple chair at a small desk, and a tiny closet inset in one wall.
If the Doctor opened that, kajillions of items would spill out in all kinds of colors, shapes and sizes. Most of it was not worth an old English groat, collectibles only in sentiment. Much of it was souvenirs from his escapades with scores of enemies, including de-activated guns and other weapons, even a longsword.
One thing he had never managed to hang onto was the Master's tissue compression eliminator, or compressor, for short, but it would have been a desirable possession, if only to keep the renegade Time Lord from ever using it again.
Where he, the Doctor, desired to live in equity with others, the Master, cruel and rapacious, wanted power and control. Where he desired peace above all things, in a universe with the Master, that peace never seemed to come.
Beside his bed was another secret niche, discoverable only by pushing a button on the wall. Out of it he took those medicines he needed for Turlough. With an armful of bottles, unmarked, but each of them full of a different colorful liquid, he hastened back to the control room. Once he emerged from the blue outer door, he found Marco and some of his security men waiting for him.